“Ryder, can we please get a statement—”
“You’re his coach, Andrew Boyden. How does it feel to replace Mike Lowers—”
A fan in the background cheers, “Fuck yeah, my dude!”
Another cries out, “Fuckyou, man! Legends and Beckett are top dog now!”
It’s a frenzy of sounds, cameras, and swarming people. I follow Ryder’s lead as he ignores them all.
Pure extravagance greets us as we enter the building, the hysteria left at the front door. I give a quick shake from the drastic changes in temperature, craning my head to take in the architecture. Even the staircase is like some ancient relic of the twenties, with stone stairs and gilded railings. Dark red rugs line the marble floor as golden lights surround us. Mingling conversations echo against the stone, sporadic laughter creating an air of excitement.
Where most people wouldn’t recognize Ryder on the street, everyone knows him here.
As I stick close, I see him asRyder, the fighter that this slice of the world either loves or loves to hate.
And just about twenty-four hours ago, that man’s hand had been in my underwear, two fingers sliding in while he watched my face like he wanted to imprint it in his memory.
Fuck. What have I seriously gotten myself into?
Andrew walks ahead with purpose, passing through the foyer, where everything has been turned into a grand event with food and drinks.I wonder if Dad saw me at some point. I probably squinted the whole time and made faces.
The point of the night is to celebrate past victors, support local charities, promote growing gyms, and for all the fighters to make their formal presentation before the actual fighting. It’s also where each participant will sign in and confirm they are ready to brawl in Barclays tomorrow. Some arrive, sign in, and leave, while others remain to meet the press, brand representatives, and other sponsors.
By six-fifteen we make it to the main area, which is a large, tall room lined with booths. Andrew and Ryder leave to mingle with sponsors. I say I’m heading toward the bar, as they know Tiffany is here tonight, and that’s where we agreed to meet.
I notice that other women are dressed similarly, although half of them are as beefy as Ryder—female fighters coming to show themselves off. Warlord flirts with having a female competition after this one, and I consider thinking about getting the gym to sponsor one; I’ve always liked the idea of having a female fighter around.
I’m wading my way through the crowd when a clean-shaven man in his forties approaches me, waving to catch my attention, then shaking my hand once he has it. “Hi, Julie, is it? My name is Rob. I’m a sponsor for Flight Athletics. Spoke with Boyden and Ryder a few minutes ago and thought I’d come to meet you since you’re the other half of the gym. He pointed you out and I wanted to flag you down before I lost you.”
I blink a few times, not expecting someone to approach me as the other half of the gym. Managing sponsors isn’t something I like to do, as Andrew is honestly better suited for it.
“Yes, it’s nice to meet you, Rob. And yeah, um… well, yeah, I’m Julie. Julie Stevens. My brother, you know, was a fighter and started Rhino MMA a few years ago,” I say, completely caught off guard. “I’m also tagging along as his sports therapist for the fights, especially in preparation for Hell Week.”
Rob deeply nods. “Ah, that’s unfortunate about your brother.” Then he smiles. “I like the confidence, though, about Ryder making it all the way to Hell Week. I’m looking forward to seeing that man fight again.”
“Yeah, I think we all are,” I reply, politely smiling.
He looks down, rocking back on his heels. “So, you and Boydenbothrepresent the gym for the sake of negotiations? I’m just not quite sure if we should all sit down to chat or if it’s mostly Boyden that handles that. I want to speak to him later, and need to make sure I don’t leave you out.”
I clench my jaw, able to see Andrew’s conundrum. “Well, right now, Andrew is the head coach and has the contracts with all the fighters. I own the gym building and the name, with him as my head coach,” I clarify, flipping the script and owning it for what it really is.
It feels freaking weird to say that Andrew ismycoach.
I mean, if Andrew left tomorrow, I’d have an empty gym and a useless name, but it’s true—he works for Rhino MMA LLC, which I own.
“So, you’re the actual owner?”
I blink rapidly.Well, shit. Yeah, I am. But I’ve never once considered it in such a formal light, especially not as a source of power. “It’s mostly structured this way because of my brother’s passing. But Andrew is really the one who manages all of this.”
Rob gives another smile. “Sounds great. I just wanted to clear that up when I spotted you. And hey, good luck with Ryder.”
He shakes my hand once more before dispersing back into the crowd, like a golden retriever eager to meet everyone. I stew on what I’ve just told that man. I can hear Jeremy telling me this is leverage. I own the building and the name, which employs Andrew. Sure, the coach has the leverage of the fighters, but I know he doesn’t want a new gym right now. Especially if Ryder is stuck in this area.
It’s the boost of confidence that I need, re-orienting how I see my position. Mygrief, not an actual initiative, is what held onto the gym name for so long. But what if Idoturn this into an enterprise? What if I focus on finding more fighters? It’s my gym, dammit. I can bring on female fighters if I want.
Heading to the bar to share this epiphany with Tiffany, I spot the petite blonde who is wearing an orange dress, and I grin; Rhino’s primary color is orange.
To my shock, she’s talking to another fighter.
