by Jesse Jordan
“Then what is it?” Christina asks, curious as we approach the doors of the bowling alley. “Form? Someone in gymnastics once said I had terrible form with pushups.”
“Yes. That and nerves, I think. Here, on the wall, show me how you would do a pushup,” I say, stopping. “I am being serious.”
Christina assumes a pushup position, and I see the problem immediately. “Oh my, and nobody told you how to fix this?”
“What?” she asks, and I reach around her, fixing her hands. “What's this do?”
“Your hands were putting all of the stress on your deltoid muscles, and not on your triceps and chest,” I explain. “This hand position is key, but later, we can go over that. During Intercession, I will help you train for the APFT.”
“Okay. I assume you smoke show the thing?” Christina asks, and I shake my head. “What?”
“I have high goals, and I have not met them yet,” I tell her. “But for now, let's bowl.”
The games are quick, neither one of us is skilled at bowling, and in the end after two games each we break one hundred only once, Christina getting a lucky strike and spare on the tenth frame to bump her up to one hundred and eight. “Well now, there you go, you are better than me in something!”
Christina smiles and reaches for one of the fried mozzarella sticks that we ordered, dipping it in marinara sauce. “I think you shanked that spare in the eighth and ninth frame in order to keep me within distance of you.”
“Now, why would I do that?” I ask, but before she can answer, I see someone out of the corner of my eye. Daria. Oh, shit.
It is not as bad as I feared however, as she is there with another cadet, a large boy in civilian clothes, they must both be Firsties or Cows. Christina notices my look though and gHunters, seeing the pair. “Oh, isn't that Mike Hernandez?”
“Hmmm?” I ask, looking closer. “Oh yes, it is. How do you know him?”
“Uh, last year during second semester, I took Psych 301, he was in there too,” Christina says. “Say, isn't he a boxer too? I thought he said something about him being Club Squad.”
“I remember him from last year,” I note, “but he had to quit the competition, he injured his hand in a preliminary bout. We never fought. I heard he is quite skilled though.”
Daria and Mike notice us, and Daria whispers in Mike's ear, cutting glances at me. Mike snickers, and I try to ignore them, looking back at Christina. “One more game?”
“No, my shoulder's a bit sore after the bowling and all the swimming I've been doing,” Christina says, “but I'd enjoy a nice walk up past the reservoir before we go back to the barracks?”
I smile and stand up, gathering our things while Christina takes off her shoes to change into her uniform shoes again. I am just tying mine when I hear a fake, brittle laugh behind me. “Oh look Mike, he must be training! Loser deadlifts or something.”
“Hmm, well, I guess. Either that or he's just gutter fishing,” Hernandez says. “I suppose everyone needs a slam pig once in a while.”
I stand up, turning to do something, but Hernandez is ready, smirking. “What, Yuk? You want to start some shit?”
“Ivan... don't,” Christina says softly, her voice strained. “It's not worth it.”
I can feel my temper flaring, and I struggle to contain myself, but nod. “Fine. Let us go.”
“Yes, let us go!” Daria teases in a fake Russian accent. “Time to put the uggos away. Go, Moose and Squirrel, go back to your rooms!”
My fist clenches, but I say nothing as Christina tugs me towards the door. I spare one look back at Mike, who is laughing while Daria covers her mouth. Mission target? Oh, she's a mission target all right. Just not quite the target she was before.
Outside, Christina is silent as I let her lead me up the hill towards Michie Stadium and Lusk Reservoir. I walk beside her, stewing in my own anger, but I find my words as we start to climb the hill. When we come over the reservoir and start to work our way around the edge of the water, and I try to find words. “Christina....”
She stops, shaking her head, and I can see that it is not sweat on her cheeks but tears, she's been crying silently the whole time. “Why?” she asks, her voice choked. “I can put up with the low grades, I can put up with the snarky comments from Jordan or the others... but dammit, I was just trying to have a little fun, Ivan! Why?”
I take Christina's hand and pull her in close, hugging her. “I must apologize to you, Christina. Daria... I flirted with her a few days ago. I suppose that she made the comments because she wanted to go further, but something stopped me.”
