Chapter 3: Training Montage

“Why the anchor?”

A question posed as John Henry’s meaty fist slammed right into Spike’s left pectoral, sending him spiralling into the corner of the ring.

Spike’s sun-deprived body absorbed the shock, taking in the concussive force and weaving it into raw energy. Even so, the fledgling spellbreaker was rattled. John Henry Iron was an absolute giant of a man, and he was practically carved out of steel.

Spike tried to shake off the blow, to let the power well up inside him. “Well, you know, Navy? You’re supposed to get one the first time you cross the equator.”

“That so?” John laughed as he bent over and slammed his shoulder into Spike’s midsection.

“I like to commit to an aesthetic,” Spike groaned, the air knocked out of him. Even with his power, John Henry was a beast. Varla had selected the perfect coach—he was friendly, understanding, an industry veteran, but would take zero backtalk. He had the personality of a lamb, combined with the fury of a lion. “And I guess, you know, symbolism. An anchor is grounding, and all that.” Spike leaned over the side of the ropes and let free a rope of spittle that the force of John Henry’s strike had brought out of him. Oh God, I'm a mess...

The two couldn’t have been a more mismatched pair. Spike, wiry, compact, only a shade darker than snow, with the feathery hair of a Renaissance angel, wearing nothing but black training trunks, kickpads, and boots. Then there was John Henry, bald and broad, with a richly dark complexion and teeth as white as pearls. He wore the workman’s overalls of his folkloric namesake (Spike wasn’t sure if John Henry was his real name, but knew better than to ask him), with suspenders that barley held back his boulder-shaped muscles.

Spike was in love. But for once, he knew not to blow the opportunity by making eyes at his trainer. Besides, John Henry was a consummate gentleman—why should a little devil ruin the life of a saint?

Or more like warrior angel, because John Henry’s lessons were no joke. Beyond the regimented weight lifting and aerobics (starting at 5:30 AM each day, no less), the seasoned spellbreaker’s combat training was brutal. Apparently, bar-brawls and fist-fights were good for putting a fighter in the right mind, but Spike's techniques were sloppy. Reckless. Unprincipled.

“You do many shows?” Spike asked his coach—and new friend—as he went in for a stiff kick to John Henry’s midsection. With diluted soma in them, and the agreement not to hold back, Spike had no qualms about knocking his new teacher flat on his back.

John Henry yawned and caught Spike’s toned quad between his giant hands, spinning the poor boy around to the ground like a yo-yo on its side. “Me? Nah. There’s not much money in spellbreaking anymore. You gotta be in it for the passion! Me, I used to work railways. Steel meels. Anything with metal, really, for reason that will become abundantly clear to you in a moment. Nowadays I manage some restaurants in Brooklyn with my wife. Couldn’t have done that while spellbreaking. No regrets here.”

“That’s amazing.” Spike said, rubbing his head. Damn, I spent all my energy reserves on that kick. “Uh...how old are you, anyway?”

“A lady never asks!” John Henry said with his signature belly-laugh, a musical baritone that Spike found utterly charming. “And a gentleman never tells. Now get ready, baby-face, I'm coming in hot!”

John Henry’s massive right hand, the same sturdiness and color of onyx, turned silvery dark like steel—the man’s cells shifting their molecular structures at the behest of his magick. Spike barely had any time to react, not utter a brief, useless, ‘Wait,’ before John Henry’s metal fist collided with his face.

The next thing Spike knew, he had a giant splayed across his chest as John Henry pounded the mat three times with his fist.

“Well…” Spike groaned. “Hot damn.”

“Maybe you should focus less on the chatter and more on the fighting,” John Henry said, grinning, as he graciously helped his younger ward to his feet.

Spike nursed his jaw, but the soma had already started dulling the pain. “You were the one who asked me the question about my tattoo, J.H.!”

