Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 79870 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79870 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Over the next ten days he would sometimes step in to coach when he saw something he could help out with. He’d once been a respected college wrestling coach, so he really knew what he was talking about when it came to rolling.
He didn’t put in a whole lot of face time, though. He floated between the gym and the kitchen and his office, working to ensure that everything was running smoothly. I’m sure he was also dealing with other fighters and planning other camps, though he never let on while he was working with us. He made us feel like we were the only ones in his universe, and I appreciated that.
He was an encyclopedia of everything MMA, and his knowledge of diet and weight-cutting practices was extensive as well. I’d never had to cut weight before, so I wasn’t sure if the things he was saying were correct or not, but he was so confident it was impossible not to believe him. He sat me down and explained everything with great patience. We laid out my fitness goals and talked about how we would achieve each one, and by the end of our meeting I felt confident that Marco had done well in choosing Ray’s camp.
The training partners he had brought in were top notch. Brody Howard was lanky and blond, with a broad smile and a spray of freckles across his nose. He had an amazing reach and was surprisingly controlled in his movements, unlike some long fighters I’d seen who flailed around like the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz. Sam Stone was a little fireplug with a shaved head and a scar beneath his left eye. He was tough and unforgiving on the mat, but friendly as hell off of it. I liked them both instantly, and so did Jason. Marco never seemed to like anyone except me, and only because we’d been working together for so long, but that was okay. I didn’t keep him around for his social skills.
Training was good, mainly because it kept my mind off of Jamie. It was nice to have a distraction after the nightmarish plane ride I’d had to endure to get there. I’d fidgeted and stressed until a passing flight attendant stopped to ask me if everything was okay. She’d mistakenly assumed that I was afraid of flying and suggested I have a drink. I had three.
I wanted something more than that— a sleeping pill or a fat blunt. Anything to turn off my brain and let me get a few hours of sleep. But now that I’d gotten involved in the UFC, drug testing was a part of my life, so there was no way I was putting any banned substances into my system.
Somehow, even without the help of those things, I’d been able to doze off. Probably because my brain was just that exhausted. But then I’d gotten a text message from Jamie. Early as fuck, so I knew he’d sent it before he’d left for the hospital. I heard the text come in, glanced at the notification, and put my phone on silence. Whatever he had to say, I couldn’t read it right then.
But what if it was about his mom? If it was, I felt really bad about not reading it, but I just couldn’t. Instead I said a silent prayer for her, asking a deity I didn’t even believe in to keep her safe through her surgery.
I didn’t believe in God for the same reason as a lot of other people. Because I couldn’t imagine a loving god could let awful things happen like what had happened to me when I was young. Sometimes I thought about it and tried to believe. Maybe it was like people said, that God worked in mysterious ways, or he had a plan or something. Maybe even though he’d taken my mom without a second thought, he’d have pity on Jamie and let his mom live. It was worth a shot, so I prayed.
But I still didn’t read the text. I knew I couldn’t handle it until I was up to my neck in training. When nothing existed except me and the fight, and I was so exhausted I couldn’t get emotional, I’d find out what it said.
That’s exactly what happened on my first day of camp. I worked myself so hard I couldn’t think. First, we worked on my takedown defense. The fighter I was going up against was an All-American wrestler without much of a stand-up game, so it was almost a guarantee that he’d try to take me down every chance he got.
“Spread that stance,” Marco yelled as Jason pressed me hard against the chain link of Ray’s newly-erected octagon. He was doing his dead-level best to take me down, grunting and sweating, pushing his shoulder into my solar plexus. I held his wrist, steeled myself against him, and listened to Marco drone on. “You don’t want this guy laying on you and smothering you the whole time. Keep it on the feet. Get him off of you. You need to get it back out to the center and knock him the fuck out.”