TKO (A Bad Boy MMA Romance) Read Online Free Page B

measly injury wasn’t going to keep me down.
     
                  Then why did you wince when you got out of bed?
     
                  I looked at myself in the little mirror I hung in the shower, steam half-obscuring my reflection while the hot water warmed my muscles to the bone.
     
                  Weakness in general was disgusting to me, but worse yet was my own weakness. The idea that I couldn’t rely on the body I’d put so much work into, holding me back… I would never admit it to anyone, but it was a bigger fear than any opponent could hope to strike into me. For the first time, I didn’t like what I saw looking back at me in my reflection.
     
                  Injury. Frailty. Brokenness.
     
                  But I wasn’t going to let that kind of broody shit get in the way of my training regimen. After a quick wash, I dried myself off and got dressed.
     
                  Designer clothes were one of the biggest novelties for me. Hell, everything about spending big in a city like Vegas was a novelty for me, but I was a guy who was used to hand-me-down clothes and special trips to the thrift store every now and then. Who knew a good pair of new jeans came that expensive?
     
                  For my part, though, most of my getup during the day comprised of my workout clothes. Today, I was sporting the usual gray tank top, black shorts, and black trainers. After a quick breakfast of a protein shake, a peanut butter and banana sandwich and some Greek yogurt, I started packing a change of clothes into my gym bag, but as I did, a jolt of pain in my shoulder told me I had to be more careful.
     
    Fuck.
     
    This wasn’t good. I wasn’t used to being injured. Hopefully it was just going to be a simple thing, that the physio would just knock something into place and everything would magically feel better.
     
    How the fuck does physiotherapy even work? I thought to myself as I headed out the door and down the stairs. My mind jumped to scenes of me lifting one-pound weights with my bad arm, and it took some serious willpower not to turn right around and just go back to bed.
     
    In reality I knew it was more than that. This wasn’t going to be my first time in physiotherapy. But it was going to be my first time with a real injury, with something worse than just a slightly strained hamstring or tight calves.
     
                  I headed out the doors and started to take my usual walk to the gym. I usually jogged to get the blood pumping right from the moment I walked out the door, but today, even if I didn’t want to admit it, even walking caused a sharp jolt of pain to run down my leg from my hip with each step.
     
                  I wasn’t one to tolerate this kind of weakness, though, so I wasn’t going to let it keep me down. I was going to hit the gym hard, plough through whatever bullshit the physiotherapist wanted me to undergo, and I damn sure wasn’t about to let myself take the bus.
     
                  The pain only spurred me on harder.
     
                  After about fifteen minutes of walking, The Fighting Chance came into view, and I smiled for the first time since last night.
     
                  It was a modern-looking place, with a white and curvy design on the exterior and glass windows in place of a wall in the front, showing off the interior and all the equipment therein. Of course, there were more private areas in the back, but in general, all of us at the Fighting Chance liked the place being open and accessible. A lot of professionals wanted to keep their cards close when it came to training, but for my part at least, that was cowardice.
     
                  I wanted the people I’d be fighting to see how I trained, and despite that, I’d still beat them in the ring. It was just like when I was a kid, fighting with the other boys behind gas