“The pro fight team won't be in until six tonight,” Dmitri replied calmly, his voice flat. “Put on the chest guard and do three rounds of light technical defense with Cole.”
“Cole's too slow,” Preston spat, tossing his gloves onto the canvas. “I need somebody to actually react.”
His eyes slowly scanned the floor, skipping past the heavy weight racks, past the cardio rowing machines, and landing squarely on Greg Mason.
Greg was forty years old, visibly overweight, endlessly polite, and possessed the gentle demeanor of a man who worked long hours as a senior tax accountant. He had joined Apex six months prior, shortly after his primary physician informed him that sitting behind a mahogany desk for fourteen hours a day was slowly killing his heart. Greg wore baggy cotton t-shirts, worked hard, never complained, and always wiped down his equipment twice when he was finished.
Preston pointed a gloved finger directly at Greg's chest. “Greg. Grab your headgear and sparring gloves.”
Greg stopped mid-stretch near the kettlebell rack, looking around in confusion. “What?”
“Three rounds,” Preston said, walking toward him while wrapping his hands tighter. “Let's go.”
Greg gave an uncomfortable, high-pitched laugh, looking at his own sneakers. “Oh, no thanks, man. I’m just finishing up my light conditioning. I've got a thirty-minute cardio run scheduled for three.”
“Cardio is useless,” Preston asserted, stepping into Greg's personal space. “Sparring builds real cardiovascular endurance. Don't worry, I'll go light. Just basic jab-cross defense.”
Dmitri’s posture immediately stiffened. He took two steps toward Preston. “Leave him alone, Preston. Greg isn't on the sparring roster.”
“I said I’m going light, Dmitri,” Preston snapped, turning his head slightly toward the gym owner. “He needs the work, and I need a warm-up.”
“He isn't cleared for open sparring,” Dmitri repeated, though his voice lacked the firm, uncompromising authority a head coach ought to possess. “He’s still working foundational mechanics.”
Preston stepped closer to Dmitri, lowering his voice just enough to ensure it carried an edge. “I pay for the Tier-1 unlimited access package, Dmitri. And my dad’s company just paid three months of advance sponsorship for the regional tournament team. I think the gym can afford to let me get three light rounds in with a guy who needs to lose twenty pounds anyway.”
Dmitri’s shoulders subtly dropped. A faint, painful muscle twitched along his jawline.
Thomas, who was currently wringing out his mop ten feet away, observed the subtle shift in body language. Everyone in the building noticed it. Richard Harrington’s monthly financial wire transfers paid for the striking coaches' salaries. They covered the travel vans for out-of-state matches. They paid for the brand-new vinyl floor covers. And, as everyone quietly understood, they kept the building’s landlord from placing a padlocked chain on Apex’s front door.
Greg looked between the gym owner and the younger man. Being an inherently polite man who hated creating scenes, he managed a awkward smile. “Look, it’s fine, Dmitri. If it’s just light defense... three quick rounds won't hurt.”
Thomas continued to push his mop in steady, horizontal patterns across the dark foam.
For six long years, Thomas had made a sacred, absolute promise to himself: he was entirely finished with solving other people’s problems. He had spent his twenties and thirties bleeding in foreign dirt for strategic objectives designed by men in air-conditioned rooms, and he had paid for those objectives with his knees, his sleep, and the lives of good men. He was done interventionism. He was done caring.
The sharp electronic chime of the gym timer rang out.
For the first thirty seconds of the first round, Preston behaved with reasonable restraint. He threw light, lazy jabs that flicked off Greg’s raised guard, allowing the older man to practice stepping backward and keeping his elbows tucked.
Then, inevitably, Preston’s ego grew bored with restraint.
His punches began to carry a different weight. The light pop-popof leather striking guard mats shifted into heavy, thumping impacts. Greg, lacking the technical experience to circle out of corners, backed straight up until his spine bumped hard against the chain-link fence of the octagon.