“Ready?” Aiden asks before we start. I nod.
We start slow, even though we’ve both been working out for over an hour. I’m typically the one to charge out like a bull, so Aiden looks understandably confused. He’s still an amateur fighter and used to getting his ass kicked by Tristan and I. But, sensing that I’m not in my usualbull-in-a-china-shopmode, he starts forward with a flurry of punches.
I parry them easily, but I don’t see the body kick coming. I grunt at the impact when it lands clean.
“Jax, get your shit together,” Tristan barks.
I roll my shoulders in an effort to shake the mental fog I seem to be in. I step forward with a boxing combination of my own.
Which Aiden easily deflects.
I grunt and shoot forward again. I manage to land a punch at the end of my combination, but Aiden takes advantage of my overextended position and ducks down to wrap his arms around my legs for a takedown.
Which he gets.
We wrestle for positioning on the ground but it takes me way longer than usual to dislodge him enough to get back to my feet. And once we’re standing, Aiden doesn’t give me a second to breathe before he’s on me with strikes again.
We go back and forth for the rest of the round but I get caught with a big hook to the chin right before the bell sounds.
“Fuck,” I mutter to myself, stretching my jaw.
“What the fuck is wrong with you today?” Tristan snaps. “You’re normally all over Aiden. You barely got a shot in that entire round.”
“I take offense to that,” Aiden mumbles from the other side of the cage.
“What’s going on?” Tristan presses.
“It’s just an off day, calm the fuck down,” I grit out. “You’ve had your ass handed to you plenty of times.”
He stares at me from where he’s holding onto the outside of the cage. He doesn’t say anything, but his glare speaks volumes in a way that only Tristan’s can.
The bell signals the start of the second round. This time, Aiden doesn’t wait to see if I’m going to charge at him, he just shoots forward for another takedown. I manage to defend the first one, but now that he’s sensed I’m not as much of a threat as I usually am, he’s not letting up on his attacks. He faints another takedown and when I defend it, he hooks my leg and takes us to the mat.
I grunt as I land on my back. I try to get out from under him, but he manages to trap my arm during the scramble and, without any hesitation, falls immediately into an armbar.
I scowl as I hold onto my hand to keep him from being able to straighten my arm completely. And as much as I hate doing it, I use sheer strength instead of technique to get out of it. I shove my shoulders through where Aiden’s legs are holding me in place, and press all my weight down on top of him. He’s gritting his teeth and scrambling to finish me with something.
But the bell rings and he lets go of me with a scowl. I stand up with a frown of my own, only to come face to face with an angry Tristan.
“Breathe,” he growls, pouring water on top of my head. I do as he says, even though bringing my heartrate down at the end of a round is as natural as breathing itself. I glance across the cage to where Max is now standing in front of Aiden and giving him the same treatment.
“Whatever is going on in your head, figure out how to get rid of that shit,” Tristan snaps. “I’m not saying you can’t have a bad day, but use this as a training exercise—you’re bound to have a fight where you feel just as bad, so practice today how to let that shit go so it doesn’t affect your fighting.”
I glare at him even though I know he’s right. This isn’t my first rodeo, with a head that’s not in it or with getting my ass handed to me, but it’s still annoying to hear him say it.
“I got it,” I grit out. I open my mouth to swallow some of the water Tristan pours for me. And when the bell rings and the third five-minute round starts, I bite down on my mouthpiece and start forward immediately.
“Be smart,” Tristan barks.
But I’m way beyond that. I’m fueled by frustration, annoyance, and my own confusion over the mess of this entire day. This entire week, really.
I shove all of that away and fall on Aiden with a flurry of punches. I catch him with one shot at the end that forces him back, and I follow him eagerly. I step up the pace even though I’m running out of steam fast—off days always feel ten times more exhausting.
My anger at this day makes my punches wild. I’m not pressuring in a smart way, even though Tristan is screaming the same command at me over and over again. But I’m in such a frustrated state of mind that I ignore him completely and press forward, throwing as many punches as I can and hoping that one of them connects.
Aiden’s not an idiot, though. He went into this sparring session expecting me to pressure forward, so he’s probably been set to throw a specific technique since the very beginning. And when he throws it now, it lands flush.
I crumble when his left kick smashes into my liver. It’s like an automatic off-button, no matter how tough you are. I immediately drop to my knees and curl into myself.