He had never considered Philadelphia a beautiful city. Yes, the people in it were strong and proud, but he had too many ghosts back here, too many things he regretted. His first fight had been in Philly – a back-alley scuffle, ringed by chanting boys, leering at him and placing their bets from the safety of the crowd. The anger he had helped him fight – so he clung to it, almost relishing every blow his father delivered on him, every scar his father had inflicted. He channeled every confused, tangled thought and vicious emotion into his fists, his legs, punished his opponents as his father had punished him. They couldn't ask why, either – they didn't understand why he was trashing them, just like he didn't understand why his father beat him senseless. The anger felt good – familiar. Constant. Steadying. And when there was a lack of able bodies to fight, a punching bag helped. Or a wall. Although, neither were as satisfying, mostly because neither of them hit back. He scraped his hands over his short hair and clenched his jaw, hissing out a breath between his teeth, trying to dismiss his anger as easily. It was morning, and there was a fine mist whispering against the stiff concrete, a silent message passed on throughout the grimy streets, a note from nature. There were few people out this early in the morning – the sun was not yet up, and most likely would not be seen for the rest of the day – so he had the streets of Philly to himself. Well, himself and the constantly yammering girl at his elbow, trailing half a step behind.
Didn't she ever just shut up? It was as though a toddler were trailing behind him, yakking on about something or other, because it seemed as though she barely stopped for breath. Tommy would have increased the pace, save that the run was five miles long and he didn't want to wreck himself for the rest of the day. Kelly, on the other hand, seemed perfectly willing to bound ahead – although, it was either respect or the desire to talk his ear off some more which kept her tethered to him. The sneakers she ran in squeaked – for some reason, his mind attached to that noise, tuning out her pattering drone. Angling around a tipped-over trash can, he noticed out of the corner of his eye that Kelly was favoring her left side; it was more of a casual observance than actual concern, seeing as he was her trainer. Part of him just wanted to tell her to go to hell and never come back – after all, he had deleted all records of Thomas Conlon, didn't he? But still, the fear of being caught knifed at him, and the idea that someone knew his real name was beginning to strain him.
They stopped when they got to the gym, and Tommy paused a moment to catch his breath. The loop around his neighborhood, ending at SuperFitness, was a trek he made every day – the five-mile jog was simple, not too much traffic. It would have been relaxing except Kelly didn't quit talking the whole time. Withdrawing a set of keys, he unlocked the gym and stepped inside, the smell of rubber and old sweat hitting his nose aggressively. Kelly followed him quickly, glancing around almost guiltily and then allowing the door to bang shut behind her. "Wow," She spoke up from behind him. "Nevah been in a gym that hasn't been open before."
How do you answer that? Tommy decided the best mode was silence, and ignored what she said, instead going over to the benches and pulling his sweatshirt over his head. Tossing it aside, he flexed his shoulders several times, trying to soothe away his grating headache due to Kelly's near-constant chattering. Now, however, she was strangely silent, and he glanced over at her with a mildly disinterested expression. Her brown eyes were bright, eager, and alert, but she had a nervous aura about her which he could feel under his skin. She kept glancing anxiously at the doorway, and he began to think she was touched in the head. Shrugging, he held up the roll of tape. "Lesson one," He rumbled, voice quiet and low. "Learn how to tape your hands better."
She watched him carefully, winding the thick tape around his hands, keeping his fingers together and setting his wrist. He didn't say anything – merely wrapped his hands and tossed her the roll. She fumbled for a moment, and then began trying to imitate him. For a split second, he saw himself, trying to copy Brendon's actions, following right in his footsteps. A barely visible tremor shook him as he shook off the memory, dispelling it like mist in sunlight. When her hands were clumsily taped in a thick coating of white boxing tape, Kelly held up her hands and offered him that funny little smile. "Good?" She asked.
His approval was a jerk of his head. "Let's see what you got," He muttered, gesturing towards the punching bag. "And for God's sake, don't give me that crap you were doin' the other day. Take it easy, relax, be steady. It ain't an enemy."
Kelly narrowed her eyes, glowering at the punching bag, and cocked her fists. With a little grunt, she propelled herself at the bag, slugging it hard on the vinyl, and began slamming herself into it. Tommy rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Stop, stop, stop," He snapped. "This is training. You ain't in a fight. Steady, look – watch." He steadied himself, rocking back on his heels, and then struck out, hard and fast. "One-two, one-two, one-two," He hissed under his breath, settling into a rhythm. He had to stop himself after a moment – the training was too good, felt too nice, and he was supposed to be showing her how to work out, not help himself. She was evaluating him, watching him carefully, and when he stopped, panting a little, she copied him.
No, she didn't just copy him. She mirrored him.
It was eerie – even the little back-and-forth movement between her ankles, settling into his groove as easily as he had shown her. The look on Kelly's face was set, and he caught a glimpse of teeth as she continued pounding the vinyl bag. She didn't have enough stamina to continue after a few minutes, but when she stopped, gasping for breath, he just stood there. Because, for a flare of an instant, he had seen her in the cage – surrounded by people, bloodied, bruised, but grinning that wild, restless grin – and it clicked. Familiar. He said nothing – as always – and instead frowned subtly, the corners of his mouth tugging downwards. All he said was a clipped "You're out of shape" before crossing the room to the crunch mats and getting on his back. She followed him – she always followed him, like some lost puppy – and dropped to her side, rolled over, and smiled a little. "How was that?"
