I’m still breathing heavily as I roll away from Remy. Coach waves me over to do a round with him, and I mentally thank my strength and conditioning coach for driving me through his cardio workouts from hell to ensure my stamina is always next level. Fourteen minutes straight with Remy was no joke.
I had no idea she was so good. Even though I practically live at the gym, somehow our schedules never really align, so we rarely ever train at the same time. It’s probably been close to a year since I’ve done jiu-jitsu with her, and back then she was still a white belt. Clearly, she’s made big strides with her skills during that time.
I could feel that she knew what she was doing when we had the play match at the house before Jax left. Not only was she technical, but she actually implemented her techniques with aggression. Most of the time people are one or the other: either technical but too nice, or aggressive with no sense of grace or skill. It’s always impressive when an athlete is able to combine both.
Or maybe she just hates you and wants to maim you.
I chuckle at the thought. Remy has always had violent tendencies toward me—ever since we met and started off on the wrong foot. I’ve always thought her threats were amusing. It also seems she’s never been able to master the ability to be in my presence and not threaten some kind of bodily harm.
In all honesty I didn’t think she’d have enough energy to actually threaten me. I’m surprised she even stepped on the mat. I always make it a point to put students through the wringer when I teach the cardio bagwork class, and this morning was definitely one of the harder workouts. I had fully expected everyone to be crawling out of the bag room.
But somehow, Remy not only stayed standing when everyone else collapsed around her, but she volunteered for another workout with students that were fresh and energized. That’s the kind of fighter spirit that I rarely even see in, well, fighters. I know grown men who fight professionally that half-ass their workouts and talk more on social media than they put in real work. With what she showed today, Remy would put most grown men to shame on the work ethic scale.
I shake my awed thoughts of Remy and try to concentrate on the black belt that’s currently working to rip my arm off. Even though I don’t have a fight coming up, I still need to put 110% effort into my training in order to stay ready. Not falling into the mythical trap of ‘off season’ is one of the reasons my name is launching through the ranks right now. Hopefully my next matchup is one that, when I win, will finally get me that call from the UFC.
I do a few more rounds before people start to call it quits. I roll until there are no partners left for me, and then I head to the treadmills in the corner to run three miles as fast as I can, burning every last ounce of energy in me. End of workout burnouts are undoubtedly some of the hardest workouts—they’re specifically designed to force you past every mental barrier that screams bloody murder at you to ‘stop, please, for the love of God just stop.’
But I don’t. I push harder every time my brain says I can’t. With every step past where I want to stop, I further condition my mind and body to accept a newly calibrated limit. Humans can go so much further than their brains think they can.
My lungs are on fire and I’m starting to get tunnel vision by the time I reach mile three. I sprint an additional quarter mile for good measure before slowing to a walk, desperately gulping deep breaths of air and trying to slow my heartrate back down.
Other than my legs still trembling from the brutal workout, my body’s almost completely recovered by the time my phone rings. Mom lights up on my screen.
With my headphones already in my ears, I swipe the answer button. ‘Hey, Mom.’
‘Hi, honey. What are you up to?’ she asks cheerfully.
‘I just finished my workout. I’m about to head home.’
‘Oh, perfect. Why don’t you come to the house? Your brother just stopped by so I thought it’d be nice if we could have everyone over, even for a little bit. What do you say?’
I wince and rub my temples. Spending time with my brother—and my dad—is not my idea of weekend relaxation.
But underneath everything I’m still a mama’s boy at heart, and I can’t ever refuse a request from my mother. Especially one to spend time with her.
‘Yeah, okay, I’ll come,’ I respond with a sigh. ‘Let me just shower and then I’ll head over. I should be there in about half an hour.’
‘Great!’ she chirps happily. ‘It makes me so happy when I have both you and your brother here together. He’s going to be so excited to see you.’
I roll my eyes. I can never tell if she recognizes her own lie, or if she’s just oblivious to the tension between my brother and I. Either way, I’m sure my brother doesn’t give two shits about whether or not I come over.
‘I’ll see you soon, Mom.’
‘See you soon, honey. Drive safe.’
I hang up the phone with a frustrated growl. Spending time with my family, even for only an hour, is not what I had planned for today. It’s rare that I don’t have private sessions scheduled into the afternoon on Saturdays, so I had been excited to nap and watch some fight footage today. So much for a relaxing Saturday.
I sigh and shut down the treadmill. I grab my gym bag and head toward the showers to clean up.
Thirty minutes later, I’m walking into my parents’ house on the outskirts of the city. Everyone is in the formal sitting room, and they all look at me as I enter.
‘Tristan, there you are!’ my mom calls, clapping her hands together and rushing over to give me a hug. I squeeze her back, a small smile stretching across my face.
That smile quickly falls when I look over her shoulder to see my dad and brother staring at me with matching frowns. They’re perched casually on the furniture across from each other, my brother very clearly the spitting image of our father.
‘Tristan,’ my dad nods by way of greeting. My brother merely smirks at me.
‘Hi, Dad.’ I walk over to sit on the other end of the couch from my brother, my mom once again taking up her place next to her husband.
‘Scott and I were just talking about you,’ my dad drawls, staring directly at me. Without even hearing the words, I know what he’s going to say. I can tell just by the condescending look in his eyes, the slight curl of disgust in his lip.
I guess we’re jumping right into the usual fight, then.
‘There’s an opening in your brother’s company for a financial analyst,’ he starts. ‘It’s a new job posting, and they’re probably looking to hire internally, but Scott can put in a good word for you and get you bumped to the top of the list. If need be, I can call the CEO, as well. He and I went to college together and still connect occasionally.’
