11-01-2023, 09:02 PM
(This post was last modified: 11-01-2023, 09:06 PM by Alistair Bishop.)
The mention of a gift had intrigued him and stayed with him. Ever since his previous match, he had heard whispers about a gift, a certain reward that was only given to a select few.
Alistair had been new. What gift could he have possibly earned? He hadn't put much thought into it, dismissing it as just another wild tale that filled the world of wrestling. But after reading its mention in the note, his curiosity had been piqued.
Before every match, Alistair had followed a strict routine. While others might have looked at him and thought he had just rolled out of bed, ready to fight at a moment's notice, the truth had been far from it. Alistair had prepped on fight days with set routines.
Alistair had started his late evening prematch ritual by taking a long, warm shower. However, he had been a bit distracted. The water cascading down his body had reminded him of a recent passionate embrace and the tales from the mysterious man. He had tried to shake off the memories, focusing instead on the upcoming match.
But a nagging thought had lingered: How would I find her again? The thought of her carnal passion had made blood rush through his body. The only clues she had given him were some places she frequented and something about being in entertainment.
Also running through his mind had been thoughts of what the man at the bar had told him. Not so much what, but how it had made him feel. The man had filled Alistair with a twinge of doubt and fear.
"What could the gift be?" Alistair had thought out loud.
With too many thoughts, Alistair had shut them down with one large exhale.
After the shower, Alistair had moved on to his breathing ritual. He had knelt at the end of his bed, wearing only his loosely worn towel. He had begun heavy rhythmic breathing, meditating up and down his body. He had to have every inch ready to fight. At a moment's notice, he needed to call on anger, summon hate, and pure damage. Alistair had focused on every part, tensing and releasing with each deep breath.
Next, he had gone through a visual process of the fight. He had pictured himself walking to the ring, the smell, and sights of the room. Imagining looking across at his opponent. He had imagined the first time he would be punched. It had helped him relax, feeling the pure pain from a shot to his chin.
After a premade meal of nuts, seeds, and orange with a palm of sliced chicken, he had dressed. Every piece of his clothing had been thought out. From his socks just at his ankle level, barely covering his perfectly taped ankles, to his black 5-inch seam shorts, athletic undergarments keeping his manhood locked in place, and the tight black zipped hoodie he'd worn to the ring, everything had been in place.
The last thing he had done before his fight was tape his hands. He had performed that ritual in the locker room with a towel draped over his head, as he meditated on some Catholic prayers from his youth wrestling days with Father Antonio. Though not Catholic, he had grown up attending mass with the other boys he had wrestled with because their coach had made them. He had sat there as men in holy robes repeated ritualistic prayers, then went into a little room to vulnerably confess to a Priest about his wayward thoughts from the previous week.
There had been a depth to Alistair that no one looking at him could have possibly seen or known existed.
Alistair had finished preparing himself and the time had come to head to the venue.
Alistair had been new. What gift could he have possibly earned? He hadn't put much thought into it, dismissing it as just another wild tale that filled the world of wrestling. But after reading its mention in the note, his curiosity had been piqued.
Before every match, Alistair had followed a strict routine. While others might have looked at him and thought he had just rolled out of bed, ready to fight at a moment's notice, the truth had been far from it. Alistair had prepped on fight days with set routines.
Alistair had started his late evening prematch ritual by taking a long, warm shower. However, he had been a bit distracted. The water cascading down his body had reminded him of a recent passionate embrace and the tales from the mysterious man. He had tried to shake off the memories, focusing instead on the upcoming match.
But a nagging thought had lingered: How would I find her again? The thought of her carnal passion had made blood rush through his body. The only clues she had given him were some places she frequented and something about being in entertainment.
Also running through his mind had been thoughts of what the man at the bar had told him. Not so much what, but how it had made him feel. The man had filled Alistair with a twinge of doubt and fear.
"What could the gift be?" Alistair had thought out loud.
With too many thoughts, Alistair had shut them down with one large exhale.
After the shower, Alistair had moved on to his breathing ritual. He had knelt at the end of his bed, wearing only his loosely worn towel. He had begun heavy rhythmic breathing, meditating up and down his body. He had to have every inch ready to fight. At a moment's notice, he needed to call on anger, summon hate, and pure damage. Alistair had focused on every part, tensing and releasing with each deep breath.
Next, he had gone through a visual process of the fight. He had pictured himself walking to the ring, the smell, and sights of the room. Imagining looking across at his opponent. He had imagined the first time he would be punched. It had helped him relax, feeling the pure pain from a shot to his chin.
After a premade meal of nuts, seeds, and orange with a palm of sliced chicken, he had dressed. Every piece of his clothing had been thought out. From his socks just at his ankle level, barely covering his perfectly taped ankles, to his black 5-inch seam shorts, athletic undergarments keeping his manhood locked in place, and the tight black zipped hoodie he'd worn to the ring, everything had been in place.
The last thing he had done before his fight was tape his hands. He had performed that ritual in the locker room with a towel draped over his head, as he meditated on some Catholic prayers from his youth wrestling days with Father Antonio. Though not Catholic, he had grown up attending mass with the other boys he had wrestled with because their coach had made them. He had sat there as men in holy robes repeated ritualistic prayers, then went into a little room to vulnerably confess to a Priest about his wayward thoughts from the previous week.
There had been a depth to Alistair that no one looking at him could have possibly seen or known existed.
Alistair had finished preparing himself and the time had come to head to the venue.