“I’m Tom,” the coach said. “I own Apex.” “I delivered the food,” Seth replied, his tone flat. “The transaction is complete.” Tom let out a short breathy sigh. He looked at the rusted fender of the Honda, then back at Seth’s tired face. “Cameron’s at the ER. X-rays are negative, but he’s got a hairline fracture in his sternum and severe bruising on his radial nerve. Kid can’t close his left hand.” “He shoved me.” “I know. I saw the video. The whole damn internet saw the video.”
Tom dug his hands into his coat pockets. “Cameron’s an idiot. He’s young. He’s talented and people have been telling him he’s a killer since he was sixteen. He needed a reality check. I’m just sorry you had to be the one to give it to him.” Seth took another sip of coffee. He didn’t want an apology. He wanted to go home. “Are we doing this so you can gauge if I’m going to sue you?” “No,” Tom said, stepping slightly closer under the harsh white light of the canopy. “I’m here because I recognize the strike.”
Seth froze. He didn’t move a muscle, but his eyes locked onto Tom’s. “My older brother was Fifth Group,” Tom said quietly. “Did two tours in the Korengal. He came back different. Moving different. Looking at people different. You got the same eyes, man. You stand like him. You strike like him. That wasn’t a street fight punch. That was a localized kinetic strike designed to disable the central nervous system without breaking your own hand on a tactical vest.”
The silence between them stretched thick and uncomfortable. A semi-truck roared past on the adjacent avenue, spraying dirty water onto the sidewalk. “Whatever you think you know,” Seth said, his voice barely above a whisper, “you don’t.” “I know a guy who’s drowning when I see one,” Tom countered softly. He pulled a small thick business card from his pocket and held it out. “I don’t care what you did over there and I don’t care why you’re delivering cold chicken in the rain, but my brother didn’t make it. He ate his gun five years ago because he didn’t have anywhere to put the noise in his head.”
Seth stared at the card. He didn’t reach for it. “I run a morning class,” Tom continued. “Six a.m. It’s just older guys. Cops, couple of firefighters, a few vets. No egos, no cameras, just heavy sweating and trying to keep the ghosts quiet. You ever need a place to put your hands on someone who actually knows how to take it, the door is unlocked.” Tom placed the card on the hood of the Honda, right next to the bag of frozen peas. He didn’t wait for a thank you. He turned and walked back to his SUV.
Seth watched the taillights fade into the city fog. The neon gas station sign buzzed overhead. He looked down at the small white card resting on the rusted wet metal. He picked it up. The cardstock was thick, solid. He didn’t throw it away. He slid it into his pocket, grabbed his frozen peas, and got back into his car. He turned the key, the engine rattling to life, and drove out into the dark, finally ready to go home.