“What was that conversation like?”
My brows pinched as I thought about it. “Strange.” Ashton laughed, spurring my own humor. “Very strange,” I suppled while giggling.
“You wanna be more specific?”
“The man called after twenty-seven years. That’s strange in and of itself.”
“For what?” Ashton asked, sitting up in his seat. “Why did he call you?”
What was left of the Margherita pizza was old news at this point. Cold.
I pulled in a deep breath through my nostrils, lengthening my spine. “Apparently, his daughter was an up and coming fighter—”
“Really?” Ashton gasped, clearly into this story.
“Mmmhmmm.” My head sprang up and down. “She was a huge ‘The Banger’ fan and wanted to meet me. The kicker is…” I did a table-drumroll with my hands. “Her father was a trained fighter, too.”
At my melodramatic recount of this pathetic story, Ashton blinked hard and successively. “No shit…”
With closed eyes, I shook my head. “Yeah. So, he found out how to get in touch with Cut, up in North Jersey. Cut must have told him he no longer trained me, and sent him to my agency—of course, in Cut’s customary ‘fuck off’ manner.”
Ashton still appeared stunned. “So, he was able to perform some type of research to find you?”
I nodded, going for my water. “For his daughter. Yes.”
“Then what happened?”
“Well, I spoke to him and heard him out. I was so shocked, I didn’t react. I told him I’d think about it and call back.”
“How long did you think about it before telling him to kiss your ass?”
I couldn’t look him in the eyes when I mumbled, “That was my intent, but it didn’t come to fruition.”
“Because?”
I swallowed hard. “Because I spoke about it to my therapist—well, a few of my friends and family first. Elle softly suggested I should speak to Trent Bailey. I learned when I did that he’d had a similar experience with his own father. The difference was TB’s father wanted money for his other child. My father wanted to make his daughter’s dream come true.”
“What did he ask, specifically?”
My senses kicked in. “Is this off the record?” I tossed my chin to his fancy recorder.
“I would hope you’d let me keep some of it.”
“I’ll think about that, and if so, what.” I was already committed to sharing the story since I’d done as much as I had. “He wanted me to train with her a few times. Maybe give her a few pointers.”
Ashton whispered breathlessly, “Tell me you didn’t.” His eyes were shooting bullets.
I shook my head. “Not at first. Instead of giving into my feelings and giving him the finger, I called my therapist. I’d been seeing her for years and learned a lot about myself…my shortcomings and insecurities…trauma.” My eyes blinked away. Okay, now this was a weird conversation to be having with Ashton Spencer. Honestly, I still couldn’t believe he was here—in my peripheral. I never thought I’d see him again. Never wanted to. “I had the opportunity at his attention and wanted to gain a better understanding of his side of the story.”
“Have you gotten it?”
“Maybe.” I shrugged dismissively. “Maybe I have and I’m in denial. He’s been in my life for four years, and I feel neither satisfied nor regretful.”
When I braved my eyes on Ashton, his were squinted and locked on me, chin dipped. “What does your mother have to say about this random connection?”
I cleared my throat, mouth suddenly dry as I reached for my water. “Nothing. She’s dead.”
“Oh.” That one word reply packed lots of emotion.
“You’re doing it.”
This time, Ashton blinked successively. “What?”
“Acting like you know me.” I took a sip while applying a fake smile.
Professional. I had to remain professional, per Elle, even when I wanted to ask Ashton to disappear.
“I never said that.”
“It’s in your performance, minus what you’re not saying.”
He raised his hands defensively over the table. “Tori, listen. I’ll admit: it’s wild running into you again after all these years, but it’s not ideal for me anymore than it is for you.”
My face tightened. “Why? Is it still hard for you to take me seriously? Because I’m not your type?”
“What?” His face heated with disdain. “You don’t know me. You have no idea what my type is.”
My eyes burst wide and I palmed my face. “I didn’t mean…romantically. I meant as a random, interesting individual.” When he didn’t answer, my aggression slipped. I was ready to go in for the kill. Who did he think he was—who did Ashton think I was? The same nobody Tori from his little school? I didn’t think so.
“By the looks of what you brought out here with you to ‘work’ in Kamigu, I see your type. At least one of them—”
“Why is this fight special to you? And don’t give me the generic, ‘it will be my last’ bullshit.”
I couldn’t help my snicker. What I wasn’t willing to reveal a couple of days ago during our first sit down, I could easily share now.
“Because behind this victory is me building my family. You know: marriage and kids with someone whose type I am. Someone who values me, respects me—that type of thing.”
Maybe I was harsh, or maybe I’d given off too much energy because Ashton’s only response was a subtle head-nod that could have meant many things.
Enigmatic annoying human…
Some things about Tori McNabb may have changed in terms of her personality. She was better spoken, paced with her words, and exact with negative emotions. Sitting with her last night had been a test of my patience, and hers toward the end. When I thought we’d eased into a mutually comfortable space of dialogue, something triggered her anger. And as much as I fought to stay focused, her anger triggered my own by the end of our conversation.
Nonetheless, as I observed her this afternoon in the gym, one thing about her that evidently hadn’t changed was her athleticism. Today was my third time observing the flow of her training. I’d been amazed by her focus and strength back at BSU, but seeing it had only improved at age thirty-one awakened my athletic competitiveness. While I was still fit and worked out regularly, I hadn’t competed in anything since my Blakewood days. Sitting here watching her practice her head movements to set up several counter-jabs while sparing reminded me of what that fire when practicing or conditioning felt like.
Tori was great at conditioning. A few days ago, her team had her do cardio and focused on her hand speed and footwork, sometimes using weights. The last session I sat in on, Tori performed ten circuits consisting of pushups, mountain climbers, shadow boxing, bicycle kicks, and punch hops. Just as in Blakewood, Tori was obedient, laser focused, and with an impassive expression. Rarely did she show signs of fatigue or pain. That fact compelled me to wonder how her ability to maintain a mask translated to the way she handled stress.