Chapter 2
JAKE
“All right, time for some high-heartrate rounds!” I called out at the ten-minute mark before the end of class.
I got a few groans from the tough guys in the crowd, but screw them—they’d play by my rules and like it.
“Three minutes three times, so partner up. I want to see looks,” I emphasized to them, staring around the room and making sure I made eye contact with each person for a moment.
I was serious about this part. “Not submissions. High-heartrate rounds are all about movement, about transitions, about looking for the next place to be. We’re not doing this to tap each other out.
The second you start clinching, you’ve lost the point of the game. ”
One of the younger guys held up his hand.
“What?”
“I honestly don’t get how this helps us, Coach,” he said. “Flow rounds, whatever, that’s good for new people, but we’re the advanced class. We all know what we’re doing. I’m here to figure out how to make people give up, not give them a chance to escape.”
I heard someone snicker by the wall. Carson. Of course he was watching right now. I was still in my proving period, so either he or Beth were always watching part of my classes to make sure I was steering the students right. And so he could fucking heckle me, the punk.
I smiled at the guy. “You’re right, you are advanced.
I would never give flow rounds to a beginner, they’d just hurt themselves or their opponent.
But these aren’t flow rounds. There’s a big difference, and I’m going to give you first-hand experience of that difference tonight.
But let me ask you all this.” I opened the question up to everyone in the room. “When is it easiest to submit someone?”
“When they make a mistake,” someone said.
“When they’re smaller than you,” a big guy said, but given that the little woman beside him poked him in the stomach immediately, I assumed it was an in joke.
“When they transition,” Carson called out.
“Stop giving away the answers.” But, of course, he was right.
“It’s when they transition,” I agreed. “Look, I can sit in your guard and waste time all day, but if you want to tap me from there, you either have to move me—which can be hard to do.” I patted my chest knowingly, and a few people chuckled.
Given that I was six-four and two hundred and fifty pounds, it took a hell of a lot of effort for a normal-sized person to shift me at will.
“Or you have to wait for me to make a move, or tempt me into making a move. Transitions lead to submissions, but that goes both ways, so when you roll tonight, I want you to focus on making your transitions as smooth as you possibly can. Never get comfortable, never grab something with the idea that you’re going to hold onto it for more than a few seconds.
Move, and move, and move some more. If you make your partner tap, you’re doing it wrong. ”
That’s not to say you can’t make them uncomfortable.
I turned to the clock, but Carson had already hit the timer for three minutes. “And go.” I waved the complainer over. He came with a bit of a swagger—good. And he was just a few inches shorter than me and at least two hundred pounds—even better.
We started down, and in a second I’d gone to headquarters, crushing his thigh against his chest, then out to the M1 where I pinned his leg to the floor.
He tried to pull his knee forward and get me in a K-guard, but I floated back up to headquarters—because why not, he deserved to carry my ass for another few seconds—then cut across with a knee slice.
I let him roll over onto his hands and knees, then wedged my leg in tight, stood on his calf, and hauled him backward into the truck.
I let him escape just far enough to turn the wrong way, then moved into twister side control and held him there for another few seconds before spinning him with a berimbolo roll and taking his back.
To someone who didn’t know what was going on, it would have seemed violent.
Here I was, this bruiser of a man, tossing this guy around like a puppy with a chew toy.
But he was no slouch—none of Carson’s students at this level didn’t know how to roll.
He was trying things, he was moving, and to his credit he didn’t try to take any submissions, although I could see him eyeing my lower legs with the air of a man who knew heel hooks were going to be his best shot at tapping me.
Not tonight, man.
The second the buzzer went off, I let go and he rolled away from me, gasping for air.
“Holy shit,” he panted, staring up at the ceiling. “That’s fucking exhausting.”
“That’s one of the ways B Team trains,” I told him. “Craig Jones is no slouch.”
“Neither are you, dude.”
I smiled. My T-shirt wasn’t even damp. “If you’re going to take a round off, that’s fine, but do it off the mat.” I looked around for my next victim, and—
“Care to roll?” the tiny woman asked me with a grin.