“Yeah, and you didn’t need to answer it!” Still smiling, the giant man shook his head. Even in the dingy, barely ventilated, and dimly lit garage where the ring was held, the man resembled a titan. “Let’s work on some more drills. Your magic is unique, Spike. Energy transfer is rare, even among magi. But it’s tricky. Get hit with the right spell, you’re going down.” The man shook out his hand, which shifted back to its natural state.

Spike felt defeated already. What was the point of all this? Three weeks in and he felt like he still hadn’t learned a thing. Plus, he was starting to space out meals, thanks to dwindling finances, so that didn’t exactly help matters either. Hungry. Irritable. Inadequate.

“All magic has strengths and weaknesses,” John Henry said, chucking Spike a canteen full of water. Spike was already slicked and glistening, but this man had barely broken a sweat. “I can only keep my body metallic for a couple of seconds, and then I’m wide open. That’s when you want to strike. But because I know my own weaknesses, I know that’s when I need to dodge your next move. Savvy?”

Spike nodded his head. It all made perfect sense. It was just the execution that was difficult. Spike’s instincts were to let an opponent wail on him, and then go fast and go hard. John Henry anticipated that from the go. While that might work on some opponents, it was a strategy easily exploited.

John Henry reclined against the ropes; no runes woven in the braiding. As it was a training ring, with a space that could hardly accommodate a small audience, the re-purposed boxing arena didn’t come with the usual trappings needed to protect spellbreakers and their fans.

“You seem to let your opponent take it all out on you and then you go in for the kill,” John Henry pointed out. “Not a bad idea. But it’s a glass canon approach. You’re missing the details, Spike. You’re telegraphing your moves.”

The rookie spellbreaker caught his breath. This was more work than he thought it’d be. “I just want to win,” he said.

“And you’re too focused on winning,” J.H. said, smiling. “Your mind is erratic! So is your magick. That’s why it’s not consistent.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Or, so I figure. I don’t know much about analyzing other people’s glyphs. Has Varla talked to you about that sort of thing?”

It wasn’t something Spike had really considered before. He’d always been somewhat embarrassed by his gifts, no thanks to the efforts of Sister Patience and the others, who had nearly thrown him out on the street after he’d shown Chester and Willy who was boss. That night had resulted in the opposite problem—the bullies left Spike alone, but so too did the other boys. They avoided him as if he was cursed. For a long time, Spike suspected he really was.

Perhaps these memories had shown themselves plain on Spike’s face. John Henry eased up, sighed, and placed his massive hand on Spike’s shoulder. “That’s enough for today, baby-face. You’re getting better. No doubt. Just remember something. It’ll serve you well. It served me well.”

“And what is that?” Spike asked, appreciating this fleeting warmth. He hoped to one day be as kind and strong as this man of iron and steel.

The metal man flashed his pearly whites at his pupil. “Always remember to stay humble.

                                                                    ___

It turns out that being humble was no problem for Spike—mostly because he didn’t have a choice.

There was, of course, the early start to the day. This wasn’t too bad. Spike had been in the military. He was used to drills at dawn. He was not, however, used to hand-to-hand combat beyond rough-housing with his mates and fellow crew. Much to his chagrin, he was also completely unused to putting his own magick to use. The navy had never seen fit to train him in it.

This had left him with little understanding or control over his glyph.

John Henry divided training into two components, though both were integral to spellbreaking. The first was the physical combat portion, which Spike adapted to rather quickly. He was used to using his fists, less so his legs, but he took to kicks and strikes within a few days. John Henry was a relentless coach, but he was fair.

Sometimes, Varla would watch. Spike found that her presence was uncannily timed, usually when he was getting his ass handed to him by John Henry. The man was a machine. He could toss Spike around with relative ease and slam him into the canvas as he saw fit. Varla would watch from the (often literal) shadows, always dressed to the nines, and face immaculately painted. After the third or fourth appearance couture gown, Spike decided that the prize money and funding for her little training center was certainly not going back to the gym, which was on par with the conditions of St. Magnus House.

