King ended up flattened out, sprawled on his stomach, with Slater now straddling his lower back.
And Slater was fresh.
King was heavy with lactic acid, still a force to be reckoned with, but vulnerable in the unforgiving realm of the black belt. Each subliminal mistake was amplified tenfold, and now Slater reached down and smacked a palm into King’s ear, reflexively sending his face to the other side for protection, whereupon it met Slater’s other arm.
Slater looped the crook of his elbow into King’s exposed throat and locked the choke tight.
He didn’t squeeze.
He didn’t need to.
King tapped out of courtesy before it became a war of machismo. Grit and toughness are paramount in the field, but utilising the traits every day in training led to the accumulation of wear-and-tear.
Slater slid off King, pushing his face into the sweaty mat to accentuate the defeat.
King wiped strands of hair off his forehead as he got up. ‘Lucky.’
‘Uh-huh.’
Slater stopped short of rolling his eyes.
They reset three feet from each other, legs slightly bent, hunched over in the precursor to a wrestling bout, and King’s abdomen distended with a giant breath. He was sucking air in great gulps, hoping to feed his dead muscles with as much oxygen as possible.
Slater sensed blood in the water.
He shot in for a lazy double-leg, convinced he had King on his last legs.
King defended it with ease, and his laboured breathing vanished. An efficient bluff, because now Slater was out of position, scrambling to get back to steady footing before—
King got his hands locked behind Slater’s back, giant shoulders around his waist, and picked Slater up like he weighed nothing.
Dumped him down, came down on top of him, and this time when Slater went to roll he was a little more flustered.
He left his arm out like it was on a silver platter.
He realised, but by then King had pounced on it, seizing Slater’s wrist in a double-handed grip and feeding it between his legs. He locked in the armbar by extending the limb straight, then inched it past its physical limits, finally levering it into a position where the slightest pressure in the wrong direction would snap the whole thing like a flimsy twig.
Slater tapped.
They rolled away from each other, panting, sitting on their knees with their fists on the mat. Muscle sinew rippled, abdominal walls heaved, and the thin coating of sweat covering their bodies condensed at the ends of their elbows and jaws and dripped to the mats.
Slater said, ‘Leave it at one apiece?’
King said, ‘You should be a comedian.’
On his knees, Slater scooted over to his smartphone on the edge of the mats, connected wirelessly to the strap around his chest that measured his heart rate. He scrolled through metrics, taking note, then nodded in satisfaction. ‘We’re good. Twenty more minutes and we’ll be overtraining.’
‘I only need one minute.’
‘Sure you do.’
King charged.
Slater fed him his leg deliberately, then reversed it and threw him down to the mats.
They grappled like their lives hung in the balance.
It was a perfect simulation of the real thing.
2
Violetta reflexively reached for the coffee grinder.
She stopped short of gripping its rubber-coated handle.
She was still in the first trimester — it was only the seventh or eighth week of her pregnancy — but she figured there was no point putting off the sacrifices that would be necessary down the line. Now was as good a time as any to quit caffeine, and she’d braced for the headaches that would follow. With most of her work in her role as handler and co-ordinator involving deep focus at her laptop or desktop computer, coffee had become a staple of her routine. She used it as her anchor — when she made an espresso, it was time to get down to business. Rigorous analysis of intelligence documents followed, and now she’d have to substitute the black brew for water or decaffeinated tea. The very thought made her shiver.
In truth, she didn’t have to quit cold turkey, but King and Slater were rubbing off on her.
It was either all or nothing, so she chose nothing.
The two men came through the sliding doors into the kitchen.
Sweat coated their bare chests, and their workout shorts were soaked. King went straight to the Italian coffee machine and switched it on, bringing the water to a boil as he ground beans into the metal portafilter, then pressed them down with the tamper.
Slater went to the fridge and pulled out a clear gallon jug filled with water tinged blue by electrolytes. He downed half of it, his Adam’s apple convulsing with each swallow, and returned it to the shelf. Then he watched King use the machine to drip scalding hot water through the portafilter, culminating in an espresso you could put on a magazine cover.
He jerked his chin toward Violetta and said, ‘Real considerate of you, King.’
Violetta rolled her eyes. ‘I’m not going to go insane if someone drinks coffee in front of me.’
Slater shook his head. ‘I’m not convinced. He’s a terrible boyfriend. I think you should dump him and raise the kid on your own.’
King smirked as he sipped the crema off the top of the espresso. He turned to Violetta. ‘Don’t mind him. He’s mad that I got the better of him.’
Slater fetched a bowl down from one of the cabinets and went back to the fridge for one of his prepped meals of grass-fed beef and collard greens. ‘That’s objectively false.’
Violetta said, ‘Does it look like I care?’
‘You should,’ King said. ‘If I beat Slater any worse there’d be talk of kicking him off the team. I mean, honestly … pathetic performances recently.’
Slater said,
