Unfortunately, phone logs don’t lie.
Not long after we managed to get Kody back in our lives, I took a long look at myself. It’s amazing how that happens when the only woman you’ve ever loved dismisses you as a joke.
Maris Ione Smith holds my soul, and I dare not tell her. After all, I’m just a waste of people’s hopes and dreams.
Isn’t that what my mother implied by leaving when she left me in Alaska all those years ago and drove away?
“No,” I call out. “If you hold your fist like that, you’re going to snap your thumb off in a heartbeat the minute you connect with your opponent’s body.” Glancing around, I find the perfect person to help the young boy. I let out a piercing whistle, and all activity in the gym ceases. “Tatum, get your ass over here and help Scott for a few. You need a break anyway.”
Tatum spits his mouth guard into his taped hand before shooting me a grin that reminds me a little too much of Jennings. “You got it, Nick.” He bounds barefoot off the elevated ring after exchanging a quick handshake with the guy he was sparring with. “Thanks for working with me.”
“No problem, Tatum.” The trainer turns to another member of the elite team.
Tatum makes his way over to where we are, and I do my damnedest to suppress my lips from twitching when I recall Kody’s almost desperate call to keep him away from his baby sister, Sandra. Despite the beating he took early on that kept him out of training for a few months, the kid’s on a fast track to become one of the best. Stepping back, I observe his training techniques with Scott. The few finer points I acknowledge in myself are evident in the young fighter as well as so many more. I look forward to being a part of his team in the future.
Soon, he’s done patiently explaining the reasons for certain hand positions. Clapping both of them on the shoulders, I inform them, “Another ten, then Scott, hit the bag for kicks,” before I move over to help another struggling teen.
My heart clenches when I approach Darin. He’s sporting a massive black eye I damn well know he didn’t earn here. Like any after-school and summer programs, I report every injury. The idea of teaching kids mixed martial arts is to instill discipline they may not receive at home, not to get them hurt. But accidents happen just the same.
God, so many of them are like me after that last summer in Alaska. Lost. Willing to do anything to believe that dreams exist. In all the glory, I never forgot where I came from. And one night, I picked up the phone, reaching out to someone I trusted. I asked him if it was crazy to bring the kids in to seek a healthy outlet while there’s so much chaos in their lives. I hadn’t spoken to him in almost a year at that point. It’s empty, Jed. The win. But I drive to the center to train, and there’s clusters of these kids who I think would die if I invited them in. Most of them will never be champions, but what does that matter? God, life feels so fucking empty lately.
Maybe because there’s more to life than a fight or a fuck? There’s the people who would lay down their lives for you if you’d just open your eyes? Jed’s voice, silent for so long, came through the text loud and clear.
Yeah. There’s that.
Welcome back, brother. And I think it’s a shitload of work, but you’re the perfect guy to take it on.
I made Jed swear not to say anything. To the casual observer, Razor is just a training academy for the most elite MMA fighters. But inside its walls, it’s much more. It’s a safe place where the walls come down. Laughter rings out on a frequent basis. Warm meals are served. Hell, I have a swear jar on the level where the kids train. And above all, trust is built and never broken.
It’s the most sacred of vows.
“Excuse me, Nick?” my assistant, Charmaine, calls from the gym doors. She waves her arm back and forth.
I jog over. “What’s up?”
“You wanted me to let you know when the new recruitment files came in. Everyone’s sent everything over.”
“Great. Thanks.” I offer her a smile complete with dimples and flutter my eyelashes.
She reaches up and pinches my ear. “Don’t you dare ask me to watch those videos that Oliver, Evan, Veronika, and Royce sent for you. Harold had to take me out for margaritas the last time. Why your recruiters have to cause blood to fly, I’ll never know.” Charmaine, a spry sixty-two, has been dating her man friend since I hired her ten years earlier.
I disengage her fingers from my ear before wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “To make certain their resumes aren’t fluffed up,” I remind her.
She huffs but doesn’t protest. “Oh, I forgot. Ollie’s on the phone.”
I stop in my tracks. “Now?” A tingle of awareness shoots down my spine.
“Yes. I’d have just left the videos, but then he called and said this was important.”
The tingle turns into a chill. “Can you bring me something when you come back from lunch?” I normally wouldn’t make the request as it’s nowhere in Charmaine’s responsibilities to feed me, but I have a feeling I’m going to miss my chance to get away from my desk
“Sure. Do you think everything’s okay?”
“No.” Then I press a kiss to the top of her silvery-white head. “I think it’s going to knock me on my ass.”
“Nicholas. Language!” she snaps. “We’re on the children’s floor.”
I pat my workout clothes for my pockets. “Sorry, Charmaine. Add it to what I owe you for lunch.”
“Don’t think I won’t, you heartbreaking menace,” she warns.
Knowing damn good and well she’ll hold me to it, I head off in the direction of my office, curious about what Oliver has found.
Nicholas
“Did you say Juneau?” I repeat into the phone. Leaning back into my chair, my eyes roam the watermelon-tinted peaks I can make out in the distance. But in my mind it’s not the beauty of the Sandia Peaks, nor the excitement of adding a new elite fighter to Razor Academy.
It’s her—the idea of possibly seeing her.
Maris Ione Smith.
I listen with half an ear to my scout as he extols the attributes of this guy who decided to try professional fighting. “What does he do?”
“Well, he worked for a while for this touristy thing called the Great Alaskan Lumberjack Show. I think you’ve heard of it.”
No freaking way. Immediately, I pull up the website of the show where day after day for four summers, my best friends and I owned the crowds and demand, “Which one is he again?”
“Reece London.”
Oliver keeps talking while I scan the guy’s bio. “I’m telling you, Nick. I think the guy could heave both of us over his shoulder before submitting us,” Oliver concludes.
“What’s his fighting specialty?” I close out of the website to scan the very different profile Oliver compiled of Reece London that arrived in my inbox before answering the call.
Oliver laughs. “What’s not? He’s a black belt in karate and jiujitsu. His boxing skills are strong, but I see room for improvement. Same with his submissions. Guy did some wrestling back in high school but never really took to it. But…”