Chapter 3
I can’t breathe.
Stars explode in the corners of my vision. No matter how hard I try to work my way free, the vice around my neck only tightens. There’s endless pressure on the top of my chest, and the burning across my skin only intensifies with each passing second.
Just as the white stars begin to dim into the dreaded black of unconsciousness, a grunt vibrates against my cheek, shaking me awake enough to stop the darkness from consuming me.
“Come on, Scarlett. Quit being a sore loser and just tap out.” The voice sounds frustrated and muffled, as if I’m being held just under the surface of water.
With a groan, I tap twice on one of the legs wrapped around my head. The pressure releases and I gulp down a breath that scorches my throat, falling back onto the mat. The black-painted ceiling’s fluorescent lights spin and double like a kaleidoscope.
“Sometimes I’m convinced you have a death wish,” Jeff, the gym owner, mutters through his mouth guard as he untangles his body from mine. I’m too focused on the ringing in my ears and tingling fingertips to notice much else.
“I would have gotten out of it,” I wheeze out, and Jeff snorts in response as he stands and moves to the edge of the mat.
“There’s a fine line between bravery and stupidity, and you’re toeing it,” he starts from several feet away and reappears in my line of vision to extend a water bottle to me, the rubber mouth protector hanging from his lip. “You can’t just muscle your way through everything. Sometimes the smarter move is to step back, assess the situation, and find the opening you’re missing.”
I reach for the water and sit up at the same time, curling my legs inward. Using the front of my shirt, I wipe the sweat off my forehead, splotches of white appearing behind my eyelids. After a few moments, my vision stops spinning, and I drop my rash guard from my face to meet his icy blue eyes.
With my free hand, I pop out my own guard. “Kind of difficult to do when I’m having the literal life choked out of me.” My tone is flat and Jeff grins as he flops onto the mat next to me on his back. His chest rises and falls heavily, and though he’d never admit it out loud, I just gave him a run for his money.
“And yet, you keep coming back.”
I can’t argue with him there. Jeff’s gym is one of the few places I feel myself anymore, even if he doesn’t know my real name.
Four years ago, combat sports were a big part of who I was. It started as an outlet for the anger buried so deep inside me that I felt it in my bones. It seeped into every crevice of me, and I had nowhere to put it all before it bled into more than just my mind. Therapy wasn’t an option; there was no way I could tell a stranger about the things I did or the day that changed me. What could they offer me besides condolences and a few breathing exercises, anyway? Not to mention, I couldn’t risk anyone else finding out what happened to make me act that way.
So, for a while, I allowed myself to become everything I hated. That vile version of me led all of my thoughts and decisions, and it destroyed the few meaningful relationships I had left. I threw myself into the jobs Peter would give me, looking for a distraction from reality and having no other options. It wasn’t long before I was a machine, oiling the cogs with water, alcohol, and food occasionally. And that’s how I chose to exist for the better part of six months. I allowed it to swallow me whole.
Then, on a blistering summer afternoon when I went to a coffee shop just to get out of the apartment I’d been staying in after a bender in between jobs, I spotted an ad for discounted boxing lessons at a local gym and everything just clicked . There was a soft voice in the back of my brain, the one that used to belong to me, urging me to take a picture of the ad and contact the gym. The feeling seemed so silly at the time, but now I know it saved my life.
Boxing introduced me to other contact sports that made me feel something again, like Jiu Jitsu and Muay Thai. I even made a few friends, though they were fleeting. With literal blood, sweat, and tears, I dug myself out of that place and molded the version of me that exists now. I promised myself I’d never feel helpless again, mentally or physically. It’s still hard for me to recognize that something as small as an ad on a bulletin board gave me something to work towards. A purpose.
Then, I was on the move again. Peter had me trekking from city to city, taking on contracts and staying temporarily in places while I worked. It prevented me from establishing a routine at any of the nearby gyms. I started to weight train in chain gyms instead, knowing that it would give me an outlet, but it’s just never been the same. So, when I knew that I’d be staying in Chicago for a while, I went looking for somewhere to pick up where I left off and walking into this gym felt like returning home.
