3. Silas
CHAPTER 3
SILAS
“ K eep your hands up, John.”
He wipes the sweat from his brow with his arm and nods.
I clap the mitts on my hands together and shout, “Again!”
John rolls his shoulders to loosen up. Shifting positions, he adjusts his stance and returns to work after a brief rest.
“Faster,” I shout.
He comes at me with a flurry of quick jabs. I step back slowly and then slip to the right, adjusting the angle of his attack as he continues to strike the mitts.
“Keep pushing.” I move in close and begin to swing back. “That’s it. Now, watch your head and keep that chin tucked.”
John ducks, bobs, and weaves his head, avoiding any contact from the mitts.
Two minutes later, the timer buzzes overhead, signaling the end of his workout. He immediately drops his hands and slowly begins pacing to cool down.
Removing the mitts from my hands, I drop them in a bin and toss a bottle to him. “Good work. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Coach,” he says, still panting.
As I walk across the gym, I hear gloves hitting pads or heavy bags with grunts of exertion peppered in. The sounds are as familiar to me as my own voice. I’ve spent the better part of the past fifteen years in one training facility or another. No matter the location, some things are universal, like the scent of sweat combined with bleach that permeates the air.
I jog up the stairs at the front right side of the room that leads to the second floor, where the offices and the storage area are located. This building is similar in structure to a warehouse, with most of the bottom floor being a large open space, and the rest is dedicated to locker rooms and bathrooms. This isn’t your average gym where members go to improve their fitness. The people who come here are serious about fighting. Most already compete in the World Fighting League, and the rest are working toward getting there.
Like the gym itself, my office isn’t anything fancy to look at. A couple of action shots of me from my WFL days are framed and hung haphazardly, otherwise it’s an empty canvas of uninterrupted white wall space.
I sit behind my desk and finish sending new emails and replying to the ones I’ve received. It takes longer than I expected, and by the time I shut off the upstairs lights, grab my motorcycle helmet, and head back down the stairs, Gavin and Caleb, two of my fighters and employees, are busy mopping down the matted floors.
“Are you all set?” I ask.
Gavin nods, and Caleb says, “Yeah.”
“Then I’m out of here. See you tomorrow.”
Stepping outside, I shoulder my backpack and throw a leg over the side of my bike. I pop my key in the ignition, twist the throttle, and feel all 1300 cubic centimeters of my blacked-out Suzuki Hayabusa roar to life. This is the best part of my day.
There’s something special about the blue hour along the coast of Charleston, South Carolina. That last hour of daylight, preceded by some of the most prolific and colorful sunsets you’ll ever encounter, can be breathtaking on a cool late spring evening like tonight. It’s even better when viewed from the saddle of a motorcycle.
The freedom and joy I’ve always felt riding has made it therapeutic for me, and even more so over the past few years. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of the seaside winds rushing all that fresh salt air through your pores and refreshing your soul. I take the long way home as usual and enjoy every single moment of my ride.
Pulling into my driveway just after dark with a smile on my face is how every day should end. I leave my helmet on the seat and climb the front steps to my porch. When I unlock the door, Dove, my chocolate lab, is waiting for me.
“Hey, girl.” I rub both sides of her neck and scratch beneath her ears. Her eyes momentarily close but pop open when I ask if she’s ready to go outside. I set my backpack on the floor and then snap a leash onto her collar. I grab a waste bag from the basket near the door before we’re on our way.
We head down the sidewalk at an easy gait. Dove stops to do her business as we make our way around the block, and when we get back home, I toss the knotted bag into the trash can.
Once we’re inside, I give her fresh water and food before I take a long, hot shower.
I’m standing in the kitchen, staring into the refrigerator, when Gavin and Caleb walk in holding pizza boxes and beer. Dove trots along with them, her tail wagging. These two never bother knocking, and I’ve given up on trying to get them to.
“Great timing, fellas. I was trying to figure out what I could scrounge up for dinner and not having any luck.”
“Pizza on Fridays should be a law,” Gavin says.
“I’d vote for that,” Caleb agrees.
The boxes have barely been set down when I reach in front of Gavin to grab a slice. I bite off the point while I grab some paper plates and napkins from the pantry. I set it all down on the island and Caleb hands me an opened bottle.
“Thanks, man. This hits the spot. It’s been a long week.” I sit on the barstool at the end of the island and take a deep pull of the cold beer.
“I didn’t want to ask you earlier in the week because you seemed off, but how did your neurologist appointment go?” Gavin asks.
“Nothing new to report. Everything is the same as what he’s been saying all along.” I don’t know why I allow myself even the tiniest twinge of hope there’ll be some miraculous change. It’s been three years, and I accepted long ago that I’m never going to fight again.
“Dude, that sucks,” Caleb states in his ever-so-blunt way.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get better news,” Gavin says.
I shrug. “It is what it is. Honestly, I’m relieved nothing has further deteriorated.”
“Well, that’s good,” Caleb says.
I break off a small piece of crust and feed it to Dove as she sits next to my leg.
“It’s good that you went to the doctor. I know how much you hate going,” Gavin says.
I laugh and wave off his comment. “That’s an understatement.”
He aims a pointed stare my way. “As much as I wish you were still fighting, I’m grateful to have you as a coach. You’ve not only achieved great things for yourself but you also know how to translate your knowledge and experience to others. You’re a great coach.”
“That’s nice of you to say but it’s not necessary,” I tell him.
“But it’s true,” Caleb adds. “We’ve got some real talent at the gym, and that’s all because of you and your success.”
“Are you counting us among the talent?” Gavin asks.
Caleb grins. “Does a bear shit in the woods?”
“Guys, I don’t want this to turn into a pump-up-Silas session. I’m perfectly fine. And you’re right. I consider myself lucky to get to work with a lot of talented fighters, you two included.”
I don’t want them to worry about my feelings. I’m a grown man, and whatever headspace I’m in is my responsibility and mine alone.
After the accident, I knew my fighting days were over, but it was difficult to accept it as fact—at least at first. It didn’t take me long to figure out I had two options: I could dwell on what I was no longer able to do or figure out what my new path looked like. I chose the latter, and I’ve tried not to look back since. But there are times when the past creeps in and all the if onlys mercilessly poke and prod at me.
But no matter how many years I rehab my body and do everything within my ability to make myself stronger, I can’t repair the injuries I sustained. That would take a miracle, and I stopped believing in those long ago.