Page 7 of Steel Rain

Trainers aren't just teachers or instructors. They're strategists. Lieutenants. They’re as vital to victory as the fighter themselves. A bad coach can destroy the best of fighters. A great coach can elevate a mediocre fighter to a level of greatness.

I couldn’t let this kind of inequality stand. Not in the octagon. Not on the sacred mats where it was supposed to be skill against skill, and each side deserved the best possible team behind them.

The octagon was not like a war where one side might have bombs, and planes, while the other has homemade explosives and a few stolen rifles. It was equality. Parity. A meritocracy. Race or creed didn’t matter on the mat. It didn’t give a shit who your parents were, or if you were rich or poor.

The only thing the mat cared about was skill, blood, and sweat.

There is nowhere else in the world that has such meritocracy.

The octagon should, if nothing else, be fair. There was nothing more sacred, or more honest, than this simple, primal competition.

And I was a servant of this art form.

I got up from my seat, ignoring Eoghan as he called, "Oi, where are you going?"

I removed my jacket and tie, swiped a jar of Vaseline from Guile's corner, grabbed a small wooden stool that a coach shouldhave brought to her, and jumped into the arena. She looked at me with a confused, mistrustful glare.

I didn’t care. My body hummed with joy - something I hadn’t felt in such a long time that it was almost unpleasant. Coaching was a calling. It was in my soul. If I believed in fate, or destiny, then training fighters was mine. Being stuck on an Irish compound with soldiers who did not give a fuck about the martial art was drowning me slowly, and this would be a breath of fresh air. Something to keep me going for just a little bit longer.

It felt like the world had been tilted, and standing here with her in the octagon brought me back upright.

I slathered my thumb into the Vaseline and I smoothed it over her eyebrows.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asked as I examined her for cuts.

"It keeps sweat out of your eyes, and prevents blows from landing," I explained without preamble.

She wasn't sure if she should believe me, and even had the audacity to look at her opponent as if askinghimif this was okay.

I looked over my shoulder at Guile, and the guy shrugged. She spat her mouthguard into her gloved hand.

“Aside from being a back-alley fuck boy, you’re an MMA expert too?” Her skepticism was understandable. I was only known in one circuit, and I wasn’t the kind of guy to walk around asking “Don’t you know who I am? I’m a trainer of champions!”

But I was in no mood to explain myself.

“The back-alley was your idea, sweetheart,” I reminded her. “I wanted to buy you a drink and take you to bed.” I placed her hands in mine and inspected the wrappings and the gloves for a fit. “And I’m the best you can ask for in your corner.”

She turned her head, giving me a side eye. Again, she looked over at her opponent, as if looking forhisreassurance.

"You two need to quit acting so chummy, or the audience is going to talk.” I was in full coaching mode. If I could get a decent showing out of her, then I had earned my reputation. “It's obvious that he's holding back. Care to tell me what's going on there?”

"None of your business," she mumbled.

"Fair enough.”

It better not be because he had carnal knowledge of her. If he did, then I’d be meeting him for a curb stomp in the alley after this fight.

She was right, though. It wasn't any of my business. But the body feels what it feels. The best I could do was acknowledge it, if not act on it. "You want to win this? Well, you have two choices."

She had disturbing gray eyes. They were just a little too wide, a little too large, and her eyebrows were a little too thin. But I couldn’t look away from them. I didn’t want to.

"He keeps dropping his left arm." I cupped her angular face in my hands. Her skin was cold and smooth. Not that dissimilar from a snake. There was something strange and serpentine in her aggressiveness and demeanor. And my God, that was getting me hard again.

I’d need to see a shrink after this encounter.

"Which means that side is vulnerable," I said, quietly, as I traced my thumb over the ridge of her cheeks. Did she lean into me for a second? Were her eyes fluttering? Then she jolted her head out of my hands, recovering that flash of defiance on her pursed lip.

"He's right-handed, so yeah, his left side is his weak side." Her brows came together. "So what?"

---