Chapter Eight

“So, I’ve got a meeting tomorrow,” Marty Decker said as he stacked more weights on the machine.

“Oh yeah?” Violet asked, steadying herself on the bench and placing her feet on the weight machine’s foot plate.

“Libertas heard I was looking for a new home,” Decker replied with a wink. “Gimme a quick set of ten. You’re at 300 pounds right now.”

Violet nodded and grabbed the handrails. She pushed through the reps, adjusting her form as Decker critiqued and spotted her. He grinned as the stack of weights came down on the last rep.

“How’d that feel?” he asked, “Need more weight? I think you’ll hit 500 today.”

“Do it up. Let’s go 400,” Violet said.

Decker grabbed some more plates and added them to the stack. Violet did another set of ten, hardly noticing the difference. Decker added another hundred pounds and Violet worked through fifteen sets. They moved to another weight station and Decker spotted her on her squats.

“I appreciate what you did,” Decker said as she finished her last set.

“I promised,” Violet replied. “Keeping promises means something to me.”

“I know,” Decker quietly stated. “If you ever need anything, you let me know.”

“You’re doing it right now,” Violet laughed, following him to the next station in the leg circuit.

Destiny joined them and finished out the circuit with them before the happy couple left for a late lunch together. They promised to show up later for Peyton’s title shot. Violet went back to her office, where she found Sif lying on the small sofa, headphones covering her ears, her eyes closed.

Violet ignored her and went to her desk. She opened up her laptop and went through the morning emails she’d not had a chance to check yet. Junk mail from would-be sponsors. A new training conference invitation that she accepted and sent to Manny for approval. An interview request for Dezzy—apparently, Taylor had turned them down and they were working the back channel through Violet. She deleted the message. Violet knew better than to second guess Tay.

“Ya busy, darlin’?”

Violet looked up sharply. She hadn’t heard him come in. He sat on the edge of the desk, took her hand, and planted a series of feather-light kisses across her knuckles.

“Not particularly,” Violet purred, offering him a smile. “How were weigh ins?”

“Two pounds under,” Peyton replied, grinning. “Drug screen cleared. Ready ta kick ass and take names.”

“Fantastic,” Violet breathed. “You look ready.”

“I am,” he said. “Ya wanna get an early dinner before we head up ta the arena?”

“Sure,” Violet answered, closing her laptop and looking over at Sif.

The frost fae appeared to be asleep, but Violet knew better than to make such assumptions when it came to Sif.

“We gonna bring the brat with us?” Peyton laughed, following her gaze.

“Depends on if the brat wants to wake up,” Violet loudly said.

“Go on. I’m waiting for Thor and Erik to get back. I’ll catch up later,” Sif murmured, waving them away.

Violet took the arm Peyton offered and together, they walked out to his truck. He opened the door for her and watched as she climbed in.

“What are we eatin’?” he asked as he closed his door after him and started the truck’s engine.

“Something light. I’m not terribly hungry and it’s going to be a long night,” Violet replied, buckling her seatbelt.

He watched her, the light in his green-blue eyes intense. She blushed under the scrutiny.

“Ya haven’t needed the chair in a couple days,” he softly stated, diverting his attention to the task of exiting the parking space.

“I’m hoping to never need it again,” Violet said, matching his tone.

“Welcome back, darlin’,” he drawled, leaning over to kiss her cheek.

*****

“I can’t let you fight like this,” Violet somberly stated, inspecting the young woman’s fist.

The last two fingers on her right hand were severely swollen, as was her entire right wrist. The hand was jacked and may have been broken, if not severely sprained. Violet shook her head as the woman railed on.

“But I’ll take it easy with that hand. I’m a southpaw anyway!” the young bantam-weight fighter cried.

“Go get your coaches and bring them here,” Violet tiredly said. “I’m not signing off on the end of your career, Vanessa.”

“C’mon Vi!”

“No.”

“Ugh! Fine! I’ll be right back!”

Violet watched as the female fighter stomped from the dingy little office and disappeared toward the tunnel. She sighed heavily and went back to reviewing Peyton’s opponent’s most recent fight.

Kurt Vanderboon was a right nasty piece of work when all was said and done. He had impeccable striking ability and he was just as comfortable boxing as he was wrestling. He’d been the reigning welterweight champ through four title defense bouts. He had no weaknesses that Violet could discern and it bothered her. Everybody had a weakness.

Except Vanderboon. He was, by record and reputation, the quintessential perfect mixed martial artist.

Peyton was every bit as well-rounded and though both men weighed the same, Peyton looked to carry more muscle than the wiry, leaner, taller Vanderboon. But muscle wasn’t everything. Tenacity, accuracy, acumen—those things could turn the tide of a fight every bit as quickly as an unblocked haymaker.

Violet sighed as Vanessa and two of her coaches strode back in a moment later, interrupting her study of Peyton’s perfect opponent.