He was already doing crunches, not even winded yet, and spit an answer out between his teeth: "Practiced."
She waited, on tenterhooks, for a split second, and then started doing sit-ups. Kelly was used to sit-ups – training as a teenager had given her ample opportunity to tear her abdominals, but she was ridiculously out of shape and barely made a repetition of thirty before dropping on her back and allowing her muscles to go slack. She was already bathed in sweat, and Kelly couldn't believe she was this sore already – three years out of the game couldn't do this to her, could it? For once, she waited until the proper time to ask him a question. "Whatcha mean, practiced?" She inquired, turning her head to look at him. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to remember where he had seen her, and then it hit him, all at once -
- The octagon, his grip on a slippery, wiry body, attempting to pin the other man to the floor as they wrestle. The crowds, screaming, on their feet, pounding the floors and the benches, their roars creating a lush backdrop which throbbed with energy. A glib announcer whooping and sputtering out statistics as fast as he possibly can, and the raw, sheer brutality from the match is ebbing into the crowds. And on the skirts of it all, a craggy-faced coach, chewing on a toothpick, totally unimpressed, watching the match. Next to him, a small girl, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, pummeling the air, bares her teeth in a wild grin, brown hair flying behind her as she launched several kicks in midair. Scant details, seized on the edges of his consciousness, as he blacked out, -
"Your father was a trainer." It was a rumbled statement, a lion's warning growl. "Joe Martin. Best 'a the business. Don't play dumb."
She sat up, tousled her hands through her hair. "So? What if he was? You gotta problem?"
"You ain't been straight wit' me," Tommy thundered lowly. "Why do you wanna be a fighter? Straight, now. I ain't gonna put up wit' no more lies."
Kelly got to her feet slowly, her abdominals sore from her meager repetition, back aching from her argument with the punching bag. He sprang to his feet in a sleek, powerful movement, and she thrust down her fear when she saw how much he towered over her. Still, she was cocky and her chin jutted forward argumentatively when his blue-gray eyes, sharp with determination, met her own dull brown ones, narrowed with defensiveness. "So's I wasn't square wit' you straight off. My Da was a coach, big whoop. He ain't been no angel in my life, y'know? But he didn't want me to be a fighter, so's I figured th' best way to screw the ol' man is to become one, y'know?" She thrust her hands into the pockets of her baggy black pants, balling her fists, setting her teeth. "An' I watched the matches as a kid, so's I figure I c'n do it."
"You were a track runner, right?" He growled, and the unspoken question hung in the air. She looked away from him finally, dropped her gaze to the floor.
"Yeah. Too many people know my name back there, though." She said quietly, one hand scratching at her jawline. "Messed up bad, back in the runnin' world, and I can't go back. Not now, not evah. But 'n MMA, I'm Joe Martin's daughter. Not Kelly. I c'n manage that reputation, y'know?"
Well, doesn't this sound familiar, Tommy thought bitterly to himself. Almost the exact same reasoning had driven him back to the fighting world; although he highly suspected that she had another reason as well. He had, at least – supporting Manny's family was a higher calling than his reputation, at least it had been. Roughing his hands through his short hair, he sighed. "You get in the cage, you'll die." He told her tightly.
Her incorrigible personality flared again, and she flashed the stupid crooked grin. "Nope," She smiled, and went over to her sweatshirt. He watched apprehensively as she withdrew a crumpled, faded flyer shouting out something in yellow writing. Taking it from he, he scanned it quickly, setting his teeth as he read further. Monthly Fights! The flyer promised. Down and Dirty Chick Fighting Action! Come to Honest Abe's Bar at 10:00 PM to Witness Hot, Sexy Matches Between Bombshells!
"This ain't MMA," He pointed out. "Jus' a buncha dirty old men watchin' girls."
"It's a start," Kelly protested. "C'n I be ready for a fight in a month?"
He scanned her, looking at the lean arms and skinny frame, awkward curls hanging around an overeager face, hollowed cheekbones and thin ankles. "No," He stated bluntly. "Three months."
Her shoulders sagged slightly.
"An' that's only if you do everythin' I say. You gotta eat more – eggs, toast, cereal, all that for breakfast. Five mile jog, ev'ry day, then come to SuperFitness and I'll have you doin' exercises. But you gotta eat more; if you're smokin', drinkin', whatever, stop. If you're serious 'bout this, then you gotta do all that 'n more." Tommy informed her. Her funny brown eyes sparked, and before he knew what was happening she had given him a quick hug. Blinking, bewildered, he not-so-politely turned away and held her at arms length.
"Thanks, Tommy!" She chirped brightly, giving him that restless grin.
"An' no huggin'," He muttered as she dropped back to the mat, returning to her sit-ups freshly enthused.
A/N: You have no idea how happy reviews make me! If you really, really want me to update quicker – you have been awesome so far – please review! I love reading them, I just treasure them so close to my heart. And you all cheer me up so much!