Monsters Matt Rogers (books to read for 13 year olds .txt) 📖

He said, ‘I’m up at six tomorrow for deadlifts and squats.’

Tyrell was smart enough to spot a test when it was staring him in the face. ‘I’m there, man.’

Slater nodded.

Tyrell loitered another moment. ‘Anythin’ else?’

‘No.’

The kid’s discomfort was palpable. He must’ve expected either worry or anger. Displaying neither meant there was no judgment passed. It left it all open to interpretation. There was no, ‘Do this. Don’t do that.’ Instead it was ambiguous, opinions unspoken, the good and the bad all murky. Slater figured it’d give Tyrell the room to work out for himself what he wanted from life, not to simply accept the prescriptions of authority without really understanding why.

Sure enough, Tyrell said, ‘Goodnight. And…uh, sorry.’

Slater said, ‘Sorry for what?’ He paused. ‘See you tomorrow.’

Tyrell slunk off to his room.

Alexis nestled a little closer to Slater’s ear, and she whispered, ‘Now I get it.’

5

The next morning, on the other side of Winthrop, a boxing glove smacked a pad.

King said, ‘No. Don’t lean forward when you throw.’

Bill Dunfield was a competent triathlete with four half-Iron Mans under his belt, but he still put his hands on his knees and hunched over all the same. He sucked in air, trying to escape the heart rate zone that unleashed lactic acid. Within a few lungfuls he was back in action, ready to work. King didn’t blame him for emptying the tank early. It was his first boxing lesson. These things take time and experience.

Moderation in combat sports, where it often feels like you’re fighting for your life, is a strange concept to master.

Bill finished an exhale. ‘Why not?’

‘Try it again.’ He held a pad at head height. ‘As hard as you can.’

Bill threw a straight right with impressive determination, but heart can’t overcome bad technique. He put all his weight on his front leg in his desperation to add power to the punch. He hit the pad with decent force, but King flicked his left hand out and touched Bill’s exposed chin with the other pad. It was only a light slap but it sent the man stumbling back, shocked and off-balance. When he found his footing he put his gloves on his hips and winced, more at his own ineptitude than the discomfort. He was almost as hard on himself as King. It was an effective character trait.

King adopted a fighting stance in demonstration, up on the balls of his feet. ‘Dart in and out. And twist at the hips to generate power. Don’t overextend. You only leave yourself out of position.’

‘Man,’ Bill said, flabbergasted. ‘I’ve thrown more punches today than I have in my whole life before this.’ A short pause to catch his breath. ‘Shouldn’t we be taking baby steps? Working on hitting harder before worrying about leaving my chin out?’

King said, ‘The technique comes before the power, before the speed. You of all people should know that, what with your triathlons. Who’s going to finish a half Iron-Man faster: someone with the most determination or someone with the cleanest technique?’

‘Technique,’ Bill panted. ‘Every time. I knew that.’

‘Of course you did. But you’re fatigued. Fatigue makes idiots of us all.’

‘I thought it was “cowards,”’ Bill said. ‘Fatigue makes cowards of us all.’

King said, ‘It’s usually both.’

That lit a fire, which is exactly what he knew it’d do. If Bill Dunfield had a defining characteristic, it was that he despised incompetence. Sure enough he slowed his roll, stopped trying to hit the pads as hard as he could. With each smooth swing his hips stretched a little looser, became a touch more mobile. His muscles recovered too, his heart rate steadying and life returning to his muscles. By the end of the session there was more reverberation echoing off the pads than when they first started, even with the difference in fatigue.

Serious improvement for a debut.

When King stripped the sweat-soaked pads off his hands and dropped them to the backyard lawn, Bill sighed with relief and fell to his back on the grass. ‘I was about to quit.’

King said, ‘No you weren’t.’

He sat down beside Bill. Alice Dunfield had stepped out on the rear porch to watch the session’s end, her mouth upturned in bemusement. She had a hand on her hip and a Gatorade bottle clutched in the other. She raised a pointed eyebrow at King, and he shook his head. He jabbed Bill in the stomach with a straightened finger. The man sat up like he’d been electrocuted. When he saw Alice he sighed and held out his open palms in a gesture of gratitude. She tossed him the bottle across the yard. He drank down two thirds of its contents.

Alice watched King with unmasked curiosity. ‘Did you used to be a boxer?’

King shook his head. ‘Only ever boxed recreationally, for fitness. I did some coaching once upon a time. At a boxing gym. That’s about the extent of it.’

She looked him up and down, rolled the words over in her mind. ‘You’re full of shit, Jason. I saw you hit that bag before.’

An Everlast bag hung suspended from a metal boxing stand up the back of the yard. King had drilled combinations into it before Bill even slipped on the gloves, demonstrating jabs, straights, uppercuts, hooks. The smack of leather on leather had ripped through the neighbourhood. He’d stopped when he’d realised an extended demonstration would likely lead to noise complaints.

King kept it jovial so she wouldn’t get to the truth. ‘You suspicious of me, Alice?’

She smiled. ‘I think you’re a wild man and you’re trying to hide it. Don’t go getting my husband into any fights, sanctioned or not.’

King jerked a thumb at Bill, who’d lowered himself to his back again, panting. ‘You really think an athletic commission would sanction him?’

She laughed and went inside.

Bill sat up when she was gone, looked over. ‘Stop punching things when she can see you. Sooner or later she’ll figure out you hit like a pro heavyweight.’

‘I think she already has.’

‘She’ll quiz me