“They aren’t that bad,” Liz McShae, one of the coaches said.

“If that hand or wrist isn’t broken, they both will be by the end of the night,” Violet retorted, holding Vanessa’s hand up for their perusal.

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“If I win, it won’t matter,” Vanessa challenged, gingerly removing her hand from Violet’s grasp. “Honestly, Vi. C’mon!”

“You can still fight. I’m not stopping you. But I’m not going to help you ruin your health or career either,” Violet replied. “Go see Becky over at Intimidation Factor. I’m sure she’ll be happy sign off.”

It was a low blow and Violet knew it. Vanessa was one of the up-and-coming bantamweights on Team Pele. Her fight that night was with one of Intimidation’s female bantamweights. Intimidation had only recently begun accepting female fighters into its ranks but the ones they did allow in were some of the shrewdest, toughest women Violet had ever encountered.

And Violet had had the stuffing smashed out of her by the Queen of the Valkyries herself.

“How can you even say that?” Vanessa snapped, incensed.

“I won’t apologize for trying to save your career.”

“Goddammit, Vi. She’s been busting her ass for months to get to this fight,” Liz pleaded.

“I’m not here to feed beef to the meat grinder. I’m here to help fighters. I’m sorry, Liz. I’m not doing it. If you want, you can totally blame me as the excuse for Vanessa to drop out. It is my fault after all. But I’m not going to help her ruin her career,” Violet stood her ground.

“She’s been harassing me for months about this!” Vanessa cried.

“Only fighters who are scared of losing would go through the trouble,” Violet replied. “Do you want me to come tell the officials for you?”

Vanessa threw her hands up in the air, spun, and stalked out. Liz and the other coach, a man named Wu Xin, followed her, both casting apologetic smiles over their shoulders as they departed. Wu waved as he closed the door in the wake of their exit.

She is young yet. She will heal and she will taste victory. You were wise to advise her against this fray.

“I know, but she’s going to hate me for it,” Violet said aloud.

She won’t hate you. Not for long, anyway. The fleeting tantrums of youth give way once the weight of experience displaces the passion.

“That’s ominously cryptic,” Violet snorted.

I speak from centuries of experience in throwing tantrums.

“I bet you do.”

“You’re bettin’ who now?” Peyton drawled as he lowered himself into the seat opposite Violet at the desk.

“Talkin’ to Gersemi,” Violet replied.

“What’s goin’ on with ‘Nessa?” he asked, gesturing toward the door. “She was cryin’ and all sorts o’ pissed off.”

“Her right hand or her wrist might be broken and she wants to fight anyway,” Violet answered. “I refused to clear her pre-fight exam.”

Peyton sat back in the chair, dropped his chin to his chest, and sighed.

“You’re sure it’s broken?” he queried, peering at her through his lashes.

“No, but it’s swollen and tender to the touch. If I cleared her, taped her hands, let her go fight, and she ruins her career as a result? Who is gonna get the blame?”

Peyton studied her silently, cocking his head to the side.

“You don’t approve?” she challenged.

“I understand where ya both are comin’ from,” he hedged.

“A politician’s answer,” Violet teased.

“I mean, I guess I could run for office. Anythin’s possible in Vegas,” Peyton chuckled.

“That’d be the day,” Violet scoffed.

“Now just hold on a minute there,” he laughed. “What’s that supposed ta mean?”

“Nothing. I’m just messing with you and I’m in a weird mood,” she dismissively said. “Are you here for fight prep? It’s a little early yet.”

He slouched down in the chair and grinned at her.

“Nah. I’m just bored with the undercards. The fights have all gone three rounds each so far and the crowd ain’t happy,” Peyton relayed. “No knockouts. No big submissions. And no patience from the spectators.”

“Are you ready for this?”

He sat forward abruptly and stared at her, a sly half-grin tugging up one side of his mouth.

“If I ain’t, there’s no one ta blame but myself,” he softly replied, reaching for one of the braids that fell down her shoulders.

“He’s good. Really good. I can’t find a flaw anywhere,” Violet dejectedly stated.

“Oh he’s got flaws. For one thing, he keeps his chin up too high when he throws that left hook. A sneaky left hook of my own could catch him out. He’s wearin’ an ankle brace on that right ankle tonight but he’ll probably take it off before the fight.”

“Or that could be just a ploy to make you think he’s weak in that ankle,” Violet retorted.

“Ya think he’s crafty enough for that?”

“You don’t retain a championship belt by being a dumbass.”

As if summoned by the initial utterance of the insult, Sif materialized in the chair off to the side of the room. She inspected her freshly painted, sparkly black nails with feigned interest. She lifted her gaze and grinned mischievously.

“What did the dumbass do now?” Sif asked.

“Won’t let a fighter earn her livin’,” Peyton goaded.

“Now that’s not fair,” Violet objected, glaring at the young man across from her.

“Oh, Vanessa? She went to Becky,” Sif said.

