I nod and leave with more thoughts than I came here with.
7
LYRA
The warehouse looks the same as it always does before a tournament, like something forgotten by the city, left to rust and rot just enough that it becomes useful again.
I pull my car around to the back. Three duffel bags ride shotgun with me, packed to the brim with stuff from Frank's Gym where I'm stationed in between these damn tournaments. Sometimes they host them there, but when the event's bigger or the organizers want more privacy, we end up here.
I step out and sling the first bag over my shoulder. The air smells rancid around here, like moldy brick and rust.
I hate this place.
Still, it's better than my previous job, and it's all for my goal.
Inside, the front lights buzz like a swarm of bees. I don't bother looking for more light, I just head toward the back room where I'll set up the med bay. It's small, tiled, one dusty cabinet, a tray, folding chairs, and an original sink that may or may not work depending on the mood it's in.
I drop the duffel bag on the floor and turn on the lights, revealing rusty brown patterns where blood and God knows what else has seeped into the grout over the years.
My shoulders ache from carrying the supplies. Two more bags to go. I roll my neck, cracking it, and head back to my car.
As I cross the building again, I hear voices.
Shouting. I can tell it sounds like sparring, as the grunts and the rhythmic slap of fists hitting training pads get louder.
Men. Always men. I keep my eyes forward, focusing on getting the rest of my gear. The sooner I set up, the sooner I can lock myself in my little blood-stained room.
Both remaining duffel bags sit by my car. I grab the handles, hefting them up. One's heavier than I remembered.
"Fuck," I say, adjusting my grip. I tell myself I can carry both bags at once, one trip, even though I know damn well I shouldn't.
Twenty steps inside, my fingers start to cramp. I set the heavier bag down for just a second, flexing my hand.
That's when I hear it, a sharp command bouncing through the warehouse.
"Not like that," someone yells sharply. "Like this."
I glance over despite myself.
Inside the ring, a few men are sparring. One holds pads, the other throws punches while another looks on.
I'm drawn to the one hitting the pads. He's shirtless and his back is covered with tattoos flowing over defined muscle. Sweattraces the contours of his shoulder blades as he moves. He's demonstrating something to another fighter, his movements fluid, powerful.
My mouth goes dry.
Fuck.
Fighters are arrogant assholes. But goddamn, do they have the best bodies.
I shouldn't be watching. I know better.
But the way he moves, the raw athleticism, the controlled violence, sends a shameful heat through my core.
Still, I linger for a moment before I force myself to look away. These men are not for me. They're walking embodiments of everything I hate, everything I'm trying to escape. Beautiful or not, they're just flesh I'll eventually have to stitch back together.
I pick up the bag again and start walking, but my eyes betray me, and then, like a fucking idiot, I turn my head just enough to keep watching and accidentally slam one of my bags into some metal folding chairs.
The crash echoes like a gunshot, four or five chairs falling to the ground.
