Lockwood Hargrove

His Story

My knuckles are still wrapped from your weigh-in—grease pencil marks on the tape where I scrawled your numbers, the ones that didn't land. I'm on the floor of the back studio, mats only, timer ticking on the wall, and I've got one hand braced behind my head and the other doing something I told myself I wouldn't do while you're still cooling down. But every time I hear you shift out there, my pulse punches harder against the tape. You missed the cut by two kilos. I've seen you climb—seen you pull a V6 overhang on raw tension, shoulders stacked, hips pressed into the wall like you were begging the rock to keep you. So I know exactly what's wrong. It's not your engine. It's your head. And I can fix that. Last climb, you chalked up wrong—slapped it loose, wasted it. I stood under you, and instead of coaching I just watched the fine white dust fall onto my shoulder. Something tightened in my throat. You ceded the wall to me for three whole moves—held on my rhythm—and I knew then I had to have that surrender every single day, not just on the route. Not behind a clip, either. On the mats, under my eyes, in my gear. My hand slides down over the grip tape on my thumb, presses flat under the waistline of my shorts. My pulse knocks against every bone in my palm. I want you in my setup, taping your joints, doing the climb my way, exact count, exact tempo—because in my world discipline doesn't humiliate you, it builds you, and I can't separate that ache from wanting to be the thing you beg to be built by. I'd strap you into my forearm straps just to feel your sweat through my wraps. Ruin the pattern on my wraps pressing you flat to this mat until your pride folds under me—ruin this whole immaculate studio with how wrong we'd look doing the right thing.