Chapter 8 Fault Line
EIGHT
FAULT LINE
DECLAN
I'd been in my office in the recovery center since six that morning, moving through treatment rooms, checking in on athletes who trusted me with their pain and their futures.
This was my space. The place I'd built from nothing after fighting stopped being enough on its own. Rehab and recovery for fighters, athletes, anyone who'd pushed their body too hard and needed help putting it back together.
I was good at this. Good at reading bodies, understanding pain, knowing when to push and when to back off. Good at being steady while people fell apart and put themselves back together piece by piece.
It was easier than dealing with my own shit.
“Declan, you got a minute?”
I looked up from the resistance bands I'd been organizing for the third time in twenty minutes because my hands needed a task and my brain wouldn't shut up.
Ralph Stevens stood in the doorway, twenty-six years old, recovering from a torn ACL that had ended his MMA season early.
He was three months into rehab and making good progress, but the frustration still lived in his eyes.
“Yeah. What's up?”
“Just wanted to check the rotation schedule for next week. Sarah mentioned you might be adjusting my sessions?”
“Thinking about it. Depends on how your knee responds to the load work we're doing Friday.” I walked over, gestured for him to follow me to the scheduling board. “You're progressing well, but I don't want to rush it. Rush leads to reinjury.”
“I know. Just. Fuck, I want to be back in the gym.”
“You are in the gym. You're just not punching people yet.”
He laughed, bitter and tired. “You know what I mean.”
“Give it time,” I said, forcing my attention back to Ralph's face. “You do the work now, you come back stronger. You rush it, you come back weaker and do more damage.”
“Yeah. I know.” He shifted his weight, testing the knee without thinking about it. “Thanks, Declan. For being patient with me.”
“That's what I'm here for.”
He headed back to his session. I watched him go, then turned to find Rafael leaning against the doorframe with a coffee in each hand.
“Thought you could use this,” he said, offering me one.
I took it. “Thanks. You're here early.”
“Had a meeting nearby. Figured I'd stop in, see if you needed anything.” He took a drink of his own coffee, eyes scanning the space with the easy familiarity of someone who'd been here often enough to know the layout. “Place looks good. Busy?”
“Always.” I gestured toward the main floor where three different athletes were working through their routines. “Winter's rough on joints. Everyone's showing up with injured rotator cuffs and tweaked knees.”
Rafael had been helping with the business side of the centre for the past year.
Investment advice, connections to sponsorships, financial strategy that kept places like this afloat when insurance reimbursements were shit and most fighters couldn't afford to pay full price.
He was good at it. Made himself useful without being intrusive.
We'd met through mutual contacts in the fight scene, back when I was still competing regularly.
He'd offered advice that turned out to be solid, and over time that had evolved into a working relationship.
Not formal. Just the arrangement where he showed up, helped with things I didn't have time for, and never asked for more than I was willing to give.
“Speaking of which,” Rafael said, taking a drink of his coffee. “I ran into Troy the other day. Heard he's back in town, staying with you.”
“Yeah. He's staying with me for a while.”
“How's that going?”
“About as well as you'd expect.”
Rafael's mouth curved slightly. “That bad?”
“That complicated.” I set my coffee down, leaned against the counter. Tried to sound normal instead of like a man who'd spent the past week cataloging every detail of his stepson's body. “We're not fighting. But we're not exactly comfortable either.”
“He was gone a long time.”
“Yeah. You two talk long?”
“Just drinks. Caught up on mutual acquaintances, that sort of thing.” Rafael's expression stayed casual. “I didn't mention I work with you, by the way. Figured that might complicate things given your situation.”
“Probably smart,” I said. Meant it. The last thing I needed was Troy finding out Rafael had connections to me and deciding that was one more reason to be pissed off. “How'd he seem to you?”
“Tense. Drinking like he had things he didn't want to think about.” Rafael studied me with those dark, assessing eyes.
“That hasn't changed.”
“Didn't think it would.” He finished his coffee, set the cup aside. “How's Ralph doing? I saw him working with Sarah earlier. Knee looked better.”
I latched onto the subject change gratefully. Anything to stop talking about Troy. “He's progressing well. Still frustrated with the timeline, but that's normal. Kid wants to be back in the cage already.”
