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“Brynlee,you’ve got to get out of the car.”
My daughter dramatically shakes her head no. Her wild strawberry-blonde curls bounce against her face as her nose scrunches up. “No. Uncle Jax was mean yesterday. I don’t want to see him.”
I swear my kid can hold a grudge like no one I’ve ever met. “Brynn, Uncle Jax was just kidding. Now, come inside.”
She squeezes her teddy to her chest. “Daddy, he said girls can’t fight.” She gasps in horror. “And he meant it.”
Jesus Christ. She’s three years old and has perfected indignation.
“Girls can fight, Daddy. Aunt Immie said so.”
I press the unlock button on her five-point harness car seat and hold my arms out for her to jump in. “I told Uncle Jax that girls can fight just as well as boys can, baby. You can do anything a boy can do, and don’t you ever let anyone tell you, you can’t.”
She throws herself into my waiting arms and places her little hands on either side of my face, squishing my cheeks together. “Will you kick his ass for me, Daddy?”
“What did I tell you about repeating things you’ve heard in the gym, baby?” I grab her pink book bag from the back seat and slam the door shut before we push through the front doors of Crucible.
Brynlee goes to pre-school in the mornings, then comes to the gym with Imogen or me most afternoons. It’s been a long week, made even longer by the temper tantrum she threw on the way to the gym today.
It’s Friday. I get it. She’s tired.
So am I, kiddo.
So. Am. I.
Once we’re through the doors, Brynlee wiggles to be put down and makes a beeline for Imogen, who’s sitting behind the front desk. I glance around the main room, making sure everything looks good. Jax is working with Hudson in the cage to my right while a few guys work on the heavy bags.
The area to the left houses all our weights. At the top of the steel stairs in front of me, we’ve got treadmills, bikes, rowers, and stair climbers. And I’ve transformed the space in the back of the building into a private room for classes.
Imogen, Rylie, and I grew up in this building.
My father’s blood, sweat, and tears built Crucible and the St. James family name, one fight at a time. I trained here for years before I joined the marines and came back as soon as my enlistment ended.
Once I make it over to Imogen, she rips a hot pink sticky note from her pile and slaps it against my chest. “The bi—” she starts but catches herself, attempting to watch what she says in front of my daughter, who loves to repeat all the bad words she hears in the gym. “The big bad female dog called again. Call her back, Cade. Or get a restraining order. But you need to do something. Because I’m tired of her voice.”
I pull the note from my chest and see Daria’s name and number scratched across it. She’s been calling since Hudson won the title a few months ago, probably trying to get more money out of me. After she left Brynlee with me as a newborn, I paid her a lump sum in what she referred to as maternity fees. Then she signed away all her parental rights.
Never to be heard from again... right?
Wrong.
I didn’t hear from her again until she ran out of money a little over a year later. Everybody told me not to give her any. That if I gave in then, she’d never stop.
Guess I should have listened.
“Come on, Hud. You can’t go soft on me now. You’ve got a title to defend. Show me you’ve got this.” I watch him grapple with Dave, one of the navy guys who works for me now. When I came home after the marines, having Crucible as an outlet helped me work through the metric ton of shit I brought home with me.
Before I bought this place from my dad, I worked with him to start a program for vets with PTSD. It’s grown since then. Now we’re able to offer free classes for vets three times a week. It’s not much, but if it can help them feel like they’re a part of something while they reacclimate to civilian life, then that’s a start.
Dave came to us last year, haunted by ghosts. He shows promise. But he’s still working his way back. “Come on, man. Throw your leg over and watch where your hand goes.” I grab the metal cage and yell again as my shoulder gets tapped.
Turning, I see my sister behind me, her arms crossed over her green Crucible tank. “You’ve got company.”
“Shit. Daria?” I look around, dreading the inevitable.
“No.” Imogen steps to the side and clears my line of sight. “Scarlet Kingston wants to speak to you.”
Like a kick to the solar plexus, there she stands.
