His movement was fluid, a stark contrast to the violence of the sport. He imagined The Tank in front of him. He visualized the openings. He visualized the impact.
They exited the locker room and entered the hallway. The noise hit him like a physical wave. The roar of the crowd, the music thumping through the arena speakers, the flashing lights. It was sensory overload, but Ben remained still, a rock in the rushing river of chaos. ben battle ready
The air in the locker room smelled like old leather, deep heat rub, and nervous sweat. Ben sat on the wooden bench, his elbows resting on his knees, staring at the concrete floor. Around him, the sounds of preparation were a chaotic symphony: the sharp rip of tape being torn, the heavy thud of gloves hitting heavy bags in the adjacent gym, the low murmur of coaches shouting instructions. His movement was fluid, a stark contrast to
Not tonight, he told the silence.
Someone tapped his shoulder. The woman he’d seen frozen. “How did you know that would work?” He visualized the impact