KELSEY O’ REILLEY. For me to try to count all of the men that I have trained over the years would be comparable to counting all of the grains of sand at Corpus Christi’s beach. Of all of the men, only two stood out as being different. I’ve trained good fighters, exceptional fighters, and great fighters. I have had the best fighter that I believe would or could ever exist dropped into my lap. The two men who rose to the top did so not because of their ability to fight, but because of their ability to be great men.

I’ve never been as proud of any man in my life as I have become of Shane Dekkar and Mike Ripton. Shane is just an all-around gentleman. And although Ripper is an animal in most respects, he’ll stand up for anyone that can’t stand up on their own. Those two boys make me proud to be associated with them – each for very different reasons.

To cause them to continually respect me, listen to me, and apply what I demand of them through my teachings requires that I never let them fully understand what I think of them. To let them know how much I love them would lead to their failure. For me, it can become sad to think of. These boys are my life, and I love them like my own children.

“What in the absolute fuck are you doing in my ring in those fucking shoes, Ripper? What did I tell you about those fucking things,” I screamed as I gripped the bottom rope.

“I thepped in here for a jutht a thecont, bauth,” he responded.

“Spit whatever is in your mouth out, I can barely understand you. Jesus Christ. And I don’t give a rat’s fucking ass how long you stepped in there for, step the fuck out. Good God damn, Ripper. Street shoes in my fucking ring? Really? I wonder about your fucking brain sometimes. All those fucking bar fights you get into are swelling your fucking brain. And what the fuck are your two monkeys doing in there, playing grab-ass?” I shook my head as I watched the Marine flip Austin over his shoulder onto the mat.

Ripper walked over to the opposite side of the ring, ducked under the ropes, and stepped onto the floor. As he walked up to me, he reached in his mouth and pulled out a handful of what appeared to be cotton and threw it in the spit bucket at the corner of the ring.

“What in the absolute fuck are you doing? What the fuck was in your mouth, son?” I howled as he stepped away from the bucket.

“Cotton. I went to the dentist this morning, boss. My gums were bleeding and he told me to keep that cotton in my mouth for thirty minutes. I just got here. Shit old man, settle down,” he responded as he rubbed his teeth with his index finger.

“Dekkar already told me about your fucking fiasco last night. You know he tells me everything, don’t you?” I snapped.

“Well, I didn’t even get hit. Did he tell you that? I one punched that dude,” he said as he swung his fist into an imaginary uppercut.

“You look different, did you shave or something?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“Well, you look different. Maybe it’s because you ain’t wearing those goofy glasses.”

He smiled from ear to ear.

“You big weird fucker. Stop acting like an idiot. Now just what the fuck are Justin Timberlake and the jar head doing here?” I pointing into the ring just as Austin flipped the Marine over his shoulder.

Damn, that was impressive.

“What do you know about Justin Timberlake, old man? And. Well, they’re practicing hand-to-hand combat,” he responded as he rubbed his teeth with his fingertip.

“I know he’s a little dancing fag. I know that. I’ve seen that dick sucking little skinny prick on T.V. flopping all over the place. Fucking pole smoker. And your boy Austin? He’s about one slap away from sucking someone’s cock,” I took a breath and shook my head.

“A dance instructor. In my fucking gym. And in my god fucking damned ring. Good fucking God, Ripper. Keep your cock away from that kid, I’m warning ya,” I wagged my index finger in the air between us.

Immediately, he slapped my hand out of the air.

He’s still got it.

Damn near as fast as I’ve ever seen.

“Don’t be talking shit on that kid, boss. He’s a good kid. He just needs to learn some basics,” he smiled.

“Well, they don’t let us choke people or flip them in a boxing match. You might have forgotten that, because you don’t box anymore,” I hesitated and slowly shook my head.

“You sure you didn’t shave or something?” I asked as I spit in the spit bucket.

“I been kind of busy boss, and I wanted to talk to you about the boxing,” he responded as he spit in the bucket.

“You smart ass. Stop spitting in my bucket. And what do you want to talk about?” I asked as I looked at the spit bucket and shook my head.

“Well,” he turned and began to walk toward the locker room.

“Where you headed, Ripper?” I asked as I followed him across the gym.

I knew where he was headed. To these boys the locker room was their sanctuary. It’s where they thought, talked, and solved their problems of the day. It was a place of refuge and of relaxation. It smelled of sweat, bile, and old leather.

It smelled like the champions that I developed.

“Locker room, boss,” he said over his left shoulder as he turned the corner into the locker room.

I followed him into the locker room and watched as he sat down on the wooden bench in the center of the room. For the last two month’s Ripper had looked tired. He was in shape, but he appeared to be worn out mentally, physically, and emotionally. With good reason I’m sure, but worn to a frazzle none the less. Today, he looked great. Amazing what an emotional relief and a little bit of sleep provide.

“So, what ya got, Ripp?” I asked as I looked around the locker room.

“Well, boss. I was thinking,” he sighed as he looked down at his feet.

“About changin’ them shoes?” I laughed.

“Leave the shoes alone, boss. I’m being serious, can we talk?” he asked.

“Son, you know you can talk to me about anything. You needing money?” I asked.

“No, not money. I uhhm. I been wondering,” he said softly.

“Stop beating around the bush. We’re grown men here, Ripper. Spit it out,” I pushed the web of my hands into my hips and stared at him as he sat on the bench.

“Hear me out, okay?” he asked as he looked up.

As I nodded my head, he looked back down at his feet.

“I want to stop boxing. I want to train fighters full time. I’ll still fight in Rundberg, I ain’t gonna even try and lie about that, boss. But I want a steady and predictable life. It ain’t really about the money; I know I won’t make any money to speak of. But…I been thinkin’ a lot. I want to become a trainer, boss. I want it bad. I want to become…well, I guess, I want to become you,” he looked up from his feet and smiled.