“Did she indeed?” Violet asked, perturbed.

“Yep. They’re getting ready to walk out to the ring now,” Sif chirped.

“Well, I did what I could,” Violet morosely replied.

“Ya did,” Peyton agreed, smiling. “And she’s doin’ what she thinks is best.”

“Guess we’ll see. So, what’s the gameplan?” Violet pressed.

“Well, a lot of that’s gonna depend on Boon himself. If he wants ta bang center ring, we’ll bang center ring. If he wants ta fight it out on the mat, we’ll take it ta the mat,” Peyton calmly replied.

“He’s afraid you’ll have more torque on your punches,” Sif nonchalantly added. “I heard him say so.”

“Or he knew you were listening,” Violet countered.

“Were you always this contrary or is this a new personality quirk?” Sif retorted.

“Now girls,” Peyton playfully admonished.

“Do we have to go to the afterparty? I love Tay and all, but I can’t keep doin’ this every week,” Sif groused, slouching down into a more prone position, her legs dangling off one arm of the chair in which she sat.

“Even if I win?” Peyton countered.

“Pfff. She’s the one invested in your wellbeing. I couldn’t care less,” Sif snorted.

“Sif!” Violet reprimanded the fae.

Even by Sif’s standards, that was a particularly venomous retort.

“Ugh. Fine, I’m sorry. But I’m not going,” Sif quietly replied.

“Dependin’ on how I’m feelin’ after, I might be inclined ta head on home. Tay’ll understand. We’ve been pretty busy on the title shot hunt and I imagine she’s tired too,” Peyton said.

It was Violet’s turn to laugh.

“What?” Peyton asked.

“It’s cute how you think Tay can get tired.”

“Poor Manny,” Peyton giggled.

“Poor Manny,” Violet echoed, also giggling.

They left the office to watch Vanessa’s fight from the tunnel. Unsurprisingly, the young woman was forced to forfeit at the end of the second round. Her right hand swelled so badly, her fingertips were nearly indigo and she couldn’t use the injured hand at all. Vanessa’s coaches had to cut the glove off—she couldn’t pull it off for the swelling. They escorted her from the arena’s main event area and left towards the exit.

“Called it,” Violet said, though her tone was bitter and sad.

Sif grunted in agreement. Peyton was thoughtfully silent. They briefly reconvened in the makeshift office in the belly of the arena. Violet prepped Peyton’s hands and signed off on his pre-fight examination. She made her way with Sif toward the cage while Peyton prepared with his coaches.

Sif and Violet watched a few fights and Peyton’s earlier report seemed to carry through. Aside from Vanessa’s heartbreaking forfeiture at the end of the second round, the rest of the fights were three-round slug fests whose fates were determined only by the judges’ score cards. It left the crowd even more restless and bloodthirsty.

It was not a good atmosphere and it put Violet’s nerves on edge.

Relax. You’re feeding into it. Don’t let the malcontents disturb your inner peace.

“Inner peace?” Violet retorted aloud. “That’s cute.”

Sif turned to look at her.

“What did Gersemi say?”

Violet rolled her eyes and said, “She’s telling me not to worry about the crowd.”

Sif nodded but said nothing more. They left their seats and moved toward the tunnel. They arrived just as Peyton, Dezzy, Manny, and Peyton’s coaches convened at the tunnel’s mouth. Violet checked over Peyton’s hands, making sure the tape held properly and wasn’t too tightly wound. She checked his shoulders, elbows, and knees for any tenderness or swelling.

Finally, she stood back and looked him over appraisingly from head to toe. Satisfied, she nodded, and they stepped into the looming darkness of the tunnel. The crowd cheered loudly as Vanderboon was introduced and his walk-out song was played. It was some hokey country music number from thirty years prior; something about some good ol’ boys catchin’ frogs in a creek. It was different than his normal one and Violet snarled silently as she realized the fighter took a dig at Peyton with the song.

If Peyton noticed, he didn’t show it. He embraced his cage moniker, “Ice”, and seemed oblivious to anyone and anything except Vanderboon and the octagon. His name was finally called and the crowd erupted in raucous cheers. Violet noted with no small amount of vindictive pride that the crowd seemed to favor Peyton.

Good. He can play off that energy and use it to get into his opponent’s head, Gersemi’s voice quietly said in Violet’s mind.

“I agree,” Violet murmured aloud.

It’s exciting though, isn’t it? All this energy… It feels like a gladiator event.

Violet didn’t recognize that voice.

“They fought to the death, though,” Violet answered the new voice.

Let’s hope neither one of them dies.

Violet didn’t dignify the statement with a response. She wasn’t about to tempt fate or jinx Peyton’s chances. It wasn’t that she was necessarily superstitious—she just knew how the world worked with regard to herself. Her track record with romantic partners wasn’t all that great and for a split second, she doubted her own sanity. Why did she have to love men who liked getting the shit kicked out of them for a living?