“Some opponents will use projectile magic,” John Henry stated during one sparring session.

Spike had learned to put distance between himself and the giant men. He had devised a strategy; get a few blows in, take a few blows back, and build up his surplus of energy over time rather than expend it all in one go. 

Naturally, J.H. saw fit to throw another curveball and undo any sense of progress. The man turned his arm into metal, a power that Spike had learned to anticipate (and fear). The light glinted off his metallic skin, but this time, Spike was prepared.

“We magi aren’t one-trick ponies,” John Henry said, circling his opponent, putting Spike on the defense. “We’re not comic book super heroes showboating with a single power to their name. Wielding magick means diversifying your spell set.”

The iron man tried to close the distance, but Spike was quicker. He shot down to his knee, ducking John Henry’s blow, and went for his legs. Unfortunately, Spike’s hand slipped trying to wrap itself around his trainer’s massive quad. Rather then get caught between his steel girder legs and crushed like a grape, Spike slid through and out the other side, hoping to catch the man’s back and channel enough of his stored-up energy to finagle a suplex.

It didn’t work. John Henry chopped him straight in the chest, but thankfully not with his steel-encased forearm. Spike absorbed the blow and went to the ropes, ready to calculate his next move.

“But this is all the magick I have,” Spike said, holding out his fist, the air around it shimmering with ambient energy--like the heat coming off the pavement on a summer’s day. “Nothing else has ever manifested. It’s all I’ve got.”

John Henry gave him a hard look. He wiped his face with his metal hand, flexible despite its appearance. “Well, have you ever tried something else?”

Spike was embarrassed to admit he’d never even considered it. “Come to think of it-“

“No time for thinking!”

“What the—”

Was all Spike had to say before John Henry clotheslined the poor, young man with a fistful of iron.

Once again, Spike was on his back, counting the buzzing halogen lights while a two-ton metal man covered him delicately for the pin. "...Pretty, pretty lights..." Spike said, delirious, as his brain reset itself.

 This time, John Henry went so far to hook his leg, exposing Spike for an invisible audience—to drive home the lesson. All in good fun, of course. "Yeah, you like that, boy?" The man teased.

Spike came to his senses. "Don't start something you won't be able to finish."

But Spike wasn’t having fun anymore. This was starting to become more work than it was worth. It was a miracle he had nothing else going for him, otherwise—in this moment—he’d pick the cushier option. That option didn’t exist, however, so the harder course was all he had. Life wasn’t going to let him off that easy...

Five minutes. That was all John Henry would allow for a rest. Spike slid out of the ring, cradling his sore neck and head. He threw back a paper cup of water (which tasted like rocks) and then a small vial of diluted soma. The pearlescent fluid slid down his throat, dulling the pain and making all the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Spike knew Varla diluted the stuff for training purposes. It was too precious, too expensive, to waste the pure soma outside of a real match.

Back in the ring again. Spike picked a wedgie out of his black, training trunks, and felt more like a little boy playing spellbreaking at a slumber party than a real fighter, especially with John Henry literally overshadowing him.

The man grinned wickedly at him. “Your entrance needs work. Remember, it’s not just about the fight, it’s about the showmanship too.” He stroked his chin, trying to recall something. “Have you thought up a character or personality for yourself yet?”

Spike pointed at his head. “I’m all the personality I need, right?”

“…”

The rookie rolled his eyes at his coach’s incredulousness. “Varla said ‘pin up’ boy. She wants me to go out there smiling and weaving and looking pretty.”

“Ah. In other words, the audience will want to see your ass get handed to you.”

Spike already sensed Varla had set him for some sadistic failure, but not this badly. The magnitude of the situation dawned him. He looked over his shoulder. The door was right there. He could leave, pack his bags, find some construction or laboring job where his powers could be put to good use. 

