Chapter 8
Kas
Seven thousand in cash winnings for one night of fighting. Light-fucking-work.
Aside from the money, the biggest takeaway from last night’s fight is a singular sentence uttered by Mari: You’re a lot hotter when you aren’t trying to be aggressively blunt.
I have to fight a smile every time that little sentence crops up in my mind. It reminds me of the phrase my mom used to reiterate: Mowa jest srebrem, a milczenie z?otem .
Speech is silver and silence is golden.
Not everything needs to be said. I find that if it does, there’s no need to embellish it with unnecessary words. I’ve also never had a woman tell me that I’m only attractive when I’m not blunt. In fact, it’s the opposite—zero complaints when I get straight to the point.
I shake my head in an attempt to erase the image of Mari giving me a judgmental once over, though I kind of liked the way her face scrunched up and her cute nose crinkled with annoyance.
Loosening my grip on the stack of bills in my hand, I separate it into piles. Some to Dash, some to the gym, and the rest goes to Devon to wash through his mechanic business where I’m “employed.” Fighting gives me a nice amount of pocket money when the stocks I invest in aren’t doing too well. It’s even nicer when it’s untaxed.
“You’re smiling a lot for someone who got clocked in the face,” Violet says, padding into the kitchen in yoga pants and one of Devon’s sweatshirts. She studies my bruised face and the cash sitting on the table.
“I was distracted,” I reply.
My opponent managed to land a hit on my eye the second I thought I saw Mari at the start of the fight. It’s like some sort of penance, as if looking upon something so divine has resulted in a threat to my eyesight. She kept moving around during the fight, and trying to locate her using the flash of her camera was nearly impossible. I had no idea where she was until I hopped onto the cage for a better view and found her almost crushed to death directly below me.
I make quick work of disinfecting the surface of the breakfast bar after placing the stacks of cash into envelopes.
“So you actually did steal Mari’s camera.” Violet nods toward its corpse on the counter near the back door leading to the yard.
“I didn’t steal it,” I say, washing my hands. “I just owed her after she almost died at my fight.”
“I feel so bad for suggesting that she go in the first place. Since when did it ever get that busy?” Violet hops onto the stool at the breakfast bar and swivels precariously.
I crack seven eggs into a frying pan I left to heat up on the stove a while ago. “It’s always dangerous there, people were bribing security this time.”
Violet raises her brows. “That explains it. I bet Dash isn’t hosting any more fights for a while then.” She picks up the black business card that’s next to the envelopes of cash and flips it around a few times. “Clive Ramirez,” she reads. “What’s this?”
“Just another offer to fight Fletcher Ward. They decided to send an intern to do an in-person offer last night to try and convince me to debut on the SFL 222 main card.” Violet looks at me with absent eyes. “Hello? Cze?? ?” I ask in both of my languages.
“You could’ve spoken in Polish and I would have understood more.”
I add some salt, pepper, and smoked paprika to the eggs, sprinkle some water in the pan, and cover it to cook. “Fletcher Ward is a fighter that’s pretty well known in MMA. He invited me to Vegas for a debut fight a while ago and his management won’t stop contacting Davina about it.”
I turn back to Violet where I’m met with an open mouth.
“Vegas?!” she squeals. I shrug, somewhat amused that her excitement is about Vegas and not the world-class fighter offering to versus me. Violet types something on her phone at record speed. “Undefeated fighter, Fletcher Ward, is known for giving smaller, lesser-known light heavyweights a chance at making it big,” she relays from whatever she’s reading on her screen. “Is that what you’ve been invited to do?”
“Yeah,” I reply.
“Vegas hosts some of, like, the biggest sports stuff in the country. They have baseball, football ... oh! And the thing with the cars that Devon likes.”
“Formula 1, Vi. The car thing is Formula 1.”
She pulls a face as if she’s never heard of it before. “Right, anyway, you couldn’t be less excited about this fight. It sounds like the opportunity of a lifetime.”
I shrug. I tend not to get too swept up in the professional side of things. It’s all rigged. Big promoters play favorites, and it’s just a giant circle jerk of fighters willing to embarrass themselves for a matchup. I’d only end up being a pawn in their game.
I catch Mari’s name flashing across Violet’s phone screen when I plate up two eggs from the pan onto some toast.
“Do you think Mari’s mad at me for inviting her to your fight?” Violet thanks me when I slide her plate in front of her. “Ugh, I was just trying to get her out of her breakup slump.”
“ Kurwa !” My tongue rolls the r for an unnecessary amount of time, reactionary after grabbing the pan a little too far down the handle.
“I know, I’m a terrible person,” she says, applying an ungodly amount of my homemade chili oil to her food.
“No, I burned myself.”
Mari’s single. I focus on dishing up my own food and disregard a feeling of relief that manages to worm its way into my stream of consciousness.
“Oh!” Violet ducks her head when she swallows a large bite and motions to me with her fork. “Devon told me to tell you that I offered Mari a room here. You know how I tell you that her ex sucks? Well, her living situation is still terrible .”
I resist the urge to rub my temples. Here? As in my home? I must’ve spoken out loud because Violet nods.
“You can’t just offer my home as some kind of refuge for people going through a breakup. We’d have every twenty-something within a twenty-mile radius setting up camp in my living room,” I complain.
Violet’s burst of laughter merges into a scoff. “It’s Devon’s home too,” she argues. “He said she can stay.”
“Why here?”
“Cheap rent, familiar people. Just until she gets back on her feet.”
Familiar people. So Mari hasn’t told Violet about our little changing room interaction last night or the bickering at the gym. Mari and I are as unfamiliar with each other as much as we are dissimilar.