I looked down at him, squinted, and clenched my jaw. I don’t know if he was trying or not, but he was making me proud of him. In the last month or so, Joe and I had discussed needing another full time trainer. The walk-in business that had been generated from Dekkar’s rise to fame was well beyond what we had ever imagined. Discussion of a significant remodel and potentially an addition to the building had begun, but finances were far from sufficient from making those changes in the near future.

As the big fucker looked up at me waiting for an answer, I felt like smiling. He was truly waiting for my response like a child waits for approval from his father for a job well done. He stared down at his feet, placed his elbows onto his thighs, and rested his chin in his hands.

“I don’t think we have room for another full time trainer, kid,” I said as I shook my head and looked over at the freshly painted lockers.

  “We been getting’ a lot of people coming in, Kelsey. A lot. Hell, you probably don’t even know how many. Every day, someone else comes in and is interested about where Shane Dekkar trains,” he said as he stood from the bench.

“Well, having fuckin’ interest in meeting a celebrity doesn’t make a man a potential fighter,” I said sternly as I stared at the lockers.

I looked over my shoulder and waited for his response.

“No, it don’t. But a lot of these guys could be convinced to train here, boss. I’d still train with Dekk. I’d still spar with him. You know, until the fight. But I want to try this,” he rubbed his hands against his khaki shorts and smiled.

“You really think you’re ready to stop fighting? To settle down and train people professionally?” I asked over my shoulder as I rubbed my chin in my right hand.

“Yes sir, I do,” he responded, nodding eagerly.

“There’ll be no hot-head horseshit, you fucking understand me?” I growled as I turned from the lockers to face him.

“Not even once, boss. Not even once,” he smiled.

“And no fighting in Rundberg,” I placed my hands on my hips and waited for his rebuttal.

“Boss, you can’t take that from me. My time is my time. I got to keep fightin’ those young kids. It keeps me…well, it keeps me young. You know I love schoolin’ those fuckers,” he grinned from ear to ear.

I looked up at the ceiling and paused. As I raised my hand to my face, I looked down and into his eyes. Still smiling, he waited for my response.

“I tell you what. I’ll go out on a limb here. I’ll probably have one hell of a time convincing Joe, but you caught me in a good mood. Probably still reeling in the wake of that trial, I suppose. And that girl of yours? Good fucking God, son. Keep her. She’s as mean as a fuckin’ rattle snake. Here’s what I’m thinking. We’ll let you do it. Under one condition,” I paused and waited for him to acknowledge my upcoming demand.

Joe and I had done some research about the Marine friend of Mike’s. In doing so, we’d found two articles written about him in Leatherneck Magazine, both available online. He was a true war hero. Humble son-of-a-bitch had been shot five times. Each time, he was given an opportunity to come home and retire safely. Each time, he refused. Once, he was shot in a rescue mission, and refused medical treatment until every man was out of harm’s way. Even then, he refused true medical treatment, and only allowed a field dressing. A Marine removed the bullet from his leg with a knife and stitched the wound in the field. He was declared disabled after the Marines were done with him, given a hero’s discharge, and received a compensation check every month for the rest of his life.

He didn’t need money, a job, or anyone to guide him. He only needed to feel like his life had purpose.

It would be the least we could do, considering what he’d done for this country.

Ripper looked into my eyes, and nodded his head, ready for my demand.

“That Marine? You get him to work under you. He trains hand-to-hand combat here. Not all god damned day, but maybe a few hours. Maybe like a women’s defense class or something. That’s for you two fuckin’ idiots to figure out. But he charges just like you do. It costs money to keep this place afloat,” I held my finger in the air.

“You get as many as you can fit into your schedule. You two morons are in charge of your schedule. You can use the east ring, not the west one. West one’s mine, and will always be mine. Keep your schedules in Joe’s office, and have them sign the waivers. Everyone signs a waiver, no exception, including Justin fuckin’ Timberlake. Understood?” I hesitated and narrowed my gaze.

He nodded eagerly and smiled.

“Charge ‘em whatever you like, but we like to get $45 an hour. Gym gets $15, you get the rest. Don’t disappoint me, Mike,” I extended my hand, clenched my fist, and smiled.

“You won’t regret it boss,” he grinned as he clenched his fist and pounded his knuckles into mine.

“You sure you didn’t shave or something?” I asked.

“No boss,” he grinned.

“Whatever. Now I got shit to do, I can’t stand around and dick-off all day like you three dip-shits. Tell the Marine what’s going on. And keep your cock away from Timberlake’s mouth, Ripper. I’m tellin’ ya, he’s just one slap away from being a fag,” I smiled as I turned toward the door.

“Boss?” he said firmly.

“Yeah, kid?” I turned to face him as I reached the door.

“Alec and Austin. That’s their names, boss. Alec and Austin,” he nodded his head sharply as he spoke.

“Jarhead and Justin,” I laughed as I walked out of the locker room and into the gym.

As I walked toward the offices, I looked up and saw Alec and Austin sparring in the west ring. Austin was making good progress. The hand-to-hand combat was teaching him how to react. Alec threw a pretty well telegraphed right, which Austin successfully blocked. After Alec landed a few light body punches, Austin countered and threw an uppercut. He possessed good form and great feet; he just needed practice and training.

“Tuck your fuckin’ chin, Austin. If you don’t, Alec will break your God damned jaw,” I snarled as I walked past the ring.

I knew as I walked away that Austin would get everything he needed here. Mike Ripton was probably the wildest human being to ever grace the great state of Texas, and he never ceased to surprise me with his shenanigans. But there’s one thing he’s never done and never would do.

Disappoint me.