“Presley said I have to work with you on transitions,” the guy said. He didn’t introduce himself.
“Cool,” I said, rolling my neck. “Let’s run it.”
I climbed through the ropes. My left shoulder ached, a phantom pain from the stress of the travel.
We started a simple chain wrestling drill. Lock up. Headlock. Shoot off. Shoulder tackle.
The kid was working stiff. His forearms dug into my neck. His shoves were harder than they needed to be. He was sloppy, aggressive.
I took it. I glanced at the trainer. He was watching, but he didn’t say a word. I looked at the other rookies. They were watching too, smirking. Nobody was going to step in.
“Again!” the kid yelled.
We locked up. I went for an arm drag.
Instead of following the momentum, the kid shot low. He drove his shoulder directly into my bad shoulder, the one I had surgery on years ago. He tackled me to the mat, driving his weight down on the joint with a sickening crunch.
Fire laced pain exploded in my shoulder.
“Fuck!” I shouted, slapping the mat.
Thekid stood over me, breathing hard, a sneer on his face.
“Does that hurt, Reed?” he spat. “Does it hurt as bad as a broken back?”
I froze, the pain in my shoulder forgotten. I looked up at him. The dark eyes. The jawline.
Martinez.
“My uncle is Julian Martinez,” the kid hissed, stepping closer. “He walks with a cane now because of you. He never got back in the ring because whatyoudid.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. He wasn’t wrong. I fucked up. It was a mistake. A massive, life ruining mistake.
“I know,” I whispered.
“Get up,” he taunted, drawing his leg back like he was going to kick me in the ribs. “Get up so I can break you.”
I didn’t move. The trainer still hadn’t moved. I braced for the impact.
It never came.
A blur of motion cut across the ring. A body slammed into the kid, shoving him back so hard he nearly tripped.
“Back the fuck off!”
It was Cal.
He stood between me and the kid, chest heaving, fists clenched. He radiated pure menace.
“This doesn’t concern you, Deadlock,” the kid stammered, his bravado slipping.
“You’re inmyring,” Cal growled, his voice low and deadly. “And you’re working withmyopponent. If anyone is going to break him in half, it’s going to be me. Not some rookie looking for a receipt his uncle didn’t ask for.”
Cal pointed to the exit. “Get out. Go drill with Davis.”
The kid hesitated, looked at Cal’s furious face, and wisely chose self-preservation. He rolled out of the ring and stormed off.
Cal turned around. The anger didn’t leave his eyes, but it shifted when he looked down at me.
