My eyebrows must fly up into my hairline. “A full workup?” No one gets a full workup unless they’re going to fight in the league. “Is he an amateur?”
Max shakes his head. “Officially yes, but he’s fought before. Greg says he’s been training and fighting overseas somewhere. Thailand or something. The FLA wants him, offered him a contract, so he’s here.”
Thailand. Muay Thai then. I’ve studied all the fighting styles to know what to watch for to prevent injury.
“What time will he be here?” There’s a lot to do to prepare for a full workup. Professional fighters need me to analyze everything they do, looking for missteps or poor posture, which can cause injuries to muscles or bones. Plus cataloguing any previous injuries with a plan to protect those vulnerable places from repeat damage.
“Early. Seven, I think?”
I panic, staring at Max. “I can’t be ready for a full workup by then. That’s twelve hours from now! I’ve never even seen this guy fight.”
“Don’t worry, Britt. Gabriel knows there’s not enough time for you to prep everything for tomorrow. Just meet with the guy, talk to him, and come up with a plan later.” Max winks, his attempt at humor falling flat. I take my job seriously and I don’t like to fail.
Scowling, I grab my laptop bag one-handed, the other hand balancing the ice pack on my head. “I’m not happy, Max.”
He follows me out, laughing, as I lock the door to my office. “I know, Britt. I know.”
Max kindly drops me off at my tiny Westside apartment, sparing me from walking home in the sweltering early evening humidity. Atlanta in June is unbearably hot. Yet as I stare at the door to my apartment, knowing I’m about to be alone, a cold shiver ripples through me.
“See you tomorrow, Britt.”
“Bye, Max.” I wave as he drives away.
Once inside, I quickly lock the three separate deadbolts on my door and start my exhausting nightly routine. Tonight, it only takes an hour to slow my racing heart, to silence the panic in my head, to stop the tingling spread of anxiety in each of my fingers and toes. Once I’m as calm as I’ll get, I haul myself off the floor and force myself to eat.
After dinner, I swallow down the handful of pills necessary to keep the seizures and headaches away. It’s why I only drive occasionally, why I’m concerned I hit my head at work. Anything can trigger a seizure, and doctors aren’t sure if having a big one will cause enough damage to my brain to cut off my hard won independence. It’s been years since I’ve had a seizure, but I don’t want to take a chance.
One at a time, I put a bitter tablet on my tongue and swallow it with a gulp of water until they’re all gone.
I take a quick shower, washing my hair, pretending not to feel the raised and twisted scar behind my left ear and being careful to avoid the new lump on top of my head. I silently curse Max and his carelessness, but can’t stay angry. He means well even if he doesn’t think sometimes.
Tired, I climb into bed and turn on some mind-numbing program to keep my thoughts off of the fact that I’m alone and vulnerable before flipping off the light.
With being anxious over my usual torments, plus the stress of having a new fighter I’m supposed to workup, it takes forever to fall asleep. When I do, it’s the same as always. Pieces of the fateful day almost ten years ago, teeny, tiny flashes of images but never enough to trigger the memories to return, pop in and out of my mind all night long. I can only pray they never break through. I’m not sure I can stay sane if they do.
Killer
On the front step of my high-rise condo, I pull up the hood of my lightweight sweatshirt, huddling down into the fabric as I begin to jog to my new training center. Today is hot as fuck, but I’m more comfortable burning up than going without my hoodie. Being back in the U.S. still feels weird after living overseas for almost a decade. The sights, the sounds, hell, even the language seems unfamiliar.
Not even a little bit winded five miles later, I enter the enormous facility I’ll be calling home for the next six months as I prepare to become the newest fighter for the FLA. One step into the building and I know this place is serious about training. It’s not quite seven in the morning and the gym is buzzing with activity.
“Hello. You must be Mr. Bishop.” A tall, incredibly fit woman with bright blue hair steps out from behind a counter, extending a hand.
I nod and grunt. “Yeah.”
She gives me a wide smile. “I’m Roxanne Frasier but everyone calls me Roxie. Nice to meet you.” She’s beaming and happy until her eyes meet mine beneath the hood of my sweatshirt. Roxie flinches. The movement is subtle, but it’s there. I drop my gaze.
Reluctantly, I pull my hand from the pocket of my hoodie and shake hers, but don’t add anything more to the conversation. My reputation for being an asshole hopefully preceded me because she doesn’t question my lack of social skills or my silence.