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‘Touch gloves,’ Marcus said. ‘And let’s do this.’
The two fighters thumped their gloves together, then sprang back. Wolf started bobbing gently up and down as they started to circle each other.
‘I dunno how you avoid a beer gut,’ Rainer said as he threw a weak, probing punch.
Wolf darted to the side. ‘I work damn hard, that’s how,’ he replied. It was true. He spent plenty of time lifting weights. He ate well too — lots of lean protein and vegetables. ‘Plus, whiskey don’t give you a gut.’
Another punch came from Rainer, and Wolf just managed to raise his defenses in time. The gloves thudded into his forearms, then his opponent caught him on the shoulder. Wolf winced with the pain but kept bobbing.
He wondered how his father had felt as he’d beaten him when he’d been a kid. His dad hadn’t worn gloves. Wolf could still remember the pain of it — the agony of backhanded slaps across the mouth. The sickening feeling of being punched in the gut. He only ever fought back once, and the beating he received in return meant he’d never do it again.
Images of his father flooded his mind, and he found it hard to focus. Rainer came at him again, with a left hook and then a right. He dodged the first, but the second caught him on the chin, and Wolf grunted with anger.
Don’t just stand there and let him hit you, you fucking pussy! Stand up for yourself.
Adrenaline. That cold wash of focus. Heart pounding, eyes widening, everything slowing down, so slow that he felt as though he could pick out each of Rainer’s eyelashes, each of the pores on his nose.
He bobbed and weaved, ducking left and right, lifting his fists, lowering them. His opponent called out: ‘Throw a punch, Wolf! It’s boxing, not ballet.’
But he didn’t hear Rainer’s words. He heard his father, taunting him.
‘You made me do it,’ his father said. ‘You made me hit her. This is on you.’
‘It’s on me,’ Wolf mumbled. And then, it happened. It wasn’t Rainer in front of him. It was his dad. Skinny, covered in nasty black ink, smirking at his boy through crooked, broken teeth.
Another punch connected with Wolf’s face, and he felt his father’s knuckles whipping into him.
And then… he lost it.
It was just one punch, but Rainer hadn’t been expecting it. Wolf had barely made a move to attack the whole time, so when it came — a surging, full-bodied snap of a hook — Rainer caught it full force in the liver. Wolf’s opponent went down like a sack of spuds.
‘No!’ Wolf cried, anxiety flooding his body as he realized what he’d done. ‘Rainer!’
Marcus jumped into the ring.
Rainer’s eyes were clamped shut, agony evident on his face. Weakly, he tapped the ground, as though trying to stop the fight — a fight which was already over.
‘I’m sorry, brother,’ Wolf said, crouching down by Rainer.
‘Fuck,’ Rainer spat, still down. ‘My fucking liver feels like it’s about to burst.’
‘It’s okay,’ Marcus said, ‘you’ll be alright, your body’s just telling you not to let that happen again.’
As the adrenaline drained away, Wolf was left feeling hollow. Bile rose in his gut. He’d lost control, just like his dad had done. He vowed, there and then, that he’d never fight again.
‘I need a drink,’ Wolf said. Then, without waiting for a reply, he left the gym.
It was a quick ride back to the Den. Wolf didn’t want to be at a public bar. He needed to be alone and he needed drink.
He chained up his bike — a 2016 Dyna Low Rider S — outside the bar. He loved the bike, loved the brutal darkness of it. It was wonderful to ride, but even better to look at.
Biking was in his blood. Even though he’d hated his dad, the few good memories he had of the old beast were all centered around Harleys. His dad had taken him out on bikes from the moment Wolf was big enough to fit on the saddle.
Dad would have hated this bike, though. That’s partly why Wolf had chosen it. It was a slight break from tradition, with digital throttle and central controls. The engine, though, was a Harley through and through — the noise it made, the sheer power, was unreal.
Bikes and booze. That’s what he had in common with his dad. Nothing else. Even as he told himself that, though, he knew that therewassomething else. His temper.
Time to drown that temper.
