Path To Redemption (Fighter's Den, #1)

Chapter 29 - Jaxon

I remember my first day of training like no time has passed at all. I'd gotten up extra early, and that was saying something, to get to the gym before the sun had a chance to rise and shed its bright morning light. I'd even beaten Coach that day. He seemed surprise at my eagerness when he arrived shortly after I did and eyed me warily while he told me to get into gear. I did so in record time because I wanted nothing more than to let loose my first punch and, by extension, relieve all the tension and frustrations coursing through me. Before I could make contact, Coach held up a hand and gave me a condescending look.

"If you overdo your first shot, you'll hardly make it to your second." He warned.

I shrugged skeptically but obliged. I kept my arm loose and weightless and went for a half-assed strike. The punching bag barely swayed. Coach barked out a laugh.

"You're not punching your grandma, Cage." He crossed his arms and I tried not to let the tick in my jaw show. "Double the strength you just used."

I rolled my shoulders back and tightened my fist. This time, my arm tensed with restricted power that I released in satisfaction as my knuckles made contact with the leather of the bag. The satisfaction was short-lived because burning pain seared at the base of my fist and shot up my arm in a flurry. Fuck.

"You're not part of the Mafia, either," came his dry retort and I had to take some serious calming breaths to contain my growing impatience.

"I can see the steam blowing out of your ears, boy. You need to work on your temper."

No shit. Isn't that what this training was partly for? My fist clenched again.

Coach came to stand in front of me and though his own anger was clear as day, something like understanding lingered behind his knowing eyes. It made me shift uncomfortably. I didn't want to be understood. I just wanted to...be.

"Think of it this way." He started. "Envision your number one enemy. Some fucker you'd do anything to get your hands on. Now envision yourself beating the shit out of him. Slowly. You're taking your time with him, letting him suffer and understand the pain and anger you're experiencing, because whooping his ass with a few punches won't satisfy you enough. You're giving him the kind of slow-burning hurt you've had to endure. You're letting the message sink in and, because of that, you pay no mind that you're holding back. You're too busy enjoying drawing out his pain as much as possible."

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask how. How he knew that kind of rage, how he put it into words I've been searching for, how he voiced confessions he knew were too dark for some. But I didn't. Because I could see in his eyes he didn't want to be understood either.

I nodded. He moved out of my way. I closed my eyes and exhaled. I let that pain seep through me and what image other than my fucking so-called father came to mind?

Give it back. Nice and fucking slow, old man.

My eyes flashed open. My fist connected with the bag over and over again in a combination of hits that would have the victim begging for death. I didn't put my all into the hits because I didn't want it to be over so soon. The goal was the quantity of punches, not quality. I gave as many hits until I couldn't go on. Until my breath reached my ears in short pants. Until Coach grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me back.

"He's done, Cage." He met my eyes. "That's how it's done."

I should thank him for that particular lesson. Especially now.

Images of Ridge fucking Sanders flit through my mind as I attempt to pummel the shit out of a lifeless object. The chains holding the bag up are rattling in loud and frenzied succession as the force of my punches and kicks send the damn thing swinging wildly. I imagine the little shit cowering beneath me and yelling mercy when my punches don't slow or stop. I imagine his face bloodied up and unrecognizable and how that still doesn't appease me in the least so I keep going. I imagine the satisfying sound of bone cracking and flesh smacking and harsh screaming and I'm pretty sure a cold smirk expands my lips.