“What?” she asks, turning her face to me. I lift my hand to her garrison cap and take it off, looking at her lustrous brown hair in the pale moonlight, and kiss her tenderly. She is not trained like I am, but there is something in kissing her that is better than even my former instructors, something real and tender and precious in her kiss.
“You,” I whisper when our lips part. “I know we are not dating, or at least until tonight we have not been. But... every time she tried to go past flirting, I was stopped. I did not understand then, but I understand now. I did not flirt with her because I want to spend time with you. I am sorry that you were subjected to such cruel treatment because of it.”
Christina wipes at her nose, and pulls my head down for another kiss. It is perhaps not the most ideal situation, kissing a woman who has a runny nose from crying, but I still thrill at the touch, and our kiss deepens, my cock stirring in my pants as we hold each other in the moonlight. We keep kissing until we hear a truck engine approaching from up the hill and we step back, Christina fixing her cap just as an MP patrol car crests the hill and proceeds along the road. “Thank you for your honesty, Ivan. Most men would have given me a lie.”
“I know,” I say, feeling bad even as I do. For I am lying to Christina, just not in this matter. Then again, you do not just tell a girl on the first real date that you are a Russian spy. “Come, let us not be troubled any more by those two fools. One last thing before we let the matter drop, though.”
“What's that?” Christina asks, and I give her a smile.
“Mike Hernandez, he will be punished for disrespecting my date. I will personally ensure that. If for anything, for disrespecting the artist who made me look like a superhero.”
Chapter 7
Christina
I haven't been inside Christl Arena since my Plebe year, when my company was tasked with providing 'cheer support' for Army Women's Basketball as they took on Air Force. Then the thousand cadets of my regiment had been most of the crowd, and the arena had lots of empty seats.
This time though, there's barely room to fit anyone else in the stands, and there are even folding chairs set up on the basketball court in order to provide even more seating for the probably over six thousand people who have come to watch the Brigade Open Boxing Championships.
“I didn't realize how big this thing was,” I tell Karli as we sit down in our seats. I'm wearing a 'spirit shirt’ for Ivan, but sadly, I don't see anyone else from I-1 doing the same thing. Ah well, that's pretty much what I expected. “Jeez, the Ironside look like hell with just me.”
“Let the haters hate,” Karli says, whistling as a member of her company heads down towards the ring, his friends and cornermen with him. “Yeah! Go Davis!”
“You know him?” I ask, and Karli shakes her head.
“He's a Firstie, total fucktard mostly. But that's okay, for tonight I'll set my pessimism aside and just cheer for my company. Oh, and Ivan,” Karli says, grinning. “I mean, how can I not cheer for my best friend's boyfriend?”
“He's not my boyfriend... yet,” I grumble, and Karli laughs. “What?”
“You're hanging out with him even more than me nowadays. You two have been joined practically at the hip going to and from Arvin since you started training for the Swim Open and he's finishing up his training for this thing. Admit it, he's already said he's going to coach you for the Swim Open, isn't he?” Karli a
sks, grinning. “Face it, you've got yourself a boyfriend. You asked him to 500th Night?”
I roll my eyes. Five Hundredth Night, or the celebration that the Cows have only five hundred more days until we graduate, is the social dining event for the Cow class. Every year has one.
“Come on, Kar. Five Hundredth Night? It's a made up thing for us to listen to some VIP yap for twenty minutes while we eat bad banquet food,” I protest. “Hardly a good date.”
“Yet hundreds of our classmates still bring their dates to it,” Karli comments, stopping to cheer as the bell rings and her company mate goes to work. The fight is close, but Davis loses a close decision. “Damn!”
“He still got to the semi-finals,” I point out. “That's something, right?”
Karli nods, and then pats my shoulder. “Speaking of potential finalists... look.”
The cadet side of the crowd goes nearly silent as the ring announcer, a Captain Locker from DPE, takes the microphone. “In our second heavyweight semi-final, we have, in the blue corner, from the Ukraine, weighing in at two hundred and twenty seven pounds, from company I-1, the Ironside, the reigning, defending, undisputed, undefeated Brigade Open Heavyweight Champion... Ivan Vasushenko!”
