Page 97 of My Family

I swallow.

Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

"I'm damn proud of you, son. Proud that you were brave enough to come," he says, and smiles. "Even though this is your first time. Even though you lost. Especially because you lost and you're still sitting here, watching the next fights instead of hiding in the van."

"Thank you, sir," I say, and I'm not even crying, even if my stomach twists.

Fucking hell, I'm actually proud of myself.

He nods.

Then his posture resets, and he's Griff again.

"We'll train more Brazilian jiu-jitsu. I think it'll make all the difference for you. Unless you want to quit."

"No, sir," I say.

Even if I wanted to, I'm pretty sure Ethan wouldn't let me. Besides, it's one hour a day I can be physical with him in front of everybody.

"But I don't know if I deserve it. I'm sorry I lost my match for Aspire. I'm not sure I'm good enough to be here."

"Don't be stupid, Marsal. If you're here, it's because I believe you're good enough. Competitions are hard, but you learn a lot from them. That's why I wanted you to come." He looks toward the mat. "Now pay attention. Ethan's up."

Fuck!

I feel almost embarrassed by what he said, but thankfully, I don't have time to think too much about it.

The announcer's voice cuts through: Ethan's name, his opponent's, the weight class and height.

I look up and watch Ethan walk onto the mat.

He looks so fucking hot, and not afraid at all. His shoulders are square, his spine straight, his hands loose, like he's not worried, even though the opponent is as tall as he is and even bigger.

I feel so fucking proud of him.

He's extraordinary.

Ethan touches gloves with his opponent, and the ref steps back, and the signal comes, and Ethan settles into his counter-fighting stance, guard up, footwork perfect.

His weight sits perfectly centered, something I used to think was a metaphor when coaches talked about it and now understand is literal and physical.

He could be a damn professional.

The Westlake fighter moves first, a long jab.

Ethan parries it.

Not blocks, parries.

His right hand redirects the jab. The fighter throws a follow-up cross, and Ethan isn't where the cross is going. He's already half a step to the left, the punch passing his cheek close enough to disturb the air but not close enough to matter.

The Westlake kid tries a combination, jab, jab, hook, and Ethan slips the first jab, blocks the second on his guard, and rolls under the hook. He comes up from the roll and fires a straight right that catches the kid on the chin through the gap his hook created.

The kid stumbles.

The Aspire section erupts with noise.

"Let's go!" Jack yells. "Let's fucking go!"