The crowdscreamsin pleasure at the beautiful knockout. The sound is so deafening that you can't even hear the bell signaling the end of the fight. Everyone around me is shouting and jumping around, giving each other high fives and celebrating the huge victory. I think I'm screaming too.
I look toward the cage and see Max and Aiden hugging, their grins so big it looks like the stretch might actually hurt their cheeks. Tristan stands off to the side with a slightly more composed—but no less excited—look on his face. He grins at a laughing Max and gives him a fist bump. He looks like a proud papa.
Our section can barely quiet down enough to hear the announcer declare the official winner. When he calls Max's name, we erupt in screams all over again.
By the time everyone has cleared out of the cage and Max has disappeared back to the locker rooms, I'm convinced I'll never again have full use of my hearing. I make a mental note that another reason Jax shouldn't be drunk at fights is because he yells too damn loud.
"All right, where's the after party?" he asks us, clapping his hands together with a grin. "Frankie's? First round is on me." His words are met with a loud cheer.
Some people split off to head home, and the remaining dozen start walking toward the nearest exit. Twenty minutes later—which probably would've only been ten if Jax hadn't stopped to get the phone number of a woman we passed—we’re all crowded around some high tops at the back of Frankie's.
"I can't believe Max actually knocked that guy out."
"It was like a real-life David and Goliath!"
"It must feel so satisfying to finish a fight like that."
"I'm glad he won. Coach would've put us all through the wringer next week if he had lost."
I sigh contentedly, loving the sounds of happy chatter around me. Obviously, it feels great when a teammate gets a win, but I would've been happy even if we were gathering after a loss. It's the comradery and family aspect that I love about this sport. It’s an odd feeling to be a part of a team in what is clearly an individual sport, but until we’re standing in the ring with only our fists and our strategy, it’s our teammates that are helping to lead us to that point. Regardless of age, gender, or experience, the only requirement to join the team is work ethic and a willingness to help others. We win together and we lose together, and at the end of the day we're just as invested in everyone else's success as we are our own. We're a family.
I look at the people around me. Hailey and Lucy have their heads together and are chatting animatedly about something, so lost in their conversation that everyone else looks completely shut out from their world. The guys are laughing and ripping on each other with no mercy. I see one of them shove another and then immediately crack up, as if it was the funniest thing in the world. Chuckles ripple around their circle.
Jax has one of the newer fighters, Dane, pulled off to the side and is having a serious conversation with him, likely about Max's fight. Jax is gesturing wildly, talking a million words a minute, but Dane is nodding furiously and hanging on to his every word.
"Poor Remy, you look so lonely. No one wanted to talk to you?"
I startle and turn to my right. Sure enough, Tristan is standing next to me, already nursing a beer.
"How did you get here so fast?" I blurt, shocked that he a) got out of the arena this quickly, and b) is here at all. Tristan is well-known for limiting his time with the fighters outside of the gym in a non-professional environment. He likes to keep his distance from his students.
He raises an eyebrow in question, disbelief marring his features. "That's the best question you could come up with? No wonder no one wants to talk to you."
I snap out of my shock and scowl at Tristan before taking several big gulps of my beer. I can already tell I'm too sober for this conversation.
"What'd you think of the fight?" Tristan asks in an even tone. I take another sip of my beer to try to cover my surprise at his attempting a normal conversation.
"I think it was a good matchup," I respond honestly, looking out over the bar. "I assume Coach took that fight for Max to test his distance and footwork, since that's what he's been trying to fix for months. It was an ugly start, but it looked like Max executed the game plan. The fakes to get inside looked good. And not much actually landed from the other guy, so his stance and footwork is definitely getting better, too."
Out of the corner of my eye I can see Tristan studying me. I'm not sure how much he thinks I know about fighting—especially having never fought before—but it feels like he's impressed with my analysis. After a breath he nods once, then turns back to his beer.
I debate for a moment if I want to say what's on my mind. But then I decidefuck it, if he can be decent then so can I.
"You looked comfortable in the coaching seat," I say without making eye contact. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "It seemed like you were motivating Max while still keeping him calm. Those guys trust you." And then since it feels like I'll vomit from the sweetness of giving Tristan a clean compliment, I add, "Plus you have a ridiculously obnoxious voice, which means Max could've heard you from the other side of the arena."
Tristan doesn't respond but smirks at my comment. When I turn to smile cheekily at him, our eyes lock. His eyes flit down to my dark lips.
I can't help but squirm under his intense gaze. He's locked onto my mouth for several long seconds, and when he finally looks back to my eyes, I'm wide-eyed and blinking hard. I’m frozen, and for some reason I can’t think of a single snarky comment.
Just then, a loud shout goes up behind us. When I turn toward the sound, I see Max walking into the bar with a big grin plastered on his face. He spreads his arms to welcome the cheers that are now rolling through our group and around the bar. His name becomes a chant that even the other bar patrons pick up.
I smile as I watch people approach him with eager fist bumps and claps on the shoulder. The biggest testament to our gym's family feel is everyone's reactions to a fighter's performance. If they put on the performance of their lives and win a belt, we celebrate as if we were the ones that won—and if they suffer a horrible loss, we drown our sorrows at the bar right there next to them. We train as a family; we fight as a family.
"Overhands for days, baby," I grin when I finally reach the man of the hour. He squeezes me in an excited hug, keeping his arm around my shoulders even after he lets me go.
"That is the greatest fucking feeling ever," he says excitedly. "It was so insane, Remy. I actually watched his eyes roll in the back of his skull. I don't think even a good fuck can compare to that feeling." He looks around the bar with a grin. “Not that I wouldn’t love one of those tonight, too.”
A loud, happy laugh bursts out of me. "Let's get you a beer, hotshot."