I cringe as I hear a smattering of boos from the cadets around me, and Karli grumbles. “Fucktards. Come on Chris, let's show Ivan he's got a team.”
Karli whistles piercingly, and I raise my voice, sticking my right fist in the air. “Get 'em, Ivan!”
Ivan, who came to the ring alone, looks towards us, his fierce eyes scaring me for a moment before he smiles and raises his fist in a little salute to me and Karli. “He's got no helpers,” Karli says, shaking her head. “What the hell, none of the Ironside were willing to help out?”
“I offered, but Ivan said I would distract him, and he wanted me to watch what he does,” I reply. “As for the other Ironside... well, Gene might have, but he's got duty tonight, and nobody was willing to switch with him.”
“Whatever. Fuck it. KICK HIS FUCKING ASS, IVAN!” Karli screams, and I have to smile as Karli looks around at the cadets near us, most of whom are giving us dirty looks. “What the fuck you assholes looking at? He's a friend!”
Captain Locker takes the microphone again, and clears his throat. “In the red corner, from Oakland, California, weighing in at two hundred and seventeen pounds, from company I-2, the Moose, Xavier Horton!”
Ivan's opponent climbs into the ring, and he's impressive, I have to give it to him. Not quite as tall as Ivan, he's got massive muscles in his arms and shoulders, and a thick neck that makes me wonder if he's able to turn his head at all, or if he just rotates his torso side to side like a robot. Still, he's light on his feet as he bounces around the ring, and there's no hint of fear in his face. “Damn, he looks tough.”
“Don't sweat it,” Karli reassures me. “Come on, your man's a stud. Let's see what happens.”
The bell rings, and Ivan comes to the center of the ring, his left hand throwing out stinging jabs at a machine gun pace. I've been watching him train for months now, I've learned at least some of the terms of boxing, and it's breathtaking to watch him turn all that work against the bags into actual movement. “Look at him go....”
“Look, hell. He's toying with him,” Karli whispers, her own voice breathy as we get into the fight. We don't have to wait long though, as Ivan does a nifty parry/block combo that leaves Xavier's head totally exposed to a crashing right hand dropping him to the mat with a loose, boneless thud. Xavier tries, struggling to get to his feet as best he can but not making the ten count. The crowd stops, stunned at how quick the fight was, before the non-cadet group breaks out into cheers of appreciation. Karli says it perfectly when she recovers her voice. “Fuck me!”
“The winner, in thirty seconds of the first round, advancing to the finals, Ivan Vasushenko!” Captain Locker announces, and Ivan gets his hand raised by the ref.
The speed and brutality of Ivan's win takes the wind out of the crowd for a fight or two, but soon it is time for the finals, and everyone gets back into it. I watch, but I'm not really interested in the four weight classes below heavyweight... and then it's time. The Main Event.
There's an electric, animal hum to the crowd as the lights are brought low again, and a single spotlight illuminates the center of the ring. Captain Locker has given up announcer duties to Colonel Anderson, the head of DPE and the so called 'Master of the Sword.' Dressed in his full blues, Anderson holds his card in front of him and clears his throat. “And now, your main event of the evening.... three rounds of boxing in the heavyweight division!”
There's a roar from the crowd that sounds much larger than six thousand, and I wonder if this sort of power is what fuels Ivan's demon. I don't know, but I know my own heart is thundering in my chest, my palms sweaty. Anderson lets the cheers continue for a moment, then raises his hands for calm. “And now.... starting in the blue corner. A Firstie, from Providence, Rhode Island. Standing six feet, two inches tall and weighing in tonight at two hundred and twelve pounds, he is a member of the Brigade Staff and company A-3. A future member of the Infantry, and current member of the USMA Boxing Team... 'Iron' Mike Hernandez!”
The cheers for Mike Hernandez are deafening, and I can barely hear as Karli yells next to me, I don’t know what. I do know that Mike comes in with a smirk on his face and about half a dozen supporters, cornermen and cutmen and even the damn First Captain with him, rubbing his shoulders and cheering him on.
Colonel Anderson lifts his hands again, and the crowd goes quiet. “In the red corner, a Yearling, from the Ukraine. Standing six feet, three inches tall and weighing in at two hundred and twenty seven pounds, a member of company I-1, the undefeated, defending Brigade Open heavyweight champion, the Ukrainian Destroyer, Ivan Vasushenko!”
