I’ve got a bank account filled with money, a new wardrobe that won’t even fit into my closet, expensive sunglasses that I’m ashamed to say I fucking love, and it’s only been one week since the fight.
For the first few days after the fight, I couldn’t even walk on the streets of London without getting stopped for a photo and autograph. The front doors of the training center were littered with paparazzi every morning when I arrived and every evening when I left. Caleb even had black-out curtains put in because they were snapping photos of us training.
All for me?
Seems ridiculous and at the same time gratifying.
I’ve done interviews, photo shoots, but the most shocking of all is the women. They show up at our penthouse, stop me on the street. There was even an actress who went through my publicist to see if I’d be interested in a date. If someone had told me six months ago that I’d one day be turning down some of the most beautiful women in the world, I’d have told them they’re insane. And if things aren’t crazy enough, Cameron’s already lined up my next two fights, warning me I’m being catapulted into superstardom.
It’s everything I ever imagined being a UFL fighter would be and so much more.
I’m fresh out of the shower and digging through my plentiful wardrobe when my phone rings. It’s probably Fleur asking where I am. I was supposed to pick her up for dinner and a movie ten minutes ago, but I had a telephone interview that ran late.
I pull a pair of charcoal gray slacks from my closet, snag my phone, and hit “accept.”
“If you’re calling to bitch because we’re gonna miss the movie, I swear I have a valid excuse.”
“No. Fucking. Way.”
I freeze, staring at the rainbow of dress shirts hanging in my closet.
“I thought for sure you’d died and the only reason I’m seeing your photos all over the Internet is because your training crew was pulling some kind of Weekend at Bernie’s shit.”
“Ryder, it’s been awhile.”
“Ha! Ya think?”
He’s pissed. I guess I can’t blame him. He can’t possibly understand what my life has been like.
I toss a navy-blue shirt on the bed next to my pants and grip my towel around my waist. “What can I say, man, I’ve been—”
“Swear to God if you say busy I’m hanging up. That’s what people say to people they don’t like. I’d rather you just tell me the truth.”
I pull out a black belt, socks, and search for a pair of shoes. I don’t have time for this shit. “That is the truth.”
I’m met with silence.
“I’m focusing on my fighting.” It’s the excuse I use with myself; surely Ryder will believe it too.
“Bullshit.”
Frustration pricks at my skin. “Look. I really have to get going. Did you call for a reason?”
“I’ve been trying to call you all week to congratulate you on your fight. Although, it seems from all the media coverage, you’re getting plenty of that, so I can see why you don’t need to hear it from me.”
My hand freezes on a pair of black Ferragamos. “You watched the fight?”
He laughs humorlessly. “Of course I did, asshole. We all did.”
We all. As in…
Walls crumbling.
Chest aching.
I scramble for a way to end it. “I appreciate that, but I’m out the door—”
“I heard. Late for a movie.”
“Right.”
“But too busy to text me back.”
“What’re you, my wife?”
He sighs. “I get it, Killian. You’re moving on. You’ve got a new life, new friends, new girl…”
Girl. He’s obviously believing the rumors. My mouth moves to correct him, but the memory of Axelle and Clifford kissing flashes behind my eyes, and I slam my lips together. Maybe it’s best they believe I moved on.
“I’m just sayin’ it sucks—”
“Believe what you want.” I run some sticky shit through my hair.
“Whatever, man. I’ll let you go.”
“Ryder, hold up.”
He doesn’t say anything, but I don’t hear him hang up.
“How’s um…” I wonder if she’s announced her pregnancy, if her belly is starting to swell, if Clifford got his shit together so he can take care of her. I fist my hand in my hair, begging myself not to ask, struggling to hold up the barriers, but feeling the words bubble up from my throat anyway. “How’s Axelle?” I haven’t said her name in so long, and yet saying it now feels more natural than breathing.
“Why do you ask?”
My stomach tightens with offense. How the fuck can he ask me that? She’s my best friend, was my best friend. Fuck him.
“Never mind—”
“I’m not interested in playing telephone between you and Axelle. You wanna know how she is; you clear your schedule long enough to call her and ask her yourself. You should know I didn’t have the heart to sell all your shit, so I put it in storage along with your Jeep. Dad said the UFL would cover the cost.”
I rub my eyes as guilt floods in. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“No shit. Have a nice life.”
The phone line goes dead, and I stare at the ceiling, feeling sick to my stomach.
Not only did I just lose one of my best friends, but I didn’t get jack shit as far as information on Axelle.
But she’s not my problem anymore. I wanted her to be my problem. She wanted nothing to do with that. What more could I do?