Post by James Edwards on Feb 28, 2017 7:17:38 GMT
He lets himself fall back on the bed. The mattress is remarkably soft, and he imagines himself sinking into deep into like a luxurious bath. The quiet and calm of his hotel room is a nice contrast from the physical toll of the weekend and mental monotony of the six hours he spent on a Trans-Atlantic flight.
Soon he falls into the clutches of memory as his ability to hold his eyes open wanes.
________________
An injury and a weekend away with the soon-to-be-misses meant that the Rooster was not around for teaching or sparing. Luckily the Dutch expatriate left him a key to the gym and with the explicit warning to keep the place tidy or else. Easier said than done with a notoriously apathetic luchadora as your guest.
The Roach came with him to Atlantic City to be both a student and instructor. She revealed to him the secrets of pushing a frenzied pace and the intricacies of quick pins. In exchange, he showed her the finer points of the not-so-famed Fujita style of Yakuza karate. Well, the defensive aspects of it at least.
The time spent together by Heritage and Iron Champion was spent in sweet silence. They fought together but did not eat much less speak with one another. There was no time for that with difficult fights on the horizon for both of them, but the company was pleasant, though neither would admit it.
She picked up the basics quicker than he. A sunset flip felt like doing advanced algebra and a magistral pin like repairing the space shuttle. No matter how much he swore or how often he kicked over the water cooler, the Roach remained silent. Only briefly adding that he needed to pick up the pace for any of this to be effective.
Hour after hour he leaped over her or tried to tie her in the necessary knots before allowing gravity to roll her shoulders onto the canvas. At the end of the weekend, he failed to see any progress. Coupled with his struggle to master either of his new Clutches, the likelihood of his defeating Cutlass or Black burned weaker by the second.
All he had to look forward to was a call from his favorite redhead, his spitfire from the plains of West Texas. The one who recently moved to his hometown of all places and currently rented the apartment over the garage that belonged to his trainer, Sean Styles.
Sean was the reason why she called earlier than he expected.
"James, I've been doing some thinkin'. I love helpin' you with your career, and I still will. We can't be an us anymore. Before you start, let me explain. Sean is gonna open a new gym over in Georgetown. He wants me to handle the website and all the social media junk. It is such a great opportunity for me, I mean it's what I went to school for. I'm gonna take him up on the offer. Oh, this isn't easy, sugar. I can't go on the road anymore. There won't be time. I hardly see you anymore, and I doubt I'll our schedules will sync up. It's just better to end this now before it gets too serious. We've got out whole lives ahead of us to find love. I hope you understand. I'll give you some space for a while, just in case. Good luck against Moss."
He'd let her words trail off into an uncomfortable silence. He badly wanted to hang up. He wanted to cry and tell her that this wasn't fair.
He knew, even in that moment, it was the right thing, though, and wished her well. They agreed to talk in a week or so to go over his March bookings.
__________________
Personal and professional success rarely happened in harmony, Sean told him that at the start.
Again, he understood. The timing was cruel. He could barely manage the newer aspects of his fight game, much less matters of the heart.
He continues to lay upon the quicksand mattress. He hopes it will swallow him whole, but that is not possible.
There is still work to be done. Fights left to win, and a fucking 6 A.M. wake up call as well.
Soon he falls into the clutches of memory as his ability to hold his eyes open wanes.
________________
An injury and a weekend away with the soon-to-be-misses meant that the Rooster was not around for teaching or sparing. Luckily the Dutch expatriate left him a key to the gym and with the explicit warning to keep the place tidy or else. Easier said than done with a notoriously apathetic luchadora as your guest.
The Roach came with him to Atlantic City to be both a student and instructor. She revealed to him the secrets of pushing a frenzied pace and the intricacies of quick pins. In exchange, he showed her the finer points of the not-so-famed Fujita style of Yakuza karate. Well, the defensive aspects of it at least.
The time spent together by Heritage and Iron Champion was spent in sweet silence. They fought together but did not eat much less speak with one another. There was no time for that with difficult fights on the horizon for both of them, but the company was pleasant, though neither would admit it.
She picked up the basics quicker than he. A sunset flip felt like doing advanced algebra and a magistral pin like repairing the space shuttle. No matter how much he swore or how often he kicked over the water cooler, the Roach remained silent. Only briefly adding that he needed to pick up the pace for any of this to be effective.
Hour after hour he leaped over her or tried to tie her in the necessary knots before allowing gravity to roll her shoulders onto the canvas. At the end of the weekend, he failed to see any progress. Coupled with his struggle to master either of his new Clutches, the likelihood of his defeating Cutlass or Black burned weaker by the second.
All he had to look forward to was a call from his favorite redhead, his spitfire from the plains of West Texas. The one who recently moved to his hometown of all places and currently rented the apartment over the garage that belonged to his trainer, Sean Styles.
Sean was the reason why she called earlier than he expected.
"James, I've been doing some thinkin'. I love helpin' you with your career, and I still will. We can't be an us anymore. Before you start, let me explain. Sean is gonna open a new gym over in Georgetown. He wants me to handle the website and all the social media junk. It is such a great opportunity for me, I mean it's what I went to school for. I'm gonna take him up on the offer. Oh, this isn't easy, sugar. I can't go on the road anymore. There won't be time. I hardly see you anymore, and I doubt I'll our schedules will sync up. It's just better to end this now before it gets too serious. We've got out whole lives ahead of us to find love. I hope you understand. I'll give you some space for a while, just in case. Good luck against Moss."
He'd let her words trail off into an uncomfortable silence. He badly wanted to hang up. He wanted to cry and tell her that this wasn't fair.
He knew, even in that moment, it was the right thing, though, and wished her well. They agreed to talk in a week or so to go over his March bookings.
__________________
Personal and professional success rarely happened in harmony, Sean told him that at the start.
Again, he understood. The timing was cruel. He could barely manage the newer aspects of his fight game, much less matters of the heart.
He continues to lay upon the quicksand mattress. He hopes it will swallow him whole, but that is not possible.
There is still work to be done. Fights left to win, and a fucking 6 A.M. wake up call as well.
