I smile at some of my teammates as I walk through the first mat room. I make my way to the bag room in the back, where all the heavy bags are and where my first class will be held. This morning I'll start with a cardio bagwork class and finish with a few rounds of jiu-jitsu during the gym's open mat hour. It's my favorite way to double up sessions because tiring myself out with a mindless cardio workout always produces my best rolls during jiu-jitsu. Something about being exhausted makes me forget about perfect technique and allows me to justroll.
"Hey, Lucy," I greet my friend. She looks up from wrapping her hands, a huge grin splitting her face.
"Hey, yourself," she teases. "How wasyournight?"
I roll my eyes and try to busy myself with unraveling my hand wraps, so as not to let her see the blush that I'm sure just crept across my cheeks. "You're ridiculous," I murmur. "I told you nothing would happen. I went to bed as soon as I got home."
"Oh yeah?" she challenges. "Tristan wasn't waiting up to chastise you?"
I glare at her as I wind the wraps around my hands. "No. Next topic, please. Before someone overhears your outlandish ideas and drags my good name through the mud."
She laughs but drops her line of questioning. "Okay, fine. Do you know who's teaching this morning? I didn't see Danny here, so I assume someone is covering for him." We both look around to see who our designated drill sergeant will be this morning.
Right on cue, we hear a deep voice boom across the gym. "All right, sweethearts, I don't care if you're hungover this morning, I want to see everyonehaul ass!Ten laps around the gym,NOW!"
My stomach drops when I recognize Tristan's voice.
"Fuck," I hear Lucy mutter next to me. We exchange pained glances before breaking into a run. We both know the hardest classes are the ones that are run by the pro fighters—they hold every student to a professional-level work ethic and inevitably run us into the ground.
Sure enough, Tristan shows no mercy. Only twenty minutes into a forty-five-minute workout and every single person is struggling to put any power into their punches.
"Come on, my six-year-old cousin can kick harder than that!" I hear him shout at someone. "Put your hip into it!"
I grunt through the combo, willing myself not to slow down. My T-shirt is completely sweat-soaked and I'm breathing so hard that I can barely catch my breath. This is easily the hardest workout I've done in a very long time.
The bell sounds loudly. "Give me fifteen pushups and fifteen squat jumps during the rest period, then right back to that same combo!" Tristan yells. I groan. Even the rest periods aren't easy.
"What was that, Remy?" I hear from beside me. I startle, not realizing he was so close.
"Nothing," I grumble as I continue my pushups.
Tristan drops down to lie on his stomach in front of me. He watches me closely as I stare straight ahead and try to ignore him.
"Excuses and grumbles won't help you here," he scolds with a smirk. "The only thing that matters is hard work."
I open my mouth to snap at him—then stop myself when I realize that he's expecting my backtalk. I close my mouth and stand up with a growl, launching into my jump squats.
His face splits into a wide grin. He must be satisfied with my non-answer because he stands to go hound someone else.
The next fifteen minutes go by agonizingly slowly. It feels like Tristan gives us longer and harder combos every round. By the end, half the class barely has any power left in their shots. Which, of course, only antagonizes Tristan more.
"You should be gettingstrongerwith every round, notweaker!" he yells. "Every round you should be giving your opponent a harder fight than the last. Pick it up!LET'S GO!"
I grunt and throw myself into the combo with renewed aggression. I'm so tired that I think my body has thrown caution to the winds and is now running purely on the fumes of my will.
"Okay, last round coming up! We're going to do a burnout round. That means you can throw whatever you want, but I want everything thrownhardand Ido notwant to see you stop. Does everyone understand?" I hear weak groans of acknowledgement. "Good. So any combo you want, butconstantandas hard as you can throw. Three minutes.LET'S GO!"
The room erupts into sounds of leather being pounded with fists, kicks, knees, and elbows. Everyone is grunting with the exertion.
I grit my teeth and throw everything I have into my punches. For just three minutes, I force myself to tear down any limitation my body thinks it has—I throw as hard as I would if I were fresh and it was the first round. My muscles are screaming in agony and my lungs are desperate for air, but I ignore both.
"Let'sgo!Last round is the best round!" Tristan yells. "However hard you're working now, your opponent is working harder! Pick it up! I wantwinnersin this room,NOTquitters!"
The first bell rings, signaling ten seconds left in the round. I throw every remaining ounce of energy into my last few shots.
The final bell rings right as I whip a head kick. "TIME!" Tristan calls.
Everyone around me collapses to the floor. Groans reverberate throughout the room. I make eye contact with Tristan as he raises an eyebrow, watching to see what I'll do.