David Goggins Can't Hurt Me Novels & Stories

Which is a problem when your entire value as a professional athlete depends on being able to cut left and pivot hard without screaming. David in Dallas understood this. David had hands like a construction worker and the personality of a brick wall. No small talk about weather. No asking how my weekend was. Just strong hands working scar tissue for an hour while I focused on not passing out from the pain. Then Chicago happened and David stayed in Texas and now I’m supposed to start over with someone new who probably wants to be my friend. I’m sitting in this pristine training facility that smells like money and new equipment waiting for whatever overly cheerful PT they assigned me.

One… Two… Three… David was stretching. A day passed since David’s declaration to Elizabeth. Despite the relaxing period, David still felt damaged. Each time he moved, he felt his wounds sting. He didn’t like staying in bed so he ignored the pain. It helped since he believed in the phrase “what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.” So, he made sure to keep moving. If he spent all his time resting, he would feel restless. To reassure Elizabeth and Bob and prevent them from worrying, David made sure not to push his body too far.

It makes my already pounding heart almost seize. Run. I yell to myself in my head but it doesn't help in making me move from the floor. I know I need to get out of here. With no idea where Henry is or what held him this long. I should get out here. Whoever hurt her might still be close and I'm making myself vulnerable. I didn't train for months, pushed all my limits after all that has happened only to be killed on my first day back. I'm not even anywhere near my target and this might end, before it even starts.

I dragged out a heavy log, the one we used for strength training, and positioned it in the center of the grounds, a silent sentinel. Then, I began. Not with graceful instruction, but with raw, relentless repetition—strikes, kicks, blocks—my body moving until thought faded and only instinct remained. The exertion was a purge, burning away the lingering scent of torch smoke and politics. Sweat stung my eyes, my muscles screamed, and I welcomed it. A shadow fell over me, but I didn't stop. I recognized the rhythm of his presence. “You’ll tear your stitches,” I said, gritting my teeth as I slammed my palm against the rough bark.

Gavriil ran with me some mornings, shirtless, trying to match my pace. He thought it was bonding. I let him believe it. Week three: weights, calisthenics, sparring. He brought in a private trainer, female, because no man was ever allowed to touch me again. I learned to drop a two-hundred-pound bag with a single hip throw. I learned to strike so fast the heavy bag swung like a pendulum. I learned to breathe through the burn until pain became fuel. Every night he traced the changes with reverent fingers: the sharpening line of my waist,

“This is the most traumatic experience of your life? I’m jealous.” “It’s not a competition.” “No, it’s not.” Through the window, he replaced the envelope in the glove box and shut it. Then he sauntered over to the driver’s side. To me. “But as someone who has seen worse, you know what helped me survive mine sane? The gym,” he continued solemnly, hazel eyes flashing into mine. “Working out trains not just your body but your mind. It shows you how strong you really are and you take that strength into every other area of your life. That’s why I’m inviting you for a session. You might like it and want to continue. It’s also fine if you don’t. But you should give it a try.”

And yet… When he stands close, I feel safe. I shake my head hard. “Get it together,” I whisper. Feelings won’t help me survive. I move back into position. Again. Turn. Step. Strike. My arms ache. My legs burn. Sweat drips down my spine. I welcome the pain. It keeps my thoughts from drifting back to him. Back to the way his voice softened when he said my name. Focus. I imagine the trial. Three warriors. No mercy. I fall once. Get up. Fall again. Get up.

he asked, sounding softer this time. “I needed… space,” I mumbled. “I needed to… to feel something other than helpless.” He was quiet for a long moment. “You think hurting and endangering yourself will make you stronger?” he asked. I clenched my fists. “No. I mean… I just… I had to do something. Go extra.” I don't know why he's always undermining my efforts. “You’re already training, Davina,” he said, "take it easy on yourself before you get hurt, I mean, real hurt.”

I got up going to my room. We didn't talk much after that. I have been training constantly with Beta David, learning my new found strengths, no one was willing to spar with me except him, which I didn't mind, he was the best here and I trusted him with my life. After training today David and I went out for a run. It's crazy to shift then run on my hind legs still, him on all fours but I beat him in every race, it was exhilarating to run like this, Callie was faster than ever before, we were so strong now too, I mean we always were but this was different.

But he would never know that. “I also had training with Zander and I didn’t break a nail, bruise a knuckle, Split my head open nor did I have a slash wound on my arm.” Last week, I had almost split my head open thanks to the obstacle course that had a thing that looked like a merry-go-round but it was really a death trap with blades.