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“Hey, there. Need some help?”
His furrowed brow cleared. “Fox?”
I grimaced. That damn name followed me like the plague. Everyone had a ring name, but mine wasn’t as awesome as some of them. Like Killer Cobra. Or even Mad Dog. Hell, even Giovanni Costas had been dubbed Grinder for his fighting style. Anything was better than Fox.
He gave an apologetic shrug. “Sorry. Tray, is it?”
“Yes. Tray. What happened?”
He glanced up and down the hall, then screwed up his. “I fell on the treadmill.” He frowned as if he was expecting me to laugh. “Lame, huh?”
“No. It’s happened to me too.” I set down my weight bag and knelt beside him. “Here, let me see that roll of tape. I have a lot of practice doing that, if you don’t mind?”
“No, no, go ahead.” He tossed the roll of tape at me.
I caught it one-handed and took over the task of wrapping his ankle, much more loosely than he’d been doing. “You’re going to inhibit the range of motion if you bind it that tightly. That’ll set you up for another injury. I’m assuming you’re going to continue your workout?”
“Uh, yeah, I guess.”
Obviously not. But I shared my suggestions for how to proceed with minimum risk for more complications anyway, as well as what he should do for aftercare. The entire time, he stared at me with a dopey smile. I couldn’t lie. It made me feel good to be admired. To have someone impressed with me for me and not my last name.
“Got all that?” I asked a few minutes later.
“Yeah, absolutely, Fox. I mean, uh—”
Rising, I grinned. “Don’t worry about it. Everyone calls me Fox.”
“Without getting their faces bashed in?”
I had to laugh as I stuck out my hand. “What’s your name, dude?”
“Kevin.”
“Nice to meet you, Kevin.” I slung my bag over my shoulder. “Take care of that ankle.”
“Sure thing. Hey, did you ever think of going into PT after—” He blushed and shook his head. “Not that you’re ready to retire. It’s not like you’re old yet.”
I laughed again. I liked this kid. “Amen to
that.”
“I mean, you’re still killing it in the ring. All I hear about is your fucking fight with Costas. Constantly. Which isn’t a bad thing—” He bit his lip. “Jeezus, all I do is stick my foot in it. I just meant you really know your stuff. You could help people. The ladies in the PT clinic are freaking trolls. Mean as hell.”
“Thanks, man. I mean it.” We bumped fists and I smiled. He had no way of knowing I’d actually considered taking a few PT courses, just to give myself some choices. I couldn’t do this forever. Didn’t want to. “Good luck with your ankle.”
“Thanks. Good luck with your fight.” He gave me a crooked grin. “You’re gonna kick Costas’s ass.”
I wasn’t as certain, but the idea of losing didn’t bother me as much as it once had. Still, if I went out, I wanted to go out on top. I just wasn’t sure I was ready to turn my back on the lifestyle. Yeah, it was rough and dangerous and gritty, and I met a lot of less than savory types. I also met guys like Kevin.
And honestly, where else would I be idolized? I was just an ordinary guy for the most part. Nothing special. Fighting made me someone. I’d grown addicted to the attention. To the women who threw themselves at me before fights. After them. Even if I hadn’t taken them up on their offers for a while now, I still enjoyed being asked. What man wouldn’t?
Truth was, having fans was like shooting a drug directly into your veins. Just the thought of removing the needle burned like a motherfucker.
I said goodbye to Kevin and headed outside to grab a bagel from the food cart directly across from the gym. Coach would be on me if he saw me horking down carbs, but he was busy working with the two kids who acted as mascots during fights. Ronnie and Neil were adorable and knew how to get the crowd pumped before a match. People found it hard not to respond to a pair of ten-year-olds with gap-toothed smiles who already kicked and punched like ninjas on crack.
In under a decade, they’d be in the cage, and I’d probably be toothless, marginally brain-damaged, and retired. It was a hopeful future to look forward to.
The snow had lessened finally, and the sun had come out to turn the gray sludge around my boots into slush. I strolled up the street, contemplating a second bagel. It was past noon and my muscles ached from my extra-long sparring session. A necessary evil, especially this close to my next match. My bout with Costas next weekend would be the biggest I’d had so far this year. The kid was rumored to be leaner and more dangerous than anyone who trained at The Cage. More likely to bring me down. Plenty of people had bet on that very outcome.