“They always do. Patience isn't exactly a fighter's strong suit.”
“No shit.” I pulled up Ralph's chart on the tablet sitting on the counter, scrolled through the notes. “We've got him on a twelve-week protocol. He's at week thirteen now, ahead of schedule actually, but I don't want to rush the load progression.”
Rafael leaned over to look at the screen. “What's he at now for resistance work?”
“Seventy percent bodyweight on the leg press. Single-leg work is still conservative, maybe forty percent. Balance training is coming along better than expected though. His proprioception is almost back to baseline.”
“That's good. Better than that last ACL case you had, what was his name? Rodriguez?”
“Yeah, but Rodriguez was an idiot who didn't follow protocols and tried to spar at week eight.” I shook my head, remembering the setback that had added another two months to the kid's recovery. “Ralph is smarter than that. Frustrated, but smart.”
“Smart keeps you in the game longer.” Rafael straightened, pulled out his phone to check the time. “Speaking of staying in the game, you still planning to take that fight next month?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Just making sure. I've got someone interested in sponsoring the card. Wanted to confirm you were still on before I finalized anything.”
“I'm on. Who's sponsoring?”
“Local gym equipment company. They want visibility with the fight crowd, figured having you on the card would give them credibility.” He grinned. “Apparently 'old man still kicks ass' is good marketing.”
“Fuck you. I can still put you on your ass.”
“Oh, I know. That's why I stay on your good side.” Rafael pocketed his phone, grabbed his empty coffee cup. “But seriously, the sponsorship's solid. Good money, minimal commitment. Just need you to wear their logo and maybe do a quick interview.”
“Fine. Send me the details.”
“Will do.” He tossed the cup in the recycling, then paused. “You need help with anything while Troy's around? I know having him back can't be easy.”
“I'll manage,” I said. Had been saying for a week now. Kept saying while I lost my mind one bathroom session at a time.
“I'm sure you will. But the offer stands.” He moved toward the door, then stopped and turned back. “And Declan? Don't beat yourself up too much over whatever's eating at you. Family shit is complicated. Always has been.”
I didn't know what to say to that.
Rafael seemed to take my silence as answer enough. He clapped me on the shoulder once, friendly and brief. “I've got to run. Call me if you need anything.”
I stood there holding my coffee, trying not to think about Troy sitting in a bar with Rafael, drinking and talking and being tense in ways I'd caused but didn't know how to fix.
I shook it off and finished my rounds.
By three in the afternoon I'd had enough. Told Sarah I was cutting out early, grabbed my shit, and headed home before I could talk myself into staying longer. Before I could admit that going home felt more dangerous than staying here.
The drive back felt too short. I wasn't ready to be in that house with Troy, wasn't ready to navigate whatever tension was waiting for me. But I pulled into the driveway anyway, killed the engine, and sat there for a minute trying to get my head straight.
A motorcycle I didn't recognize was parked next to my truck. Matte black sport bike, expensive-looking, still ticking as the engine cooled.
Troy had gotten a bike.
The realization settled in my chest in a way I didn't want to examine. At least now I'd know when he was home. At least now he had his own transportation instead of disappearing on foot and leaving me to wonder where he was, who he was with, whether he was safe.
Inside, the house was quiet.
I closed the door behind me and set my keys on the counter. That's when I saw that his clothes were everywhere.
His jacket was thrown over the back of the couch. His shirt was on the floor near the stairs. Boots were kicked off in the middle of the hallway like he couldn't be bothered to put them by the door.
The trail led upstairs.
I stood there staring at the mess. This was exactly the shit he'd pulled as a teenager. Coming home and leaving destruction in his wake, expecting me to clean up after him because he couldn't be bothered to act like an adult.
I grabbed the jacket, the shirt, the boots. Followed the trail upstairs, muttering under my breath about manners and respect and the fact that I wasn't his fucking maid. Trying to ignore the way my hands tightened on the fabric.
More clothes were in the hallway. Jeans were pooled outside his door. A sock was halfway down the hall like it had fallen and he hadn't noticed or cared.
I gathered everything, arms full of fabric that smelled like him. Leather and sweat and exhaust from the bike. Cedar from the cologne he wore.
His door was closed. I knocked once, loud enough to wake him if he was sleeping.
Snoring answered me before I opened the door.