“I like Mari, I think she’s cool, but I don’t know her well enough.”
Violet forks up a huge mouthful of egg and toast and shoves it aggressively into her mouth. “You know her enough,” she garbles through her food, using her pinky to push aside a piece of hair sitting in the corner of her lips.
“Let me think about it. Having someone I’m not that close to living here isn’t something I can just throw to the wind.”
Violet glares at me and waves her fork around as she lists off Mari’s qualities. “Mari’s harmless, kind, quiet ... she’s a dream roomie.”
I meet Violet’s pleading gaze with a firm one of my own. “I’ll consider it.”
“Fine! I’m sure you’ll budge.” She sighs, seemingly given up for now. “So, the fight. You gonna do it?” she continues, diverting the conversation.
She’s reduced her annoyance to a simmer, too curious about the fight to let her frustration get in the way of her nosiness.
“Not sure. It’s too early in the morning to decide.”
Truthfully, I had decided several hours after I found out about the gym’s profits.
Fighting is second nature to me. I step into the ring, and I step out with a barely conscious opponent left in my wake. It’s my choice to fight, always. And for the first time in my life, that choice has gradually morphed into something different and uncontested.
I want the gym to stay, I want Dash to keep his job, and I want my mentors to keep a business they’ve poured their blood, sweat, and tears into. If beating the shit out of a man who needs to have his ego pared down to nothingness is the way to do it, then so be it.
“Yes,” I say as soon as the line connects, hissing when the retracting tape measure I used to assess the height of my tomato plant nicks my finger.
“Good afternoon, Kas. You wanna pick up the phone with a hello? An explanation? A ‘how are you, my wonderful, one-of-a-kind manager?’” Davina drawls.
“Yes to the fight.”
“What fight? What the hell are you talking about? Turn that music down!” Davina barks. Her voice carries away from the phone as she shouts the command to someone, probably Dash or one of the other regulars at the gym.
“Fletcher Ward. Sign me up for SFL 222.”
Davina sucks in a sharp breath. “Are you fucking with me?”
“Nope.” I stand from my crouched position beside the bricked perimeter of my homemade vegetable garden and wander to a purple Hopseed bush on the far side of the yard.
“I knew you’d accept the offer. Oh my god, we don’t have any time to waste. You should’ve told me the second you decided! You and your lack of urgency,” Davina lectures disjointedly.
Her nails clack against whatever screen she’s typing on as I rattle off the number and email address from the business card. She cuts me off partway because she already has the details.
“I wasn’t going to accept.”
The clacking halts briefly, only to ensue with more aggression.
“Your lack of enthusiasm for every fight you’re offered is somewhat of a concern to me. This is career-changing, for you and the gym. Bill is almost ready to fully retire, after I give birth I don’t know if I’ll be able to manage you the way I do now. Most importantly, you’re the best fighter in the state. Gym shit aside, I want to see you kill it out there, alright?”
Desperation laces itself within Davina’s spiel. It’s like my vocal agreement to fight has encouraged her to scrap the indifferent attitude she’s had since mentioning the offer all those months ago.
“I know. Just tell me what I need to do and I’ll do it.”
The relentless Arizona sun singes the nape of my neck and nudges me to continue my phone call indoors.
Davina clears her throat. “The goal is to spend as little money as possible. On our side, social media management might be worth investing in, someone who can develop your brand,” she says.
Davina carries on spilling out words regarding the fight, yet I’m stuck on one thing she mentioned.
“Social media management?” I ask.
“It’s a miracle Ward’s team still wanted you without it. You’re a fucking ghost online, zero presence.”
I enter the kitchen, take one step into the living room, and spin on my heel when the revving of Devon’s bike from the garage carries into the front of the house. “So? Why would Ward’s team need me to be online? Can’t the SFL sort that out?” I ask, distancing myself from Devon’s noise.
Davina laughs dryly. “The SFL would be generously funding our stay in Vegas, they don’t care about controlling your socials. Our team is already small and out of me, Dash, and Bill, who will have the time to deal with your social media? I doubt you’ll do it.”
Valid answer and completely accurate. I use my phone for communicationand managing my financial portfolio—nothing more, nothing less. I know how people use social media; Devon spams Violet’s comment sections with lewd proclamations, and Ash apparently has a successful anime fan edit account. I don’t plan on doing anything of the sort.
“I don’t think we need the social media,” I say. “What the fuck would I post?”
I settle on the same barstool Violet occupied at breakfast.
“This is why you’re the fighter and I’m the manager. I should’ve been firmer about your socials as soon as you started appearing on everybody’s radar,” Davina mutters distractedly. “I’ll ask around to see if there’s anyone that might be interested. I don’t think it will be hard to find someone to be around us for a few weeks to promote and post your day-to-day stuff.”
Violet seems pretty good at phone stuff. She’s always posting her art online and has a little blue mark next to her name. She said it means she’s a verified creator, or something. I’m sure people who are bad at social media don’t get verified on it.
“I might know someone. Can I get back to you?” I ask.
“You have one day, I’ll be in touch.”
I hang up and blow out a slow breath. The distant throbs of a migraine beat at the rear of my eye. Less than five minutes after accepting the fight and it’s introducing jobs I’ve never thought about. Now I’ve volunteered to source a social media manager because I know one person who actively uses it. I don’t even know what a fucking social media manager does. Do they manage the servers or some shit?
“Fuck it,” I say, making my way out to the garage to seek out Violet and Devon.
I don’t know how many “fuck its” I have left in me, but I just hope it’s enough to get me through this fight.