For the first time in my entire two and a half years at West Point, I'm ashamed to be a cadet as a chorus of boos rains down on Ivan's head. What makes it worse is that Colonel Anderson lets it continue, until finally he raises his hand gently, a sort of half smile on his face as he waves the cadets down. I feel myself get angrier and angrier, seeing the ugly faces around me, booing another cadet. Yeah, Ivan's not an American. Yes, he's not a popular guy. Yes, he's a Yuk taking on a Firstie, a popular member of the Brigade Staff at that.
But dammit, he's one of us! He's been through the same hell as every other member of his class, and he's done it all without any help. So when the boos die down I stand up, my fist in the air. “TO HELL WITH THEM, IVAN! YOU TAKE HIM! MOOSE AND SQUIRREL!”
I can see the glares, but Ivan sees me and nods once, his eyes going dark with intensity again. He turns and goes to the center of the ring, where the referee gives his final instructions, and Mike raises his gloves to shake hands with Ivan, who says something nobody can hear before he barely touches gloves and stalks back to his corner.
“I think you lit a fire under that man's ass,” Karli whispers as we wait. “If Ivan knocks him out, we're going to have major issues.”
“Fuck it,” I whisper back, Karli giving me a double take when she hears me curse. “Not after what Hernandez did to me and Ivan. Not after the Corps booed Ivan.”
Karli says nothing but takes my hand as the bell rings. I'm shocked, Ivan just walks out his hands down, a big smile fixed on his face. Karli leans over, worried. “What the hell is he doing?”
“I don't know,” I whisper, nervous. Mike's confused at first too, but throws out a jab that Ivan bobs away from, grinning. Mike throws again, a 1-2 combination that Ivan avoids again, and for the rest of the minute he just bobs, moves, making Hernandez chase him, tiring him out. Finally, Ivan stops, and I see him set his feet on the canvas firmly. “What the hell?”
Mike sees his chance and throws a vicious 1-2-hook combination, the sounds of his gloves smashing into Ivan's face making my stomach clench. But instead of knocking him down, Ivan barely flinches, looking at Hernandez like the punches were just taps from a kitten. I swear his smile grows, becoming a snee
r of anger and hatred as he lifts his gloves up and begins to stalk his prey. I squeeze Karli’s hand, excited. “His turn now.”
If I live to see a hundred years old, I will never see a beating as brutally precise and vicious as what Ivan unleashes on Mike Hernandez in the remaining two minutes of the round. Mixing his punches up so that Mike never knows what comes next, he peppers his face with jabs, crosses, and rib cracking hooks to the body that leaves Mike groaning audibly. The arena goes nearly silent until the only sounds are Ivan's grunts of exertion as his gloves smash time and time again into Mike's body, and Mike’s moans of pain.
I start to see a pattern, and I realize just how much anger and punishment Ivan is unleashing. He's beating Mike just to the point of falling at one target, then switching. If Mike's head is woozy, Ivan switches to the ribs until he can barely breathe, and he's back to peppering his eyes with stinging jabs, not making Mike woozy but blinding him, the snap of the glove on his eyes or against his nose making him tear up.
The bell rings for the end of round one, and Mike's a mess, blood trickling from two places on his face. Ivan, for his part, looks to be barely sweating as he walks back to his corner and leans against the ropes, casually catching his breath in his corner while Mike gasps and is worked on frantically.
“Holy shit,” someone whispers behind me, and even I'm surprised by how quickly Ivan dissected him. “He's pissed.”
The crowd gets fired up for the start of the second round, and Mike charges, I guess hoping that by bulling into Ivan he can at least hug him, turn the boxing match into a street fight.
Before he can get close though, Ivan pivots, just like I've seen him to a thousand times in training, his right hand flashing out so fast I don't think Mike even sees it before it crashes into the side of his head and he goes tumbling. The crowd goes nearly dead silent again before people start calling for Mike to get up. He does, the punch was more to off balance him than hurt him, and he takes the eight count, angry. Ivan shakes his head waiting in the neutral corner, his eyes still showing no mercy.