“Yeah, right,” he murmured. And then, with a clear shout, “Cash! That’s enough. Tap out before Red clobbers you into next Sunday.”
The fighters broke apart, both breathing hard as they walked over to grab the water bottles Dylan was holding out.
“Does it ever worry the two of you?” I asked. “The prospect of fighting against one another in an official match?”
Red shook his head, a tiny dribble of water sliding down his chin. I watched the bead of moisture with far more zeal than I cared to admit. “That won’t happen,” he said gruffly.
“Why not?”
“We’re not in the same weight class,” Cash explained. “Red’s a heavyweight. I’m a middleweight. We never have to worry about going up against each other. That’s why we can share the same coach without conflict of interest. I mean, not unless I put on the pounds.”
I whipped out my trusty notebook and started scribbling down as much information as possible, mumbling as I did.
“Weight class… Same coach… How many weight classes are there, exactly?”
Red quirked his brow. “You don’t know?”
My face flushed with embarrassment. I felt so out of my element here, but that wasn’t going to stop me from doing my job.
“I just want to be extra thorough,” I explained. “I like to explain things in great detail for my readers. That way people who are new to the sport don’t feel left out.”
People like me, but I chose not to say that aloud.
“There are eight weight classes for the men’s division,” Cash started.
“And four for the women,” Dylan continued.
“Eight?” I echoed. “That’s so many. What’s the point of having so many categories?”
Cash shrugged. “To keep things fair, allegedly. We can’t very well have some hundred-pound beanpole going up against Red’s two-fifty now, can we? The poor bastard won’t know what hit him.”
“But you spar together?”
“They’re pulling their punches,” Dylan said. “The point of sparring with each other is to build stamina, clean up footwork, and work on reaction times. They save the real fighting for the octagon.”
“If we ever get there,” Red grumbled under his breath.
I titled my head to the side. “Sorry?”
“Nothin’. I’m hitting the showers. Cash, ice your knee.”
“Yes,Mom,” he quipped dryly.
“What about the rest of the interview?” I asked, a little dismayed to see him walking away so soon. At least Red had a nice back. A nice muscular, meaty back.
“Tired,” was his simple reply. “Start with Cash.”
I chewed on the inside of my cheek as he disappeared from view. “I take it he’s not a fan of the press?”
Dylan sighed, scratching behind his ear. “Don’t take it personally. He’s got a lot on his mind. They’ve been waiting for their chance to debut for ages.”
I blinked, looking to Cash for confirmation. “Is this true?”
Cash grimaced as he climbed down from the ring, noticeably keeping the majority of his weight on his left knee. Dylan hopped down no problem. They both held their hand out to help me down, and I happily accepted.
“We were hoping to land ourselves contracts at twenty-one,” Cash explained. “But the timing wasn’t right. Nobody would take us on.”
“Why not?”