Plus, hunky construction workers…

John Henry arched his eyebrows. “You do still get paid if you lose,” he said. There was something in his voice that suggested he was trying to get Spike fired up. “We all have to take our hits as rookies.”

“I’d like to stand a fighting chance at least,” Spike said.

John Henry nodded, and then—to Spike’s horror—turned both of his arms, from shoulder to the tips of his fingernails, to solid metal. “Then the training continues, squirt.”

And continue it did. As Spike dodged, flipped, and took his blows, he started wondering if he was fighting himself more than John Henry. This wasn’t just about becoming a real spellbreaker, it was about pride too. His worth. Spike had to win, or at least feel capable of winning.

As it stood, it wasn’t looking too great. Better than two days ago, but still not ideal.

After another gruelling session of throwing techniques and nailing down holds, John Henry decided to veer more into the magickal side of things, pointing out that Spike’s background in magick was severely undeveloped (through no fault of his own).

Now, Spike felt like he was back in the school room, not so much the ring. John Henry held up photos depicting the different runes stitched into the standard ring ropes. He told Spike that most runes were passed down from mystics hailing from Scandinavia; that they were the first to contain magic into easily replicable symbology.

“Of course, that’s what white folk like to believe,” John Henry said with a wink. “If you go back far enough though, they were doing this stuff in West Africa. The Celts have their own symbols too, and Asia is full of different alphabets as well. All of them are unique and all of them have advantages.”

Spike traced his fingers over the jagged runes on the glossy paper. He envisioned them glowing under his touch. “So why do we only use the Norse system here in America?”

John Henry gave him a look. “Why do you think? Use that pretty head of yours. We like to think we’re free from the nobility here in America, but you know that ain’t true.”

It was as if J.H. had parroted Spike’s own words, said to Haggar on the ship shortly before his dismissal. Spike had no concept of magickal culture, but he wasn’t surprised to hear it was translated through a very narrow viewpoint.

John Henry continued the lesson. “Our magic comes from our internal glyphs, the runes written into our DNA. It’s what separates magi from regular folk. Like the strands that make up our bodies, our magic comes from combinations of inherited traits. You see, most of my magic resonates with minerals. I can replace my skin cells with metal, more or less. But I have other related abilities too. Magnetism, to an extent. And what you might call basic, natural alchemy—but none of that serves a body in the ring. Now, what I can also do, is this.”

At that, he extended his arm—a gesture Spike knew too well at this point. The rookie got on the defensive right away, back stepping to the other corner. But John Henry remained stationary, slyly grinning at him. The spellbreaker tossed the textbooh photos aside and held up his metal fist. Spike watched in awe as he casually slipped his real, flesh-and-bone arm out from it as if it were a glove. The metal hung in mid-air, and then reshaped itself, forming itself into a smooth sphere. Spike could see his dumbstruck and distorted reflection looking back at him, slack jawed.

It was only then he realized that he was staring at what was, essentially, a projectile.

“How do I dodge that?” Spike stammered, watching the sphere zip side to side, orbiting John Henry like a moon.

The man played with the metal sphere like it was a juggling ball, sliding it from one hand, down the arc of his shoulders and neck, to the other, before it slipped off his finger and into the air again.

“Close the gap!” he commanded. The sphere zipped upwards, ready to take aim at John Henry’s hapless pupil.

“But then I run the risk of getting grappled to hell!” In his head, Spike tried to tally up if being smacked in the face with a metal ball would hurt less than being struck by John Henry’s metal arm.

“Exactly!” John Henry laughed, sending a resonance throughout the canvas. “Spellbreaking is about balance. Physicality and magic. Distance and close combat. When to go on the offense and when to go on the defense. It’s more dancing than fighting.”

John Henry launched the sphere. Slower than Spike anticipated, but not slow enough for his liking. He slipped under it at the last moment, the polished metal barely grazing his nose. He cleared it, took a grappling stance, and dragged John Henry’s (metal-free) arm, pulling the giant man past him, and out of his grasp.

