Extra Credit | Complete

38

Calista

Dante was walking out of the training facility as I was stomping towards the main entrance. In the past, when our paths had crossed on campus, we'd stop for a minute and exchange pleasantries. This time Dante held the door open wide as he welcomed me with a cautious greeting. He must have read the expression on my face and I wondered if I appeared as irritable as I felt. I was running on little answers and even less sleep.

I had tossed and turned the entire night. Questions about what I had witnessed plagued my mind. They circled around like turkey vultures, keeping me on edge and not allowing me to drift off to sleep. For my own sanity, I needed to confront Lincoln. Not only about why he was avoiding me, but about what I had seen the night before.

I marched into the training facility, pausing in the foyer long enough to seek out the man in question. As if it were second nature, my eyes automatically veered left. Lincoln was in the ring sparring with someone who I assumed was a trainer. Whitmore stood off to the side, arms dangling over the ropes as he observed. His brow furrowed in concentration as he tracked Lincoln's movements. I wondered if he was aware of what his protégé was doing in his spare time. I had a funny feeling he didn't. Something told me that the risk of having Lincoln out of commission would not be something he would gamble away.

Whitmore barked a command. Both men in the ring stopped. The three of them gathered in the centre for a brief exchange. Whitmore gave Lincoln a pat on the shoulder. His weathered hand lingered for a moment, flashing him a proud smile, before he followed the trainer out of the ring.

Lincoln was left alone, boxing with his own shadow as the afternoon sun filtered in through the window. I took that as my opportunity.

"Are you ready to explain what the hell is going on?" I asked, coming up next to the ring.

Lincoln froze. His eyes zoned in on the blank wall across from him. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The lie was so fluid. If the evidence wasn't plastered to the side of his face I might have believed him. Across his temple, travelling into his hairline, was the aftermath of yesterday's match. From where I stood I could see that it hadn't fully dried out. The skin around it was pink, irritated by Lincoln sweat, but at least it didn't require stitches.

"Why are you avoiding me?" I pushed, moving so he was forced to acknowledge me in his peripheral. "Why did I walk in on you fighting some other guy in an underground cage?"

"Keep your voice down," Lincoln warned, his eyes flicking over in the direction of Whitmore's office. The door was cracked open, light spilling out.

"Why?" I tilted my chin up in defiance. "Whitmore doesn't know you're part of some sort of underground fight club, does he?"

Lincoln's nostrils flared at me. "No one needs to know about my business."

"They do when it's illegal."

"It's not," he muttered as he paced over to the edge of the boxing ring. He was still avoiding eye contact, but at least he was responding to me. He slipped under the ropes, moving towards the corner where he had left his towel and water bottle.

I trailed after him. "No? Then why is the main entrance a storage closet?" I said. Another thought funnelled through my brain."Why are you involving yourself with people like that?"

Lincoln removed one of the gloves. The ripping of the velcro cut through the air. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Then explain it to me. Make me understand."

"There's nothing to explain," he replied.

I was beginning to get desperate. It took everything in me not to beg. "Come on Lincoln. You owe me that much."