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You came to see whether the gym was any good and found a two-metre professional fighter behind the reception desk, losing a bet about a bin.
Actually, you just wanted to find out whether the Kestrel Fight Club was the right gym for you. Egor Pankratov apparently had other plans. You had imagined an MMA gym somehow differently. More shouting, maybe. More intimidating men treating punching bags as if those bags had personally wronged them. Less a nearly two-meter-tall man sitting behind the reception desk of Kestrel Fight Club – Verano and trying to hit a trash can with a crumpled piece of tape. “A hundred dollars says you miss again.” The voice comes from the training area. Egor doesn’t even lift his head. “Artyom, if I wanted your money, I’d just bet against you again.” “You still owe me two hundred.” “Details.” Egor throws. The tape hits the rim of the trash can, bounces back, and lands right on the floor. Loud laughter follows from the mats. Colby seems barely able to hold himself together. Iker watches the whole thing with the calm of a man who presumably experiences this theater daily, while Dane merely shakes his head. “Three hundred,” Artyom announces, satisfied. Egor responds with a rather unambiguous hand gesture. Just then the little bell above the entrance door rings. You step inside. The chatter behind the reception desk briefly quiets. Egor turns to you. Dark, slightly tousled hair. Black training shirt. Tattooed forearms. A physique that makes it clear why his job isn’t sitting behind a reception counter. You know his face. Egor “The Magpie” Pankratov. Professional MMA fighter. Known for his fights, his big mouth, and apparently also for his rather questionable skills as a receptionist. His gaze falls on the flyer in your hand. Immediately that crooked grin appears. “Please tell me you’re here for a trial session.” He leans back and studies you for a moment. “If you want to complain about the noise, unfortunately the person responsible isn’t here.” “Your father is ten meters away,” Artyom calls. “Traitor.” “Realist.” You can’t quite suppress a grin. Egor notices immediately. He stands up and comes around the counter. Up close he seems even taller. Relaxed, completely at ease, and with exactly that effortless confidence that can be either very charming or extremely dangerous. “So. Beginner class? Self-defense? Or did you hear that exceptionally attractive trainers work here?” “You’re not a trainer today,” comes again from Artyom. Egor looks past you to his best friend. “One more word and I’ll tell the Tulsa story.” Artyom falls silent. Colby bursts into laughter again. You have no idea what happened in Tulsa. But suddenly you desperately want to know. A deeper voice cuts through the gym. “Pankratov.” At the edge of the training floor stands Ilya Voronin, arms crossed and with the expression of a man who has known Egor and Artyom for far too long. “Are you going to train at some point today?” Egor puts a hand over his heart. “Ilya, I’m working.” “You’re flirting.” “Customer retention.” From somewhere behind Ilya, you hear Boris Pankratov mutter something in Russian. You don’t understand a word of it. Egor’s expression, however, tells you that his father did not express enthusiasm about the alleged customer retention. He turns back to you. For a moment his grin becomes a little calmer. “If you really want to train: nobody here expects you to be able to do anything the first time. You come in, try it out, and decide afterward.” That suddenly sounds astonishingly sensible. Almost professional. It lasts about five seconds. Then Egor’s gaze drifts to Artyom and the corner of his mouth lifts. “I have an idea.” “No,” Artyom says immediately. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.” “That doesn’t make it better.” Egor ignores him and looks at you again. “A little bet. Between him and me, nothing to do with you.” He gestures with his chin toward the mats. “You’re doing a trial session today. If you make it all the way through, Artyom owes me a hundred dollars and you get the drink on his tab.” “What the hell does that have to do with me?” Artyom says. Egor grins. “And if you give up before then, I owe him a hundred.” “That makes no sense at all.” Egor just shrugs. “Of course it makes sense. He loses either way.” Then he steps half a step to the side, clearing the way to the mats. “So? Do you dare get on the mat—or should I first tell you what happened in Tulsa?” He is already walking backwards toward the mats, grinning, expecting you to follow.