I can’t believe it, Spike thought in disbelief. He dodged it and managed to put John Henry on the defense. But just as he realized his victory, he remembered that the sphere was still in play. He turned on his heels, boots digging into the canvas, and on instinct he threw up his hand, expecting the ball to smash into his fingers and crush his digits.

As expected, he was too late, letting that precious second of reaction time get away from him. He winced, and—foolishly—shut his eyes, waiting to feel metal collide with his fingertips. But the pain did not come.

With great hesitation, Spike allowed one eye open. The sphere hovered, frozen in air, inches away from his fingers, vibrating as if pushing desperately against the air. Spike looked up at John Henry and smiled.

“Showing mercy now, huh?”

The confusion on John Henry’s face suggested otherwise. “Boy, I ain’t done nothing. That’s you.”

Just as Spike pulled his hand back, the metal sphere fell to the canvas with a metallic clang, inert. Spike watched the ball melt into a puddle of liquid metal, before evaporating entirely. He looked down at his hand, flexing his fingers in awe.

“I didn’t know I could even do that,” Spike said in a quiet voice. He wasn’t sure if he should be afraid or impressed himself with right now, and half of him suspected this was his teacher’s doing somehow, a prank. “What…what was it? Like, a barrier?”

But John Henry just shook his head. He grabbed the cantina in the corner and tilted it towards his pupil. “That’s for you to figure out, sailor. Like I said, kid, there’s a lot to learn about magick.

            ___

“So, you’ve really never had a glyphic diagnostic?”

In contrast to Varla’s training gym—which was really a glorified storage unit with a wrestling ring—the fight promoter’s office was more well-furnished. It reminded Spike of Sister Patience’s office, stripped of religion, replaced with more decadent décor. A fine, floral rug. Red velvet, upholstered chairs. An ornamental fireplace. A rooftop terrace, with a view looking onto the first ring of the Manhattan skyway loop, just enough to suggest that the fight promoter was slightly above the working class neighborhood around her. The only adornments to suggest the keen-eyed woman’s business were a series of signed and framed posters of several spellbreaking champions hanging on the wall, as well as a few photos of Varla with her fighters. Standing next to buff men in colorful underwear, she resembled a sorceress at a cocktail party—which, in a way, fit the flamboyant aesthetic of pro spellbreaking even more.

This evening, Varla’s outfit of choice was a purple, velveteen number with a plunging neck adorned with black feathers, giving her the look of a rare, wicked bird. She arched a sculpted eyebrow. I believe I just asked you a question.

Spike was distracted, per usual, by the image of a beefcake—his childhood hero, Colt the Bolt, preserved in all his glory on Varla’s wall. “Sorry, ma’am. Um…I don’t know what that is.”

She was patient with him. She knew his background well enough by now. “I mean bloodwork. Analysis on your glyphic systems.”

“Glyphic…what?”

The patience subsided. Varla laughed and put the stem of her cigarette holder to her lips. She never actually lit these up or smoked. She had mentioned off-handedly that she’d stopped doing so years ago, for reasons never articulated. I just like the taste of it between my lips.

“They really didn’t give a lick about your gifts in the Navy, did they?” Varla asked. Yet still, the question was not accusatory. It was barely imperceptible, but the harsh mistress had softened in her approach the last few days or so. Spike wanted so desperately to believe it was because she was impressed with his training.

“Magick is in the blood, Spike. It’s hereditary.” John Henry had told him the same, almost verbatim. “That’s why the nobles of the Alban Empire tried to keep it contained to one gene pool for so long. Why the past hundred years or so have changed the game. One cannot cage what refuses to be tamed. Magick is wild. It belongs to everyone. Why do you think we’ve just fought a bloody war, for Goddess’ sake? Because the nobles refused to accept that commonfolk like you or I should be able to do what they did.” She punctuated the statement with her cigarette holder, which she wielded like a wand.

