32. Roman
32
ROMAN
I go numb as Lily walks out of the room.
I’m numb as I get in my mom’s car, and as I deflect her questions about my session ending early. I feel nothing as I enter my house and collapse on the couch.
How is it possible for a person to go from the highest high to the lowest low in the span of an hour? When I left for therapy, I thought I had everything: Lily, progress on my rehab, maybe even a vision of my future. I should’ve known it was too good to be true.
I thought I had already experienced the worst parts of this injury. I didn’t realize losing Lily was going to be my true rock bottom.
And then my phone beeps with a notification.
The alert is a custom sound. I set it up to only work for one specific sender.
The UFC.
Reaching for my phone feels different now than it used to. In the past, when I got an email from the promotion, it was with fight contracts and Fight of the Night bonuses—that sound used to fill me with excitement and sheer joy. Now, all I feel is confusion and an impending sense of grief.
Which grows as soon as I tap my phone screen and the email subject becomes visible.
Interest in Ultimate Fighter Coach Position
Steeling myself, I open the email.
Roman,
Thank you for your interest in the coaching position on the Ultimate Fighter reality TV show. We’ve reviewed your qualifications and considered the expertise and energy you would bring to the competition as both Head Coach and Assistant Coach, but unfortunately have decided that you wouldn’t be a good fit for the show. We believe a coach should not only be a mentor and wealth of knowledge for the fighters, but also an active and challenging training partner on the mat. So, despite your impressive fight record and reputation in the organization, for this reason we cannot accept you onto the show’s coaching staff.
We apologize for any disappointment this causes. We appreciate your interest and hope you’ll still watch and share the show.
Regards,
The Ultimate Fighter Production Team
And that’s when everything crashes down on me, like one final wave sending me down the abyss.
It doesn’t matter if I walk again—I’ll never fight again. I’ll never have anything to do with fighting. I’ll never really be able to coach, not without being able to fight. This email just proved that. Applying for the coaching position was my last-ditch effort at staying in the MMA world, my application sent in on a good PT day when my hopes were unrealistically high. I should’ve known it was too much to ask for.
And if I’m not in the fight world, what the fuck am I doing? Who am I? At twenty-eight years old, I don’t have a single thing to offer beyond my fighting skills. So, what am I supposed to do? What do I do with my time, and what do I do for money?
And then I think about Lily.
And I realize that even if I could figure out this job shit, I still wouldn’t have her .
So if I don’t have a purpose, and I don’t have Lily…then what’s the point of anything? What’s the fucking point?
In a now-unfamiliar move, I grab the whiskey from my kitchen cabinet. And then I yank the cork out and chug several mouthfuls right out of the bottle.
I just want oblivion back. I don’t want to exist in my reality anymore; there’s nothing here for me but pain.
Moving back to the couch, I wait for the buzz to hit me. When I get impatient, I take another swig.
But it’s still not working quickly enough. I don’t feel anything, and nothing is dissolving the pain and anger that are raging inside me.
I glare down at my useless legs. At the cause of every single problem in my life. “This is your fucking fault,” I growl.
With the hand not holding the bottle of whiskey, I make a fist and punch my thigh, ignoring the fact that I can actually feel the strike. I’m too lost in the moment to be rational.
“If it weren’t for you ,” I spit out, chest heaving, “I’d be the reigning champion of the world right now and the greatest light heavyweight in the history of the UFC. You took that from me. You made me into this… this… this degenerate . I’m useless . A fucking toddler can do more than I can.”
Saying that out loud triggers something in me. And in a fit of frustration, I slam the bottle of whiskey on the side table and adjust my feet in front of the couch. And then I push myself up to a standing position.
Fuck this. I’m going to walk, even if it kills me.
I sway slightly, but it’s my usual attempt at regaining my balance—the whiskey hasn’t hit me yet. It always takes me a second to feel like I have my feet under me.
The moment I’m stable, I squeeze my hands into fists. And then I will myself to move.
I barely make it three inches, and I wobble so hard afterwards that, for a second, I think I’m going to do a faceplant.
But I don’t. I’ve taken my first ever—unassisted—step.
I don’t think it fully registers at first. Nothing feels different. I still hate my reality just as much as I did a minute ago.
So, I clench my jaw, and I force myself to take another one. And then another. And another.
Four steps later, I’m not even three feet from the couch, and I have no idea how to turn around. I’m stuck. Frozen in a state of shock.
Which is when the whiskey takes effect.
The dizziness hits me so hard that I have to close my eyes to fight against it. But that just makes me wobble, and I extend my arms out to try to regain my balance.
It doesn’t work. Before I can even attempt to aim my fall toward the couch, I go crashing to the ground.
I let out a pained groan as I roll onto my back. I managed to keep from faceplanting completely, but I can already tell my elbow and hip are going to be bruised as fuck tomorrow.
Whatever. It’s not like any of this shit matters.
I stare up at the ceiling in utter defeat. I don’t even want to get up right now, because… what’s the point? I hate everything. I can’t do anything . And I don’t bring any value to anyone else’s life, so it’s not like I matter to anyone outside of myself. I should stay down here.
Not for the first time, I wish the injury had been a little more complete—a little bit more permanent. At least if I was dead, I never would’ve known what it was like to have everything and then lose it. To become nothing when I used to be everything.
I look toward the whiskey on the side table not far from me. I’ve never seriously thought about finishing the job, but feeling like this is why I started drinking in the first place. I just wanted to escape my thoughts, my reality , for a little while.
With that, I crawl toward the table, dragging my useless legs like a slug behind me. And I reach up to grab the bottle.
Fuck this. Fuck all of this. Nothing matters. Might as well lose consciousness so I don’t have to be in my own head. Maybe I can get drunk enough that I’ll do something so I don’t have to be in my own body .
With another swig of whiskey, I think, one can only hope .