Page 66 of Barinov

“I’m not trying to be him.”

“I’m not asking you to. Be you, but stronger. Harder. Meaner, if you must.” He closes this distance again, his shadow looming over me. “You won’t stand a chance against Luca if you can’t take a klap, my bru.”

“Klap?” I ask as I breathlessly try to reset.

“Punch, hit, smack to the face.” He scoffs and raises his chin. “Whatever you Americans call it.”

I square up again, hands curling into fists. Khoza lands another punch, this time straight to my ribs. I stumble back. Every single breath of mine now laced with fire.

“Again,” he says, fists still up. “You’re not done.”

I grit my teeth, blood pounding in my ears. I swing a wide right. Khoza dips and cuts my legs out from underneath me. The sound of my spine slamming into the mat echoes throughout The Pit.

“Damn. That was embarrassing,” a low drawl echoes from ringside. “You done being his punchin’ bag yet?”

Just fucking perfect.

Caleb Briggs stalks up the stairs and steps into the ring. Wranglers, snakeskin Ariats, black v-neck hugging his muscular frame, with a battered and scuffed up dark-brown leather jacket slung over his shoulders like he just came off the set of Yellowstone. The cherry on top is a black Stetson sitting low over his eyes, shadowing the smirk that is for sure playing on his face right now.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, wiping the beads of sweat off my chin.

He tips his hat slightly. “Thought I’d stop in and check on y’alls progress. See if ya needed help.”

“We’ve got it handled,” I snarl, motioning to Khoza. “You can leave now.”

“From what I just saw,” he says, his annoying grin widening. He glances at me, then over at Khoza. “I think you can use all the help you can get.”

Khoza snorts, stepping back and leaning on the ropes fully on board with whatever chaos this Clint Eastwood wannabe is about to unleash.

Briggs sets his hat down on the edge of the mat and removes his jacket.

“I’ve got it from here, Koz,” Briggs says with a quiet authority. “Take a break.”

Khoza doesn’t argue with him. He just grunts and steps out of the ring, each footfall sending a ripple through the floor beneath me.

“Square up,” Briggs says.

I do, reluctantly.

He taps my back foot with the tip of his boot. “You’re leanin’ too far forward. If you lose your base, you lose the fight. Power don’t start in your arms, it starts in the dirt. Most of your control…” He slaps my thigh with the back of his hand. “…is in your legs.”

I adjust.

“Hands up, chin down, and elbows tighter. And for the love of God stop swinging around like you’re holding a fuckin’ paintbrush.”

I glare at him. “Funny.”

“I thought so.” He shrugs. “Now hit me. We both know you know you’ve been dyin’ to.”

I throw a wild right. He dodges it easily, grabs my wrist, and glides it back.

Briggs nods. “Better. Now do it again, but keep an eye on your feet.”

I square back up and throw a few more at him. He keeps his fists up and stays quiet while he lets me find my rhythm, adjusting my feet and correcting my form when I need it. Which is all the damn time.

We go again.

And again.