Chapter Three
Braxton
When I reached the FAF training gym on the following morning, it had finally stopped raining. A pale sun shone overhead like a rindless orange.
I stumbled through the motions of my daily workout feeling sore and exhausted, trying to ignore the blare of the stereo at the front desk. Between the police and the girl and the cat waking me up at five-thirty am like clockwork, I hadn’t gotten more than a few hours of sleep the night before. I wanted badly to go home and rest.
If there was one thing about me I could have changed, it would have to be my hair-trigger temper. Especially on mornings like this when I was running on so little sleep, even the smallest thing could set me off.
But that stereo was so loud. Or maybe it just seemed loud because I was tired. The person running the desk this morning was a college student who couldn’t have been any older than nineteen, and she had turned the stereo to one of those godawful funk stations that plays the same dozen songs on loop. I sat through all of “Kung Fu Fighting” and “Funkytown” before I decided I’d finally had enough.
My irritation mounted as I approached the front desk and found she was on her phone.
“Yeah, tell them we want two tickets to Glastonbury… The tenth and eleventh… I think we could probably stay in a hostel if they’re not overbooked…”
“Hey,” I said, blood pounding. “Hey!”
“Hang on, Sar, I’ll call you right back.” She hung up the phone, giving me a bored look. “Can I help you?”
“Would you mind turning that off? Or turning it to something else?”
She stared up at me for a moment as though having to think about it. “Some of us are listening to it.”
“Yeah, well, some of us don’t like it. So if you could just—” It was taking all my strength of will not to reach over and turn it off myself.
“What would you like me to play?” From the tone of her voice, I got the impression she was quietly mocking me.
“Just anything where I don’t have to hear Gloria Gaynor or Kool and the Gang. I don’t care what it is!”
“Okay, guy.” She switched to an indie station playing Sleater-Kinney.
Still feeling irritated but no longer having a reason to complain, I turned and stormed off toward the elliptical trainer. At around the same time, Nick walked in looking wan and hungover, one hand pressed to his temple as though trying to stifle a headache.
“You doing alright?” I asked him.
Nick shook his head. Vin Diesel glared coldly from the front of his t-shirt, as though blaming me for his bad night. “I shouldn’t have drunk as much as I did last night. But I suppose we must all pay for our sins. How about yourself?”
“Still paying for mine,” I replied.
“Yeah? How late were you and her up last night?”
“Until about four. She must’ve slipped out right after I fell asleep, too, because when I woke up an hour later, I found her panties lying on the floor by the door.”
“And she wasn’t wearing them?”
“No. I threw ‘em in the lost-and-found and fed the cat.”
“How many times a day does your cat eat?”
“Too many. But at least I didn’t get totally wasted and then have to come in for training the next morning.”
“Hey, you know what?” said Nick loudly, his breath smelling of tequila and jealousy—she had clearly been interested in him until I showed up. “At least I didn’t spend half the night in police custody!”
This was a fair point, though of course, I wasn’t going to admit it. I turned back to the trainer, wishing I didn’t have to work out and that I could hang out and harass Nick for the next hour. The stereo at the front of the room was now playing Bon Iver, which was only slightly less irritating than Kool and the Gang.
“Do you ever feel like maybe your temper is going to land you in trouble someday?” asked Nick as he stepped onto the Stairmaster.
“Why, do I seem angry?”
“No more than usual. You’ve always got steam coming out of your ears like in a cartoon.”
“In that case, maybe I should see a doctor.”
The conversation might have gone on in this vein if Coach Aardman hadn’t come in at that moment. Aardman was pushing fifty and had only recently become a personal trainer when the university at which he had worked for over twenty years was forced to close owing to state budget cuts. As a result, he had grown cynical and bitter.
“Big news,” said Aardman in an emotionless voice. “Carrathurs is making a visit next week to see how well you perform when pitted against each other.”
“You mean the president?” said Nick.
“You mean the two of us?” I asked.
“Not necessarily the two of you,” said Aardman. His eyes were watery gobs, and it looked like he had recently been crying. “You’ll be sparring with some of the other fighters. Carrathurs is apparently looking for some fresh talent.”
I stood there in silence for a moment, trying to process this new information. I knew I was viciously talented in the octagon, but I had long since given up hope of anyone else recognizing the fact. Now I was being presented a chance to prove myself and maybe ascend higher in the company.
My thoughts were interrupted by a noise of retching a few yards away. Nick, his face an odd shade of green, was vomiting copiously into a trash can.
Aardman and I stood watching him with looks of only mild interest. I looked over at Aardman, whose eyes were still watering.
“You okay, coach?” I asked him.
“Yeah. New contacts,” he replied, not very convincingly, and stalked away looking embarrassed.