Chapter 23 #2
“One of these.” He motions to the mini tower of protein powders arranged at the center of the table, plastic tubs of varying shapes and sizes with near pornographic imagery of muscular male bodies, all flexed and slick with oil.
One of the cotton-candy combovers leans in. The nicer-vibed of the two. His nails are neatly rounded and buffed shiny. “If one of these were tainted, wouldn’t other fighters at his camp test positive?”
“He trains at a very small gym down by the docks,” I explain. “But if you increase the dragnet and test every fighter in the UFC, I bet we’ll see a correlation of positive results with at least one of these supplements.”
“You want us to expedite drug tests for every MMA fighter in the league just to prove one fighter’s innocence?” Mean Cotton Candy this time, his perpetual frown creased into his jowls. “A fighter whose track record for breaking league rules has stagnated his career for years?”
“Objection,” Dad murmurs, not looking up from his legal pad. “Irrelevant.”
“Past infractions are absolutely relevant when our decision is based on the ongoing conduct of your fighter,” Mean Cotton Candy says, sitting back in his chair and interlacing his fingers.
His nails are too short, riddled with hangnails and bitten to the quick.
“Unless you have more to show us, I think we’re done here. ”
The door opens and Maya breezes in wearing a navy blazer over a long bohemian skirt and platform Doc Martens.
“Sorry I’m late. Traffic was murder,” she says brightly, scraping back a chair. She leans over to kiss Dad on both cheeks and takes her time pouring water from the carafe, and then adding a sachet of fizzy pink Emergen-C.
“And you are?” Mean Cotton Candy barks.
“Maya Ophelia Spencer,” she says, raising a limp wristed hand as if someone might kiss it. “I swear to all the things.”
The court reporter looks to the officials for guidance. They shrug, and Maya is added to the record.
“You owe me big,” Maya whispers. “I’ve sampled so much fucking protein I’m pissing crystals.”
“Ms. Spencer has been assisting us on this case,” Dad says, clearing his throat, “to … expedite matters.”
“Yep,” Maya says, opening the folder. “I called in some favors at the county drug lab. They agreed to test a few new urine samples overnight.”
“Whose urine samples?”
Maya sits up straighter in her chair. “Mine.”
Looks are exchanged, and I pinch the bridge of my nose, covering a smile.
“Anyway,” Maya continues, “after choking down some seriously disgusting smoothies, I finally found the culprit.” She selects a small navy tub from the counter and pushes it forward on the table.
It’s the most inconspicuous one, like when the Holy Grail was a modest clay chalice in Indiana Jones.
“After ingesting this particular supplement, my own urine popped positive for the same level of ostarine as Danny’s.
Now we’re both unwitting ostarine junkies. ”
Danny looks from Maya to me, his eyes wide.
Sperm Eyebrows leans forward and snatches the tub from the table, placing thick bifocals on her nose.
“My buddies at the state lab have already contacted the manufacturer,” Maya says.
“They’ve admitted their equipment formerly processed ostarine, despite not citing this on the warning label.
A recall has already been issued while they confirm our findings on their end.
” Maya pushes the manila envelope across the table.
“It’s all in here, including a personal letter from the manufacturer encouraging you to let Danny back on the fight card.
” She leans in, lowering her voice. “She’s a big Lothario fan. ”
“Off the record,” Sperm Eyebrows orders.
Everyone stands, except Danny.
“What does this mean for the fight?” he says, his apprehension still not overtaken by relief.
“If true, it means you’re back on the card,” Shiny Buff says. “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Kekoa. It’s a rare thing to go up against the USADA and win.”
A smile spreads slowly across Danny’s face, and he gets up to hug Maya, wrapping his gigantic arms around her.
“Oh, wow. Hello,” she says, grinning. He lifts her up and her boots dangle as he spins her around, her bohemian skirt twirling in the air.
“Maya Ophelia Spencer, you’re my hero,” Danny says, setting her down.
“No, I’m not,” she says, smiling warmly at me. “Lauren is.”
Danny’s eyes meet mine. “Thank you, Lauren. I really am grateful.”
“You’re welcome.”
My anger has melted completely now to small droplets of sadness … because that’s what it really was all along. I’m about to ask him to go for a coffee, or maybe a forbidden pastry. Anything, so we can clear the air and talk.
“I packed up your things,” he says, before I get the chance. “Your suitcase is waiting at the Met’s front desk. I would have had it sent to your loft, but I didn’t know the address.”
“Oh.” I swallow hard. “I’ll stop by this week to get everything.”
Danny searches my eyes for a beat, but I cave to the fear and break contact first.
Fuck. Why do I always do that?
Danny nods. “Well, goodbye.”
“Bye.”
He thanks my father again and leaves the room.
“What the fuck are you doing? Go after him,” Maya hisses.
I shake my head. “You heard him. He packed up my things. He’s just a client now. Like he should have been all along.”