After all, it looks like I’ve got a couple of ne’er-do-wells of my own to try to drown with liquor tonight.
What makes me nervous is that neither one of us is talking about it.
I pay the tab and hurry after Mason. As I’ve never seen him drunk before, I don’t know how worried about him I should be.
“You know,” he says, “I never really got into the whole drinking thing, but if this is what I’ve been missing, I might just have to quit going to the gym and become an alcoholic instead.”
I laugh even though it doesn’t look like even he thinks what he’s saying is funny. Once I laugh, though, he laughs.
That’s where we are: We’re both in very obvious denial, just trying to make sure we’re not the first to forget the rules and start dealing with the reality. I just hope I’m good and blackout drunk when we do finally get there.
Mason takes a quick break from walking to vomit copiously into a nearby trash can.
“This is great,” I say as I look up at the sky. The lights of the city give the clouds a sickly o
range tint. “I don’t know about you, but I’m having a blast.”
When Mason finishes his purge, we just start walking again. I don’t really know what I’m feeling as I look up at those clouds, pretending there’s something inspiring or beautiful to see up there. It’s a kind of disconnect that I can’t quite put into words.
We don’t talk about anything real the rest of the night.
Chapter Fifteen
Dragging
Mason
“Come on, man,” Logan says, standing over me. “You’re twenty-two percent off your max and you’re acting like I’m telling you to lift a semi-truck, now put something into it!”
Logan’s never been good at any kind of math that can’t be applied in a gym. When it comes to lifting, though, the guy’s a savant.
It’s also possible he’s just making up numbers that sound plausible.
I heave through the final three reps of my set and Logan helps me get the barbell into its cradle.
“What’s with you?” he asks. “Usually, you’re cruising right through, at least until the last few reps. You haven’t done a solid set all day.”
“I’ve done everything,” I tell him. “It just wasn’t pretty.”
“You’re right about that,” Logan says. “So, are you still thinking about going forward with the tournament?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I ask.
“Good,” he says. “You gotta get that last match out of your head. You still in, or did that last set make you piss your panties?”
He’s not much for nuance.
“I’m still here,” I tell him.
“You up for some light sparring?” he asks.
I smile, saying, “You know I’m always ready to kick your ass.”
He bellows laughter. He knows at least as well as I do that it’s a good thing we’re a couple weight classes apart.
Logan is just one of those guys you know is going to end up in the octagon someday. To him, there is literally nothing but fighting. Eating is fueling up for the next training session. Casually talking to people is exercising the mind, making sure he can not only relate to, but spot facial cues. It helps more than you’d think.
I love fighting, but it’s not the only thing in my life. It’s the only thing I want to do, but I don’t have that single-mindedness Logan has.