Claims on a Soul Volumes 1 & 2

Chapter 14: Friday

Dean

When I finally get up the energy to leave the dojang, I walk next door and am confronted with a familiar sight. A fight. A strong man overpowering another who clearly isn't on his game today. The guy is catching some serious fade. People in the gym stop and look, starting to snicker at the poor guy.

Damn. Sucks to be that dude.

Wait a minute...

Oh shit, that's Lionel!

One brutal blow from his opponent is all it takes, and I watch as Lionel crumble to his hands and knees. I wince in pain for him, rushing to the ropes.

He moans out a forfeit before spitting out his mouthguard.

Mays, the short-tempered, tough, sixty-seven-year-old African-American veteran trainer who owns the gym, curses under his breath, grabs a towel and makes his way inside the ring. "Mayberry! Damn it, boy! I've about had it with your ass! Tomorrow, you damn well be better than this, or I swear I'll have you run as many sprints as years you've just stolen from my life. You hear me?!" Mays throws the towel down at him before angrily exiting through the ropes. When he leaves the gym area with Lionel's opponent, I climb into the ring and squat next to him.

"Bad practice?" I ask, not sure yet if he's ready for some verbal sparring after the beating he just took.

Breathing hard, with an enraged look on his beet-red face, he looks at me but doesn't answer.

I take a seat next to him, exhaling. "Yeah. You and I both," I tell him.

I lay next to him in the ring, staring up at the ceiling with him.

An uncomfortable amount of time passes before I realize Lionel hasn't spoken a word.

This isn't like him.

I look over at him. "You good, bro?"

He doesn't answer.

"Lionel?"

"Why are you here?"

"What?"

He sits up. "I said, why are you here?"

"What's that supposed to mean? Why wouldn't I be here?"

"So, you're really going to lay there and play dumb, huh?" He stands. I stand as well, feeling the tension rise between us.

"What's your problem?"

"My problem is that I should knock you the hell out," he tells me, a complete lack of jest in his tone. I see it on his face. He's serious and obviously pissed about something other than his beating.

"Well, it's a good thing you're off your game today. Now isn't it?"

He walks over to the sideline, grabs an extra pair of gloves that hangs on the ropes, then walks back over, tossing them at me. "Put em' on."

I stare at him, a slight smile playing on my mouth. "You're serious right now?"

"Put them on," he orders me.

I keep his eye contact and decide to play along.

I put my gloves on and we dab each other's fists the way opponents do before pacing the ring. "You going to tell me what this is about now?" I ask.

"You going to tell me why you lied to my face today?" he says.

Oh, Christ. So, that's what this is about.

"Come on, Lionel. Like you don't know what happened. You really needed me to say it."

"You're right. I found out. But I'm just wondering why my own best friend didn't say anything first. I asked you after lunch. Twice. You told me it was nothing important and you handled it. You call Mar being attacked nothing?" he asks, raising his gloved hands to his chin and picking up his pace as we circle the ring.