Coach

*Kane's POV*

God dammit! I slam the door to my room and begin pacing, remembering the first time I ever met her. It was at the wedding 5 years ago. She was so small and fragile, wearing a long sleeved dress that was a couple sizes too big for her. I didn’t know who she was at first, but when my father introduced us, I felt fear. Raw unadulterated fear. Not for me. But for her. There’s no way this girl could survive my father. I remember having a very strong and sudden urge to protect her.

I made a big mistake, though. I didn’t hide it fast enough. He saw. He saw and I caught the glint in his eye that told me he was going to use her to punish me, just like he used to use my mother. I had to try to cover it up.

When I found out she wasn’t going to be living with us, just visiting occasionally, I was relieved. But still, he needed to think I didn’t care and I needed her to hate me so she would stay away. So, every time she came to visit, I called her names, and did everything I could to prove to my father that he couldn’t use her to get to me.

I remember every time she would come, he would look for any excuse to punish her but she would never give him a single one. She didn’t even know that if she didn’t behave there would be a punishment, she was just way too kind and innocent and naturally submissive.

It would make him so mad that he didn’t have an excuse to punish her, that mine would be ten times as bad whenever she was around. Somewhere along the line, my constant bullying of her became sort of a habit and his extra punishments started to actually make me hate her. I hate her for being so good. So, jokes on him, because he actually made me hate the one person he could have used to get to me.

I grab a bottle of scotch from my desk drawer and start downing it. I lie down on my bed and put my headphones on, turning the volume up as loud as it will go. As the alcohol starts to kick in, my mind begins to drift off, music fading into the background.

A girl with soft skin and a black dress stands before me. I run my hands up her thigh and lift the dress over her head, running my hands down her arms. Then I move a hand to her throat and squeeze, picturing the light purple bruises forming beneath my fingers.

“Kane,” The girl says. I look to her face at the sound of her voice and find Violet staring back at me.

I snap up and find myself alone in bed with music still blaring in my ears, a half empty bottle of scotch in my hand and a painfully hard dick. What the fuck was that?

I groan and throw the bottle across the room. Okay, just think of something else. Anything else. Literally anything. The image of my hands around her neck just keeps playing over and over in my head and I angrily pull my pants down and jerk myself off to the images of her in my mind. This is her fault. She did this to me with that stupid dress. She’s going to ruin my life. God I hate her so fucking much.

I clean myself off and then climb back into bed and fall asleep. The whole night, I dream of her.

The next morning when I wake up, I’m more tired than when I went to bed. I need to get my frustrations out somehow. There was an underground fighting club in London that I used to go but I’ve got no idea where to begin looking for one around here. I doubt there will be any in Cambridge. I search for the sketchiest neighbourhoods, figuring that’s a good place to start.

I make my way to the South End in a taxi because my Porsche would definitely draw attention and probably get stolen. I get out of the taxi just on the edge of the neighbourhood, pay him, and then walk the rest of the way, throwing my hood up. There are a couple MMA gyms in this area. I go check out the closest one first. It looks sufficiently sketchy.

When I go inside, I see several dudes with face tattoos. and cuts and bruises in various stages of healing over their bodies. That’s a good sign.

The guy standing on the outside of the ring coaching the two fighters walks over to me and says, “Can I help you?” I quickly take in his hard features, the tattoos above his eyebrows and the scar running down the left side of his face.

“Maybe,” I reply.

“You looking to join the gym?”

“No. But I am looking to fight.”

His eyes narrow a bit and I can tell he knows what I’m talking about. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, I want into wherever these guys got all those injuries.”

“I see. Put on some gloves.”

“I told you I don’t want to fight here.”

“Yeah, i know, but if I’m gonna vouch for you, I need to know you actually know what you’re doing and aren’t gonna embarrass me or get yourself killed. Now put the fucking gloves on.”

“Fine,” I say and he hands me a set of gloves. I take the gloves from him and pull off my shirt and shoes and then walk over to the ring.

“Blade, out. Striker, you’re up. You know the drill.”

I look at the one called Striker standing in front of me and size him up as he’s doing the same to me. He’s about my height, but leaner. He’s probably fast. I see a pretty nasty bruise on his left rib cage and a few other ones in random spots on his torso.

“Alright boys, no serious injuries. Got it?” We both nod and Striker takes a stance with his left foot back. Either he’s a lefty or he’s protecting his sore ribs. I match his stance. I can fight both ways just fine. I wait for him to throw the first punch. I’m patient.

Finally he takes a jab at me and it’s fast but I dodge in time. He starts throwing combos at me and I block them all. He’s testing me. Alright fine, they want me to show off my skills, I’ll show them off. I throw a few combos right back at him and force him to switch his stance.

I wait it out to get the timing right and when I strike, my fist makes contact with his ribs and I take the split second he cringes into it to pull him to the ground. Normally at this point, I would go for a knock out but he said no serious injuries so I go for an arm bar instead. I pull his left arm up, knowing the stretch on this side probably feels horrible for his ribs. He taps out and I let him go and stand up then offer him my hand to help him up.

“Alright, follow me,” the coach says. We get to his office and he says, “What’s your name?”

“Kane.”

“I’m Rex but most people just call me coach.” He starts scribbling something on a piece of paper. “Alright, that’s all the information you need. It’s open Tuesday through and Saturday nights from 10pm-2am. Entry fee is $100 per fight, you win, you get it back plus a cut of the bets. If you’re looking for money, Friday and Saturday are best.”

“And if I’m not?”

“Take your pick. Most of us go every night.” I nod and then go collect my shirt and leave without another word.

Obviously, I can’t be taking a taxi to this place and I’m sure as shit not gonna bring my porsche. I need a car. I go to a sketchy looking used car dealership and pick up a 2005 civic which I pay for in cash. I throw in an extra $500 for him to give me an old set of plates and not ask for ID. I don’t think this place is too big on protocol anyway. I drive back towards campus and park the car in some back alley and then walk the 10 minutes to the frat house.