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“That’s all she said?” I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience… Every ounce of hope is slipping from my grasp.
“Basically.” He nods. “She said she would continue to let me know she was safe every so often, but she called me from a blocked number.”
“Did she say anything about me?” I’m barely able to push the question past my lips.
“She said she couldn’t handle talking about you, but to please tell you, Colton, and everyone else that she was sorry, she’s okay, and this is for the best.”
Jolting to stand, I kick the chair over in the office. I’m so fucking pissed that she’s convinced herself this is for the best. She didn’t even have the nerve to call me.
But honestly, I don’t know if I could handle hearing her voice unless it was telling me she was coming home.
“I’m not even going to make excuses for her or offer empty words to try to make this better. I can’t imagine what you are going through…but don’t let this tank you,” Lucian pleads with me.
“Can you just give me a few minutes?”
He nods in understanding and thankfully leaves me to the inner turmoil I’ve been living in this past month, with nothing but anger and betrayal fueling the fire.
Taking deep breaths, I try to calm myself down. Part of me is relieved to know she’s okay, but the rest of me is crumbling. An inexplicable amount of pain wraps around my soul, wanting to capsize all my broken pieces. And I have to decide whether I’m going to let it.
She’s not coming back.
One
Two Years Later
Adrenaline pumps through my veins at the familiar sound of Limp Bizkit’s “Break Stuff” streaming from my headphones. I stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows in my suite. Ignoring the mobs of people filing in, I focus my attention on the octagon.
My fight night routine always starts this way, with rock music bleeding into my ears while I picture myself targeting every weakness my opponent has and sending him home with a loss to his record.
Over the past two years, I’ve tried my hardest to pour my emotions into perfecting my skills. I started out with doing local tournaments and fight nights that Gunnar or Joey would enter me in. Before Snow’s accident, we were both dominating western North Carolina in our weight classes for jiu-jitsu and wrestling. I was in a constant state of training, and it was the only thing holding my sanity together. After my third win at one of The Queen City Brawls in Charlotte, I officially signed with Cliff and things really took off from there. Eight months later, I was signing another contract and fighting in my first official UFC fight. It’s a weird feeling when you achieve a dream that you’ve wanted for as long as you can remember, but you still aren’t truly happy.
Happiness is a term that feels further out of my reach than any other accomplishment these days.
I look to the section I know my friends and family will be sitting in. I love fighting in North Carolina because I always have the home team advantage with the crowd. Don’t get me wrong, the buzz I felt after winning my last fight in Vegas still hasn’t worn off, but there’s something about being on home turf.
Just like everything else she tarnished, when I look at those rows of reserved seating, I can’t help but envision the blue-haired beauty sitting in that exact spot the night I won my first fight and everything that transpired after. The pang of hurt in my chest is immediately followed by anger… Anger I’ll use to my advantage in the ring tonight.
I turn around, knowing my trainer is waiting on me so we can start my warmup regimen. There are four preliminary fights before the main event between me and another up-and-coming fighter from New Jersey. My trainer Joey is setting up the mats on the far side of the room so we can spar, but I notice my manager’s assistant standing by the door. It surprises me. We already fucked earlier today after weigh-ins, so it's unlike her to bother me again when she knows my routine.
“Sorry to bother you, Nox, but one of the preliminary fighters is insisting on speaking to you before the night begins.” I honestly have no clue about the lineup for tonight other than my own fight. I know how it is to want to talk to the fighters who are making a name for themselves when that’s all you want to do, but I won’t break my routine for anyone.
“I’ll talk to them after. I need to be in the zone right now and, honestly, so do they,” I say as I walk toward Joey, not caring what her response is. She takes the hint because, seconds later, I hear the door shut.
Joey and I go over strategies once again while warming up on the mats. This may be a charity fight, but I’m using this as practice for my next contract match. By the end of the second preliminary fight, I feel completely in my element and ready for the night ahead. Gunnar comes in at the end of the third prelim fight and gives me his typical pep talk. He has been my cornerman since fight number one. He passes me one of the boujee waters he likes to drink and connects his phone to the speaker.
Just as “Knuck If You Buck” blares through our suite, I catch a glimpse of purple braids in the octagon.
I typically don’t pay attention to the other fights before my own, because it takes me out of my head space, but the long lean legs and the way she throws the next southpaw punch, landing it across her opponent’s jaw, has me stopping in my tracks, gaze set on her.
No—No fucking way.
I shake my head in disbelief. My thoughts from earlier must be fucking with my brain.
She wouldn’t… She wouldn’t just show back up and do it like this.
The next glimpse of the fighter makes my heart stop. My knees buckle as I stumble back into the wall beside me.
“What the fuck… Is that Emerson?” Gunnar’s voice sounds as stunned as I feel right now. This can’t be real.