Oh fuck.
“I thought you’d be rolling with your husband,” I said, glancing over at the guy who’d cracked the “short person” joke earlier.
“We already did.”
Fuck fuck fuck.
“Maybe you should go with Sarah next. You’re about the same size, and—”
“Aw, if you’re scared of Clara putting you in your place, just say so,” Carson said, coming out of nowhere and slapping me on the shoulder.
He was smiling, but his grip was hard. Don’t fuck this up, he was telling me, and I got it.
I didn’t want to fuck it up, but… she was so small, a buck twenty at most. I was more than twice her size.
I could hurt her, bad, and not even know it.
But this gym was owned and run by a woman not much bigger. I respected Beth, and I was grateful for the chance she and Carson were giving me. I needed to be able to roll with all their students.
It’s a high-heartrate round. You’re not even going to have to look for submissions. It’s fine.
“You saw right through me,” I said easily, and his shoulders relaxed a little. The buzzer went off, Clara and I tapped knuckles, and then we got going.
I let her work on top the entire time. Sure, I pushed her here and there, did a few sweeps to keep things interesting, wrapped her up and let go a few times, but I never even tried to take top position.
I couldn’t. I literally couldn’t make myself work for top, and this woman was good.
If this was a real round, I had no doubt she’d be trying to take my back and choke me with her legs.
She knew what she was doing. She knew how to protect herself.
It didn’t matter. I couldn’t do it.
The round ended and when we tapped hands again, Clara didn’t seem bothered by how things had gone. Carson, though…
He was giving me that look.
That “I see what you did there” look. I fucking hated that look.
“Last round,” he called out. “Find a new partner.” I didn’t even get a chance to pick a victim this time, though—Carson came over to me and tapped in. “You ready for this?” he taunted, which I felt was unnecessarily mean.
Because I wasn’t ready for it. And he knew it.
The buzzer went off, and Carson being an asshole, he dove right in on me. He moved into headquarters, and for a moment I thought I’d be fine. If I could just let him stay on top…
And then he knee sliced, got into side control, and rolled onto his damn back. Son of a bitch… I followed, but the second I began to put pressure on his ribs, my heart began to race.
Remember what happened? my brain taunted me.
Because I do. We were almost in this exact position at Abu Dhabi when Carson wrapped me in a buggy choke.
It was a last-ditch kind of choke and I’d known it.
Given the fact that I had six inches and, back then, almost a hundred pounds on him, I’d stood up with him still wrapped around my neck and slammed him back onto the mat.
I’d meant for him to fall back-first. I overcompensated, though, and spiked him on the top of his head instead.
One move, and I’d given Carson head trauma that spelled the end of his future as an up-and-coming MMA fighter.
One move, and I’d put him in the hospital and burdened him with tens of thousands in medical bills he couldn’t afford.
One move, and I’d basically ended the life he’d always wanted.
I saw stars. I backed up and let go of Carson, but it wasn’t enough to stave off the impending panic attack.
Carson recognized my short breaths and trembling hands for what they were and immediately pointed to the office—not the locker room, which was nice.
I didn’t want the students to see me like this.
The round was still going, so I think I made it to the office without catching too much attention. Carson would finish the class, and me? I would sit in here, on this comfortable couch, put my head between my legs, and try to keep my heart from jumping right the fuck out of my chest.
Damn it, damn it, damn it…
I thought I was getting better. I’d been working at the school for a few weeks now, living in Vegas for almost a month.
I was used to being around Carson. I’d apologized—not that he ever asked me to, because he possessed a freakishly amazing ability to forgive even the worst shit—and we’d hung out, made plans…
fuck, he let me teach classes here. He trusted me.
He shouldn’t. If this didn’t prove it, I don’t know what did. I was a piece of shit, I was an awful fighter, I didn’t deserve to teach classes when I couldn’t even keep my own fucking self from nearly killing someone in a competition, I was…
An ice pack touched down on the back of my neck, shocking me out of my spiral of self-loathing.
