Page 1 of Xavier

ONE

Him

I can’t tell if it’s his blood or mine.

But there’s an unmistakable metallic taste tainting my tongue.

Not that I care. I barely even notice the rivulets of sweat stinging my eyes and the smattering of bruises I know are slowly blooming against the right side of my rib cage and left thigh.

There isn’t time for worrying about the collateral damage.

He is circling me; I’m pivoting on my right leg following him. The air between us is thick, palpable, pulsating with the rhythm of our elevated heartbeats. I’m not looking at any particular part of his body, but rather, focusing on the space around him. The slightest twitch of his bicep, the tiniest shift in the angle of his foot tells me everything I need to know.

So, I wait. And he’s not giving anything away.

The thumping in my ears is almost deafening but I’m finding an almost nirvana-level clarity in the chaotic drumming of blood and adrenaline streaming through my body.

One-one-hundred, two-one-hundred, I count silently, three-one-hund- and there it is. The toes of his right foot curl into the ground, gripping for traction and I know what’s coming. My head tucks into my chest as I duck just as his left leg whips around towards me and I block it with my forearm before hooking my wrist around his ankle and twisting his leg into an inhuman angle; defense and attack both at once.

Just like he taught me.

The jarring of our limbs shudders through my whole body but I hold position until I hear the thud of his chest against the ground. I follow him to the floor, my knee digging into his back, my hand wrapped around the sweat drenched curve of the back of his neck.

Again, I hold and count. One-Mississippi. Two-Mississippi. Three-Mississippi. Four – it’s almost interminable. And then I hear it. The ding-ding-ding of the bell rings into existence, just as I’ve been expecting it to.

One hundred and eighty seconds sure is a long time when you’re counting them one by one.

My hand relaxes on the neck and I feel my body being pulled into an upright position. It takes a hard slap against my bare back, though, to jolt me back into the moment.

“Holy fuck, man, that was brutal,” a raspy voice growls at me from the sidelines, as the hand that slapped my back now steadies me while I take a long, deep breath, the first in minutes. “You trying to get back at him for sleeping with your girl or something?”

I roll my eyes, my drenched palms leaving damp stains on the sides of my shorts as I wipe them before reaching down for my opponent’s hand. He turns over onto his back and grips my hand with his giant one and almost drags me down onto the mat with him as I pull him to his feet. My friend and sparring partner for more than a decade. Ram, both in name and in physique. It takes a lot to take him down.

“Please, I wouldn’t touch one of his dirty trollops with a ten-foot pole, even though the closest ten-foot pole is right here in my pants,” he says, letting go of my hand and patting me on the side of my tenderized torso, making me cringe. He grins in response to my pained scowl, a little consolation for losing the fight. “But yeah, good fight, man. Guess that means I owe you a round at the bar.”

“No, man, I’ll buy you a round to cheer you up for losing to this little white boy,” I say, taunting him back and digging my own hand into his rib cage, making him groan and bend over, clutching his side and letting out a stream of what I can only imagine are the absolute worst cuss words that exist in his native Thai tongue.

I laugh and hand him a bottle of water which he takes, gratefully. “Sounds good to me, but I am on a strict no alcohol diet until after my fight this weekend. It’s a big one. I gotta be ready.”

“One drink. Come on.” I reach out to poke him in the side again, but he’s ready for me this time and twists away.

“Nah, you know how I have a propensity to overdo it.” He crushes the empty bottle and throws it into the trash can in the corner.

I cock an eyebrow. “’Propensity,’ huh? That’s a pretty big word for such a tiny brain housed in such a thick skull.” I grin at my 6 foot 6 giant of a friend who somehow manages to look a little embarrassed.

“Shut up. My niece gave me some word of the day toilet paper for my birthday.”

I laugh, but don’t push it. I know how much his niece means to him. She’s probably the only one who can reach his heart through all the layers of muscle and protein shakes. “Fine, how about I buy you a vat of boiled pasta and fifteen steamed chicken breasts?”

“You’re on. Meet you out front in ten?” Ram’s words are muffled by the hoodie being pulled over his head.

“What the fuck? You’re not going to shower?” I can feel my face showing my horror.

“Why? Do I need to?”

“My burning nostril hairs say ‘in all that is good and holy, fucking hell, yes!’”

“Get fucked!” He lifts his arm and takes, what I can only hope, for his olfactory nerves’ sake, is a long, deep, fake sniff. “Mmm-mmm. Like orange blossoms.”