Gregory was terrified of losing a star athlete, terrified of this gym going under. Abby understood loyalty. He understood debt. "I'm quiet, Greg," Abby said, his voice even. "I'm just drinking my coffee." "Yeah, you're drinking your coffee and talking trash from the cheap seats." Thorne pushed past Gregory's arm, stepping right to the edge of the blue mat, stopping just inches from where the canvas met the concrete floor.
He pointed a taped finger at Abby. You think you know discipline? Come on to the mat. Show me your discipline. Don't be an idiot, Gregory snapped, his voice finally finding a sliver of authority.
He's over 60 years old, Thorne. He's got metal pins in his spine. Thorne sneered, looking Abby up and down. then he shouldn't be giving lectures on combat. That's the problem with this country. Too many old men who think they're tough just because they survive to get wrinkles, sitting on the sidelines, judging the guys actually doing the work.
Abby didn't rise to the bait. He stayed seated. He felt the familiar dull throb in his left knee. He thought about the garden he needed to weed back at his small house. He thought about the quiet afternoon he had planned.
He had spent his entire youth swimming in testosterone and aggression. He had no desire to drown in it today. "You're right," Abby said softly. Thorne blinked, thrown off by the immediate concession. "What?
You're right." Abby repeated, crushing the empty styrofoam cup in his large calloused hand and tossing it into a nearby trash can. "I'm old, my knees are shot, and my back hurts when it rains. I have no business on that, Matt. You've got the hardware to prove you're a fighter. Be satisfied with it.
Abby stood up. He was not a tall man, maybe 5' 10 on a good day, but he was thick. He moved with a deliberate mechanical stiffness, the kind of stiffness that comes from decades of carrying heavy packs over unforgiving terrain. He reached for his faded canvas jacket resting on the bench. Going somewhere?" Thorne taunted, his confidence instantly inflating.
He turned to his friends by the cage. "Look at this. The second someone calls him out, the boomer packs it up. Classic." "Thorne, shut your damn mouth!" Gregory shouted, genuinely angry now. "Arty, wait.
Don't let this punk run you off. I'll make him run laps." Abby slipped his arms into the jacket. He looked at Gregory, offering a faint melancholic smile. "It's fine, Greg. The kid is high on his own supply.
He's confusing the mat with the real world. Let him have his playground. Abby turned toward the exit. What do you know about the real world? Thorne's voice lashed out, sharp and venomous.
Abby stopped. His hand hovered an inch from the aluminum push bar of the gym door. "I see that ink on your arm," Thorne said, pacing at the edge of the mat. "Marine, right? What?
You peel potatoes in the 80s? You guard a desk? You think because you wore camo you automatically get respect? Respect is earned in the cage. It's earned in blood.
You're just a fossil living on a pension. Abby stood perfectly still. His back to the room. The air in the gym seemed to freeze. Gregory's face went pale.
He knew Abby. He knew exactly what Abby had done in Anbar Province. He knew about the ambush. He knew about the three men Abby had pulled from a burning Humvey while taking small arms fire. Gregory took a step back, suddenly feeling a profound sense of dread, not for his old friend, but for his young, foolish prospect.
"Thorne," Gregory whispered, the anger gone, replaced by a hollow warning. "Stop!" But Thorne couldn't read the room. He only saw an old man retreating. "Yeah, walk out. That's what guys like you do when the odds aren't in your favor.
You're too old to fight. Thorne laughed, a harsh echoing sound. You were probably too weak to fight when you were my age, too. Abby slowly lowered his hand from the door. He didn't turn around in a blur of anger.
He didn't shout. He turned slowly, the heavy rubber soles of his boots scuffing quietly against the concrete. His face was entirely devoid of emotion. The mild disappointment from earlier was gone. The weary patience was gone.
What remained was a terrifying absolute emptiness. It was the face of a man shutting down his humanity to perform a necessary mechanical function. He walked back toward the mat, step by step, deliberate heavy. The three guys by the cage stopped laughing. One of them actually took a step back, sensing the sudden drastic shift in barometric pressure.
Abby reached the edge of the blue mat. He looked down at the canvas, then reached down and unlaced his work boots. He pulled them off, placing them neatly side by side on the concrete. He peeled off his thick woolen socks, tucking them inside the boots. He took off his canvas jacket, folding at once, placing it precisely on top of his footwear.
Barefoot, wearing only his denim jeans and the gray thermal, Abby stepped onto the mat. Arty. Gregory breathed, stepping forward. You don't have to do this. your spine. Clear the mat, Greg," Abby said.
The gravel in his voice was gone, replaced by a flat, metallic tone. Gregory looked into Aby's eyes. He saw the thousandy stare. It wasn't PTSD. It was absolute lethal focus.
Gregory swallowed hard, nodded, and backed away, stepping completely off the canvas. Thorne grinned, slapping his hands against his thighs. He bounced on the balls of his feet. Shadow boxing. A quick flashy combination in the air.
All right. Okay. Grandpa wants to play. We doing MMA rules grappling only. What's your preference, old man?
No rules? Abby said quietly. Thorne stopped bouncing. He let out a sharp chuckle. No rules?
Are you crazy? I'll break your jaw in 10 seconds. I'm sanctioned. If I hurt you. If you hurt me, it's my fault.