I exhale an angry breath and awkwardly rub the back of my neck. I know exactly how heated this argument is about to get, but I always think I can keep things calm if I can just answer politely.
‘Dad, I’m not looking for a job,’ I say quietly. ‘I have a job. Several, actually. And I’m making good money. I probably make as much as Scott does.’
My brother laughs from his spot on the couch next to me. He’s lounging comfortably like he always does, one ankle resting on his opposite knee and his arms splayed out along the back of the couch. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him tense or uncomfortable. Only obnoxiously arrogant.
I ignore his reaction to the thought that we might make the same amount of money doing such vastly different things—and with very different amounts of hard work.
My dad studies me with his usual frown. I can never decide what answers he’s looking for when he glares at me like this. Why I don’t want to follow in his footsteps? How I could possibly like fighting? How he failed so miserably with me?
I swallow roughly when I realize it could be any of those.
‘When are you going to be done with this karate bullshit?’ he finally asks me.
I can’t help the wince that flashes across my face every time my father makes the cheap comparison. I never know if he does it intentionally or if he really thinks of me as the fucking Karate Kid.
‘Not anytime soon,’ I say bluntly. I can feel myself nearing the end of my rope a lot sooner today than I usually do.
His lip curls in disgust as he shakes his head and looks away. That look hits me directly in the chest every time I see it—regardless of how many times I’ve been on the receiving end.
Like clockwork, my mom jumps in to try to ease the tension. She hates when Dad is irritated, and she always takes on the role of peacekeeper. Though I don’t know if you can be considered a peacekeeper when you’re very clearly supportive of one side and against the other. ‘Honey, wouldn’t you rather have an easy 9-5 job where you’re home at a normal time and you don’t have to get hurt? You know it kills me when you get injured.’ She clasps her hands in her lap and looks at me with hopeful eyes.
I wince and lean forward to rub my temples. As much as I would love to have this out via a screaming match, I know that would break my mom’s heart. For her, I try to gentle my words again. ‘Mom, I know you think that’s the ideal job, but that kind of life is not for everyone. I would hate sitting on my ass and running numbers all day. It’s just not for me. Can’t you just accept that I love something you don’t understand and support me for it anyway?’
‘No, because we’re your parents and we know what’s best for you,’ my dad snaps. ‘We’re not going to stop pushing this until you come to your senses and leave this ridiculous, barbaric hobby behind.’
I aim a cold stare—the one I inherited from my father—at the man that I sometimes can’t believe is really a parent. ‘It’s hardly a hobby, Dad. I’m one of the best fighters in the Northeast.’
Scott lets out a snort from next to me. ‘Nobody even knows who you are.’
I turn my piercing glare to my brother. ‘Tell me that again in a year. I’ll be in the UFC and you’ll still be getting drunk on golf courses with your shitty frat brothers.’
‘Enough,’ my dad snaps. ‘Your brother is following the career path that you should be following and he’s doing a damn good job. He’ll be a Chief Financial Officer one day.’
I smother the delirious laugh that threatens to break out of me. My brother does bare minimum in every aspect of his life—he’ll never even get close to a C-level title.
I turn back to my dad. ‘Regardless, I’m not looking for a job. I’m perfectly happy right where I am. It’s a completely pointless conversation. Do you want to keep talking about it or should we change topics?’ I look at where Mom is nervously wringing her hands. ‘How are you, Mom? How are your friends doing at the country club?’
She casts a nervous glance at my dad, but I know she can’t resist sharing gossip from their country club. They’ve only been members for the past three years, ever since Dad really hit his stride at work and got a big promotion and pay raise. As much as I hate the pressure he puts on me to follow in his line of work, I can’t deny that he’s become very successful at what he does. He’s a hard worker and it definitely shows. The long years he had put in at his company finally paid off with the promotion and at that point my parents’ lifestyles really changed—Mom retired from her occasional substitute teaching job, they bought a new house and made some rich friends, and they joined their most sought-after status symbol: the country club.
Three years ago is when Dad really started pushing me to fix my career choice.
They weren’t supportive of fighting even before that, but the pressure got really bad after Dad saw the life they could have with a well-paying corporate job. He managed to instill the vision in Scott, but he’s never stopped trying to do the same with me.
And based on today’s conversation, that’s not stopping anytime soon.
I half-listen as Mom drones on about some lady at the country club supposedly having an affair with another member’s husband. I can tell none of us are listening, but we all know it makes her happy, so we let her speak. Scott looks bored and Dad is stuck in his scowl, most likely stewing over our conversation. I’m counting down the minutes until I can get out of here.
The rest of the night goes by with only a few passive aggressive digs aimed at me. Mom serves dinner while Dad and Scott tune me out by talking about work. I know they do it on purpose but I’m actually thankful for the reprieve because not having to talk means there’s less chance of me losing my cool. As it stands, I’m still eager for dinner to be over so I can get the fuck out of here.
The second Mom finishes her after-dinner coffee, I push my chair back and stand up. ‘I have to get going,’ I announce. I lean over to kiss Mom on the cheek. ‘Thanks for dinner, Mom. I’ll call you next week.’
‘Thanks for coming over, honey,’ she says with a small smile.
Dad is still glaring at me—I’m starting to think that’s the only way he’s capable of looking at me. I give him a tight nod. ‘Dad. Thanks for the career advice.’ I don’t even look at Scott as I say, ‘Brother, it’s been a pleasure. As always.’
I don’t expect a response from either of them, so I turn around and make my exit. It isn’t until I’m sitting in my car that I let out the agitated breath that I’ve been holding for what feels like several hours.
I take a few deep breaths, but it does nothing for the anger simmering in my veins. With a frustrated growl, I grab my phone to make a call. I need a drink.
‘Aiden, where you guys at tonight?’