I reached back with a shaking hand to hold it in place, and I heard Carson sigh.
He sat down next to me on the couch and nudged my knee with his.
“Jake. Dude. I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but you need therapy. ”
I managed to open my eyes and look over at him. “I’m getting therapy.”
“Oh.” He seemed surprised. “Really?”
“Yeah. For months now.” Almost since the incident happened, in fact.
I was one of those privileged assholes who’d come into the adult world with both a college fund and a trust fund, and I’d put the one to work in the markets while the other put me through school without debt.
I got a business degree and made enough in four years to cover therapy for the rest of my life, which was probably about as long as it was going to take for me to get past this.
“That’s good.” Carson nodded encouragingly. “That’s a really good step. What can I do to help?”
This asshole was too nice for his own good. I took the ice pack off and leaned back. “Never ask me to roll with you again.”
“Nope.” Never mind, not nice at all. “Avoidance isn’t the answer, Jake.
Besides, no one else is as much of a challenge as you.
I miss it.” I miss you went unsaid, but I knew he had.
That was one of the reasons he’d welcomed me so readily back into his life—I’d basically gone AWOL ever since Abu Dhabi, leaving the competition world behind without a word.
I’d meant it to be permanent, but my therapist had had a lot to say about that, and to be honest…
I’d missed it too. I’d spent over a decade working my ass off to get to the highest levels of my sport, and I’d gotten silver in my division at Abu Dhabi—my best finish ever. I was on track to be a powerhouse.
Then I let my impulses get the better of me, and well, here we were.
Not that life was bad for Carson these days. He’d gone through a rough patch, sleeping out of his fucking car, even, but now he had a great gym to work at, a reliable business partner, and a pro hockey player boyfriend who he lived with. Carson had his shit together.
Me, not so much.
“I’m fucked up,” I said with a sigh. “And I swear I’m working on it. It’s not like I want to be weird on the mat, but look at me.” I held out one of my hands, which was still shaking. “And this is without even threatening a submission. I’d probably black out if I actually had to try and tap you.”
“So we take our time,” Carson said, far too reasonably.
“You just need… what’s it called, exposure therapy.
Your body needs to remember how to respond the right way.
You’ll get there. But.” He gave me a little glare.
“You can’t not work with the smaller students, especially the women.
If Beth gets the idea that you’re misogynistic, she’ll kick you out.
No, first she’ll kick your ass, then she’ll kick you out.
She won’t tolerate guys like her brother in here. ”
“I’m not misogynistic,” I argued. “It’s just… they’re all so much smaller than me.”
“Most people are,” he pointed out, which was fair. “You still have to work with them. Maybe not always down on the mat, but—wait, I’ve got it!”
“Got what?” A magic wand to take my panic attacks away? That would be nice.
“The perfect next step for you.” He leaned in, eager puppy written all over his face. “There’s this guy on Marek’s team, I think his name is Easton, or—no, it’s Ethan, that’s it. He’s pretty new, but he’s a really good player from what Marek says. Except for one thing. He’s really bad at fighting.”
“Hockey players fight?” I knew next to nothing about the sport, but I had this vague recollection of a few punches being thrown on the ice.
“Yeah, but the rules are weird. Marek can explain it to you,” Carson said. “Anyway, this guy wants some fight training—stand-up stuff only, and he’s not huge but he’s not small either. I think working with him would be good for you, and I know you can improve his skills.”
Huh. That was… actually not a terrible idea. I wasn’t an expert at stand-up, but you hardly had to be when you were my size. I could definitely help someone with the basics. I’d have to do some research into what a hockey fight was like, but that might even be fun.
“Here, I found his fight.” Carson had his phone out, and he put it down where I could see the screen. The clip started, the players connected, and—
Oh. Oh, damn. Oh damn.
“Help him, Obi Wan,” Carson murmured. “You’re his only hope.”
Shit. He might even be right.