Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 86052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
One thing’s for sure, when she’s on a roll, she has absolutely no filter. I found myself excited to see what other shit would come flying from her lips. Whatever she’s thinking comes out like word vomit, and I have to admit, it was damn hilarious listening to her trying to backtrack each time she thought she had crossed some invisible line.
Sleep came easy that night with thoughts of Charli roaming around my head, coupled with the added exhilaration of winning my first fight and getting that first bit of money to put toward my future. Not to mention, I’ve been thoroughly exhausted from all my extra training, but I’m hoping my body will adapt to the change soon.
I wake on Monday morning and groan as my alarm screeches into the early morning. “Damn,” I grumble before pulling the sheets back and dragging my ass out of bed. After pulling on a pair of sweatpants, I head into the bathroom and take care of business before trekking downstairs to get ready. I take a seat on my couch and tie up my shoes before heading out into the early morning breeze.
Most of the hockey guys are already at our meeting spot, so I join in on a few stretches as we wait for the rest of the guys to show up. After another few minutes, we’re ready to go, and we head out for our usual run and workout in the park. Before I know it, I’m back home, showering and preparing for my business lecture.
My lecture drags on, and I pass the time by rerunning my conversation with Charli in my head before switching it up and imagining just how good she would taste. Once the lecture wraps, I head out to my truck, desperate for an afternoon nap before I have to go to training at Rebels Advocate.
As I reach for the back door handle of my truck to shove my shit in the back, I notice a bank branch across the street. It’s probably a smart idea to open a separate bank account for my winnings, keeping them separate and hidden from my parents. After all, making deposits into my normal account is too risky, considering my parents like to believe they have a right to check up on my finances.
Skipping out on an afternoon nap, I hurry across the road, and an hour later, I return back to my truck, one step closer to my goal. Glancing at the time on my phone, I realize I have just enough time to grab something to eat before getting my ass down to Rebels Advocate.
Monday’s fucking suck. They’re always so busy. After my morning workout and lecture, I have training with Cole in the afternoon and then a late hockey session before I finally get to call it a day.
Twenty minutes later, I’m barging through the doors of Rebels Advocate and Cole clocks me the second I step through to the foyer, putting me straight to work. “Alright, kid. Drop your shit and get started. We’re doing circuit training today.”
Fuck. Circuit training. My damn favorite.
There’s nothing more exhausting than circuit training. It’s fast and hard. Designed to use as many muscle groups as possible, and when it’s run by Cole, it’s nothing short of excruciating. However, he’s the best trainer I’ve ever had. He gets me and knows how to push me to my limits without getting on my nerves. I always had a healthy respect for my old trainer, Rex, but we were too comfortable. Stuck in a routine that I needed to break free from.
Heading over to the treadmills, I jump on, making sure to warm up properly before Cole comes and kicks my ass. I watch as he makes his way around the gym, giving his other fighters encouragement as he collects everything he needs for my session, and from the looks of it, he’s planning a good one.
“Get your ass over here, Xander,” Cole hollers a few minutes later and I spring into action, stopping the treadmill and sipping at my water on my way across the gym. It doesn’t pay to be tardy with Cole.
Within ten minutes of working my circuit, I’m dripping with sweat and regretting the day I walked in here. I don’t know how Cole does it. I can skate for hours without breaking a sweat, and yet here with Cole, I’m a dripping mess in minutes. There’s no denying that Cole is fucking good at what he does.
“That was a good fight on Friday night,” Cole mentions, giving resistance to the back of my punching bag as I pound into it.
“Hmm,” I grunt in agreement, not able to manage a proper response.
“You could do better,” he tells me. “You were just playing with the kid. I didn’t get you there to fuck around. But someone seems to think your little show was worth something. The bets have been raised for your next fight.”