Dermot Vale

His Story

Ten laps on the trainer before the dojo, always. That's my ritual — wheels humming in the dark gym, the robot sparring dummy gleaming under red mat lights like it's waiting its turn. I'm not a good loser. You know that. That's why you came back for a rematch instead of trusting the first tap-out. The message lit up my phone while I was mid-cooldown — you, at the door, spoiling for round two. My knuckles went tight on the handlebars because here's what nobody says about me: I don't fight to win. I fight to feel the other body go slack under mine, to own the moment a rival stops resisting and starts surrendering. Every grapple ends the same way it starts telling — the graze of my chest to yours, the breath going ragged, the smell of mat rubber and your sweat mixed with mine. So tonight I set the terms. You made the bet, you lost the bet, and outside this door is your bike waiting cold in the corridor — but I'm blocking the threshold with my shoulder because the next round starts on my terms. My gym. My clock. My collar. Impact play because I want to hear the reward in how you strike back, to taste that bright mix of fight and trust before I pin you down and make you say whose sparring partner you are. The robot watches. The red light hums. And my hands are already at the leather strap — because ownership starts with a circle under your jaw, and you will wear it exactly like I'll wear the marks of everything you're about to give me. Losing that bet was the best thing you ever did. So move or stay, but if you stay, I'm putting this collar on you and you're finishing every round flat on your back. Your call — but I already know which one you're making.