Such passion in her voice was rarely heard. Spike almost wondered why she had called him into her office now. He had decided that she wasn’t going to fire him, so that was one anxiety assuaged.

“And now we do it for sport?” Spike ventured. He hoped he was sounding cheeky or charming. But charm didn’t seem to work on her.

“Why not?” Varla laughed. "Why shouldn’t we use our gifts for fun, silly pastimes? Spellbreaking has its traditions, yes, but it’s a far cry from when the emperors of yore used to put men in arenas and have them incinerate each other to death. Modern, pro spellbreaking is mostly born out of vaudeville and sideshow circuses than anything else.” She nodded to a framed photo on her desk. It sat, side-by-side, with the photograph of—strangest of all—a little girl.

“See that there?”

Spike narrowed his eyes. The photo sat an angle, half facing Varla, half facing him. It was a black-and-white professional shot. Varla, in a different feather-adorned outfit than the one she presently wore, with a crown of black diamonds on her head. Spike understood that she had been much younger when this was taken, but it was hard to tell. There was little difference in the woman in the photograph and the woman sitting across from him, save for something about the eyes that he couldn’t quite pin down. Experience, perhaps.

“You used to be a showgirl?” Spike said, barely containing his glee. “That’s fabulous.”

“Of a sort,” Varla said, almost demurring. “A ‘Shadow Dancer’. I made my magic work for me. It kept people’s spirits up during the wartime.” She smiled to herself, and looked over Spike’s shoulder, somewhere very far away. “But those days are done. I find I make a better business woman than a dancer anyhow.”

"My mom used to sing for the troops," Spike said, sadly. 

"Hmm. Did you know much about your parents?"

"No, just what the sisters told me. They were both in the war. That's how..." He trailed off, figuring Varla could fill in the rest herself.

A look that almost resembled sympathy crossed her face, before she waved it away. "Well, give people fun. That's all you can do these days, isn't it?"

“I’d say so.” Perhaps he was sounding too much like a brown-noser. She’d be able to pick up on false flattery right away. It was better to answer her initial question. “Nobody really taught me much about my power. Hell, I don’t even get it. It doesn’t always work, truth-be-told. Or, I guess…I don’t know how to always control it. All I can tell you is that I take a few blows, I get stronger, and I dish it out.”

“And, from what John Henry tells me, you’re able to stop projectiles in their tracks?”

“Er…that’s new, ma'am.”

“Hmm.” The woman was in deep thought, almost worlds away. Spike dared not interrupt her. He couldn’t see her shadow in such dim lighting, but he knew it was present, waiting for her command.

Without saying a word, Varla removed a small, leather-bound book from her desk drawer, releasing the perfume of old wood and dust. She placed the book in front of Spike and opened it to a page marked with a peacock feather. Spike, usually slow on the uptake, must have had his senses sharpened from training, because he picked up right away that she had been researching his gift, his magic.

The woman pressed a manicured finger towards a row of beautiful symbols, glyphs that resembled the runes John Henry had showed him earlier that day. The rookie spellbreaker attempted to make sense of them. The names for these symbols didn’t help. ‘Pyr’, ‘Laguz’, ‘Dynamis’, ‘Keraunos’. The one resting beneath Varla’s sharp, pretty nail was ‘Dynamis’.

Somehow, Spike knew that this was his glyph.

“Either an energy or inertia based glyphic system, I’d wager,” Varla said, looking between him and the book. “Yes, Dynamis. A bit of a wildcard, that one. Not common, but not unheard of. Fascinating. Truly fascinating. But you say you aren’t immune to magic?”

Suddenly Spike felt like he was being let in on some fantastic, hidden secret—which wasn’t far from the mark. “No, ma’am. My old buddy, Micko, could create geysers with the sea water that was always around us. Getting smashed with the force of a tanker’s worth of water apparently doesn’t have the same effect on me as getting punched in the face. It really hurt!”

