“Don’t need a rundown . . . livin’ it.” My heart pumps blood into my muscles, fueling for a fight. I’m being fired? Demoted? “I can—”
“Fight. I know, but think about your family. Does D’lilah want you to fight?”
She’s expressed her concern about my safety, but seems more interested in my paycheck. Not that I blame her. I dragged her from her modeling career in New York City to set up house in the desert. Things looked promising. I was on the cusp of a legendary career, in line for my first title fight, and then . . . the seizure. She went from a kept mother of young twins to nursing a grown man who needs his damn chin wiped after being fed.
My cheeks warm with humiliation, but it only increases my drive to get back all that was taken from me. “Doesn’t matter. Fighting comes first.”
“Jacked-up priorities, man. Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful for your loyalty to the organization, but as a friend, I have to make you aware of . . .”
As if summoned by my thoughts, D’lilah comes in from the backyard. Black string bikini, long legs, and all that blond hair. She looks at me and, seeing I’m on the phone, mouths “watch the kids” before heading to the bedroom. I nod and move to stand in the doorway to the backyard. My twins, Ryder and Rosie, tumble around the grass. Three years old and Ryder already knows to be gentle with his sister as he wrestles her to the ground in a flurry of blond hair and toddler limbs. The sound of their giggling permeates the air and warms my chest. A smile pulls at my lips.
“. . . make the decision.”
Oh, what? “Yeah.” I’m not sure what I’m answering, but I hope it makes sense since I don’t have a damn clue what he just said.
“So it’s settled.”
Fuck. Pay attention! I answer the unheard question the same way I have for the past few months. I lie. Pretend I’m not as scattered upstairs as I really am.
“I’m no . . . not giving up.” The twins squeal, and I move back into the kitchen so I can hear Shawn.
“I’d expect nothing less.” I hear papers rustle on the other end. “But in the meantime, I’m taking you off the roster, and you’re headed into promotions.”
I slam my fist onto the granite countertop. “No!”
“Not up for discussion.”
My breath comes faster, fists clenching.
“I’ll need you to come in and sign papers. Shit . . .” More rustling papers and a long sigh. “I’m sorry about how this turned out . . .”
My arms are heavy, and I blink to focus through a blur of fury. That’s it? It’s over just like that?
“. . . on the fifth and—are you writing this down?”
I head back to my office on autopilot, grasping for something, anything that might make him change his mind. But my head is like an empty well, dark and thick with silence. Sliding into my desk chair, I grab a pen and scribble on my palm. “I’m, uh . . . so the eighth.”
“Fifth. You using a planner as the therapist suggested?”
“Mm-hm.” My eyes scan the area, but quickly give up. I don’t even know where it is. Did I even bring it home?
He rattles off the date again along with a time, and I mark up my palm, vowing to transfer the words to paper when we get off the phone.
“You’ll do great with fight promotion, and maybe someday . . .”
He can’t even say it because he doesn’t believe it. I can hear the lie and the disappointment in his voice.
“Right.”
I hang up and sit in the silence of my office. My blood drums, and the stress only furthers my confusion. The octagon is my first love, the only place I truly feel alive. My life is fighting. What the hell do I do now? Sit behind a motherfucking desk all day?
My gaze swings around the room as a feeling of urgency pricks at the back of my neck. I scrub my face, shoving my hands up through my hair. This isn’t happening. My legs ache for a workout. My muscles coil and ready to light up a heavy bag. They can’t take this away from me.
I’ve never fallen, never dropped to my knees in defeat, and this is no different. They can keep me from the octagon now, but they can’t keep me outside it forever.
Panic races my heart and shoots adrenaline through my veins. One hit broke a tooth, one infection caused a seizure, and one surgery destroyed my brain and ended my career. Twenty-four fucking years old and it’s over.
With my head in my hands, I will my pulse to slow. The heels of my palms press deeply into my eyes, and I savor the ache that it brings.
“Shit. What am I gonna do?” I drop my hands and stare blindly at the smeared mess of letters and numbers on my palm.
I forgot to transfer what I wrote on my hand, and it was only minutes ago. No wonder the UFL thinks I’m a liability. They’re worried I’ll walk into the octagon on fight night and within seconds forget what the hell I’m doing there.
They’re probably right. I’m dizzy with the impact of the truth.