I partially chose this location because it was just far enough outside of downtown that I wasn’t likely to run into any of the new acquaintances I’ve made. The other reason I chose it was because it was the first time I met Jeff.
When I stopped by to ask for a tour on a quiet Tuesday morning, there was a man in his late thirties, tattooed neck to toe, head shaved to the skin, mopping the floor in front of the reception desk.
He talked to me as one might an old friend, asking questions about the types of training I was looking for. The facility tour quickly dissolved into an on-mat assessment where he handed my ass to me over and over again. I was half convinced he thought he was wasting his time, but he didn’t outwardly show it.
After breaking the chokehold he had me in and catching our breath, he told me the classes they currently offered would be too basic for my skill level. Instead, he mentioned he provided private instruction for those serious about Jiu-Jitsu, grappling, and other combat sports. A month later, I’m still getting tossed around like a rag doll four times a week during their slower hours, grinding through sessions that push me harder than I’ve ever trained. Though we usually opt for no-gi BJJ for the sake of time, he’s taught me everything.Sparring, drilling techniques. It’s relentless, but exactly what I signed up for.
“Can we run that back?” I ask him, squeezing some water into my mouth and swishing it once before swallowing. My esophagus burns and I welcome it.
“You’ve had enough grappling for today. I don’t need you passing out on me.” Jeff’s tone is firm, leaving no room for argument. I already know better than to push back when it comes to training. “We can work on strikes or call it a day.”
“Striking it is.” I exhale sharply, shaking out my arms. The corner of his mouth twitches into a smirk as he stands and extends his hand. I clasp his rough, calloused grip, hauling myself to my feet and blinking away the lingering haze from the last round. Without another word, Jeff walks to the edge of the mat, grabbing the punch mitts and kick shield from the pile. I roll my neck from side to side while he straps the mitts on, slipping my mouth guard back in place.
“You’re solid on offense, but your defense still needs work,” he says as he tightens the straps. Jeff’s critiques are rarely sugar- coated, and his tone always carries that expectation of more. “It’s not about power. It’s technique. You need to focus on defensive maneuvers and how to get out of holds safely .”
I bite down on my guard, holding back the urge to roll my eyes at the way he emphasizes the word.
“Maybe I don’t find myself on the defense often, so I don’t use it,” I quip, though muffled from the plastic protecting my teeth.
The joke doesn’t land when Jeff turns back to me, his face unreadable as always. The mitts are up, his wrists exposed, showing off the ink coiled around them; one arm marked with the belly of a snake, the other a sprawling map of constellations. He steps into range, planting his feet as I square up, settling into my stance. And just like that, we fall into the rhythm of mitt drills, the kind of silent, focused exchange that feels almost meditative.
Jab, double jab, block. Body shot, head jab, double jab, block.
The flow is steady at first, my punches precise and controlled. I stay light on my feet, bouncing between combinations, until I throw a hook that lands solidly against the mitt. In the blink of an eye, Jeff counters with a jab aimed straight at my face. I manage to block it just in time, my forearm absorbing the impact.
“If you don’t work on it, the next time you end up in a bad position, you might not walk away from it.” The warning in his words lands as heavy as any punch.
One thing I’ve come to appreciate about Jeff: he doesn’t pry. He doesn’t ask questions about the reasons behind my drive. That silent understanding is rare, and I don’t take it for granted.
Our breathing grows heavier as the drill picks up intensity, my punches landing harder with each combination. My eyes stay locked on Jeff’s hands, tracking every movement as we circle each other.
“Why do you think I let you wail on me four days a week?” I ask. Jeff barks out a laugh, eyes sharp and focused like a predator stalking its prey.
I press forward, the pace increasing. It’s a deadly dance. Controlled chaos. Jab, hook, cross, block. We circle each other, feet shuffling across the mat in perfect sync. The rhythm builds into a crescendo until I throw a jab that snaps the mitt back into Jeff’s face.
I freeze for a moment, my chest heaving as Jeff lowers his hands and pulls off one glove to shake out his palm. He glances at it briefly, flexing his fingers, before looking up at me with a mischievous grin through his guard.
“I’ll say this,” he pants, a glimmer of pride in his eyes. “I feel sorry for any poor bastard who ends up on the other side of your offense.”