The woman ignored the anecdote and focused on the basic facts about his ‘glyph’. “Your magick also doesn’t disqualify you from Spellbreaking. If you are—by definition—undefeatable, you can’t compete. But who knows, maybe with some training, you’ll come close.” She winked, and Spike instantly felt more comfortable than when he’d entered her office.

Perhaps too comfortable. In the pause that followed, Spike’s eyes fell on the photo of the dark haired girl. Before he could think before speaking…he spoke. “Who’s she?”

Varla’s expression did not change. “You ask a dangerous question.”

There was a hint of playfulness to her voice, so Spike decided to throw it back at her. “The photo is on your desk, Miss. Did you not think people would ask?”

Fortunately for his sake, Varla laughed. “You really love pushing buttons, don't you.” She put the cigarette stem on the desk. “I like it. But watch your step. Remember, I don’t suffer insubordination. That’s Laura. She’s my daughter.”

Daughter? The thought of this woman raising children had never once crossed Spike’s mind. “Oh.”

And Varla was acutely aware of this.“ I know, right? Someone like me…with a kid?” She shrugged, smiling to herself. A secret only she knew. “Some things just happen. You’d think this place might not make the best environment for a little girl, but men like John Henry are good role models. Because, let’s face, most men are not. I am teaching her what good men look like so she can do well to avoid the bad ones.”

“And what do good men look like?” Spike asked. He truthfully wanted to know. Mostly for himself. Funny, he was so damn terrified of Varla when he’d first met her back in Avery's office. He still was, of course, but he’d also warmed up to her.

She indulged. “Oh, they come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. But the qualities I look for? Strong. King. Respectful.” She glanced at the photo of her daughter and then slowly pushed the frame away from her with the top of her index finger. “Hopefully she’ll make better choices than her mother.”

A rare moment of vulnerability from Varla? Now, Spike was really concerned. He gestured to the office. “I dunno, Miss. This all seems like a pretty good choice to me.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Varla said mirthfully. “You will learn, love. Be they man or woman, nobody makes great decisions at your age.” She paused. “Not even me. “You’re still figuring things out. You ever have a fella of your own?”

If Spike had been drinking a glass of water, he would have spat it out all over her desk. “You assume I’m—”

She cocked an eyebrow. “…Honey. Please.”

“Well, yeah. And no.” He thought about for a moment. He dared. “You?”

“Ha! I have no need for men anymore, other than my employees of course. You will find male lovers to be more trouble in the long term than they’re worth in the short. So, save yourself the heartbreak, kid.” She scanned his face. “And why do your eyes keep going to old Colt up there?”

It was true. Spike couldn’t help it. He figured the poster was from around the time Colt was making names for himself in the feds, winning championships left and right. The long-haired, cowboy king. Body chiselled out of marble, yet with the boyish face of a hero. Spike wondered how old he was in this photo. Of course, he looked upon the man differently now. He found him physically attractive. Muscles were a weakness of his. Then again, there was a sacredness about Colt—to objectify him was almost unthinkable.

Spike realized he hadn’t answered Varla’s question. “Oh. When I was growing up, he was my favorite.”

The woman went wide eyed for a moment, before she broke out into a string of laughter. “Ah, then we both must have bad taste in men. He’s got a school, you know. In Texas. And he's got his own up-and-coming fed as well. Got a good head for business, that one…and a terrible head for anything else.”

Before Spike could read between the lines of what she’d just told him, Varla clapped her hands, cutting him off. “Alright, enough chit chat. We’re getting much too cozy with each other. Hit the showers and get to bed. Your first match is tomorrow.”

Spike almost felt out of his chair. “What!?”

“Yes, that’s the real reason I called you in here. Feet to the fire, kid. I never said I was going to go easy on you. You want to prove yourself? You do it tomorrow night. Or you don’t." She smiled. "Pleasant dreams.”

Next Chapter!