Who is he to assume what or who is good for me?
“Gabriel, I don’t want or need a shoulder to cry on, a buddy, a friend, a girlfriend, or any of that goddamn bullshit. I’ve been alone for ten years and it works for me.”
“Does it?” Gabriel stands up straight, clapping me on the shoulder. “Now, you focus on fighting. Let Britt figure it out on her own. Go.” Gabriel waves me out. “You have another fight in two months, mid-September. I will meet with you and Britt in two days to discuss technique.”
I hurry out of his office, my mind reeling at the thought of seeing Britt in forty-eight hours. When I start to get excited, I shove that shit right back down.
Fuck it. If she needs time, that’s what she’ll get. Killer doesn’t give a fuck how long she takes to figure shit out or if she ever comes back. Killer doesn’t feel hope or get fucking butterflies in his stomach. I feel the walls snap fully back into place, strong and tall and impenetrable. As they should be.
I should have known Keller couldn’t still exist inside my hollow, blackened heart. Not after ten years of hard, cold living as Killer. Britt wants to be treated like everyone else?
You got it, sweetheart. I hope you’re prepared.
9
Britt
The phone rings from the other room. Ugh! I don’t have the energy to deal with whoever it is, so instead of answering, I bury my head under my covers where I’ve spent the last five days, too afraid to leave my apartment.
The memories dredged up in the hospital plague my dreams at night, my thoughts during the day, my every single moment. I can’t escape them. They’re so real—the smell of the gunpowder, the trickle of sweat down my back, the arms of another girl around me as we shiver with fear.
I exhale, my entire body shaking. A panic attack is on the horizon—the signs are all there. If I can just get to the gym, surrounded by my tough, strong fighters, the anxiety will recede. Unfortunately, I can’t seem to get out of bed to get there.
I need Keller.
The phone rings again, its shrill sound piercing the quiet in my gloomy apartment. When it stops, there’s a minute of silence before it starts up again.
My heart thrums, the familiar tightening in my chest making it difficult to pull air into my lungs. Stop it, Britt. The door is locked, no one else is here. On some level, I know I’m safe, but my brain refuses to accept the truth. Trembling, I force my legs over the side of the bed.
My mind is torn in half. I feel too much. I don’t feel enough.
Deep breaths, in… out, in… out.
I remember my physiotherapist, Nina, and her kind encouragement in rehab. Heel, toe. Heel, toe. Slowly, so slowly, I whisper the words, putting one foot in front of the other until I reach my phone on the dresser.
My hand shaking, I collapse onto the couch, curling up into a ball, cradling the phone. “H-hello?”
“Britt?”
“Max?” I’m not sure who I expected, maybe my mom, but the last person I thought would be on the other end of the line is Max.
“Are you okay? You haven’t been to work and I heard what happened with the hospital, and—”
His familiar rambling helps ground me in reality. The panic recedes somewhat, if only temporarily. “Max, I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine. Can I come in?”
“What?” Suddenly tense, my eyes dart over to my door. The three separate deadbolts are all in place.
“I’m outside. I brought you some food. I was… I was worried about you.”
Max brought food? Even after we argued at Keller’s fight? Strange, but he’s a familiar face. He doesn’t give me the comforting aura of safety the fighters do, but he’s here. I won’t be alone.
“Okay. I’m coming.”
I hang up and on wobbly legs, walk to the door, sliding each lock open.
“Britt!” Max comes inside, holding a takeout bag in one hand and pulling me into a hug with the other.
I stiffen in his embrace. It feels… wrong, weird. I wriggle out of his hold and lock the three deadbolts behind him. Max wrinkles his brow at the sight of so many locks, but says nothing.
“I uh, brought tacos from your favorite place.” He stares at his feet uncomfortably and holds out the bag.
“Thanks, Max.” Stop stressing, Britt. This is Max.
I relax, finally able to think somewhat rationally. Max isn’t a fighter, he can’t protect me, but having someone else here with me is better than being alone. I head into the kitchen and pull out a couple of plates, quickly dishing out the food.
Once seated at my tiny table, Max begins his interrogation. “So, are you okay?” His eyes take in my disheveled, unwashed appearance.
I should be embarrassed, but I could care less right now. Looks are the last thing on my list of things to worry about. “I’m fine. I’ll be back at work Thursday.”
“Not tomorrow?”