Page 64 of Rush
“Ryan!” Ash bellowed across the gym.
“What was he saying about inside voices?” Cole asked with a smirk as our coach came bounding across the mats.
Ash slapped me on the shoulder, grinning from ear to ear. “You got your fight,” he said. “Two weeks, Ry. Rod Laver Arena, AUFC 54.You’re in.”
“I’m in?” I stared up at him half in disbelief, half in shock. After waiting so long, I was finally getting my shot. This was it. This was make or break. “Who am I fighting?”
“Peter Markov.”
“Markov?” I asked. “But he pulled out of the AUFC, didn’t he?”
Markov qualified around the same time I had but had pretty much disappeared soon after. If I was going to be paired with anyone, it would be that guy. We were similar heights, there was a minimal weight difference, and our skill level was on par.
“He was dropped when he was injured in training,” Ash explained. “That’s why there was no one for you to fight. He was benched until he was cleared.”
“Shit,” I cursed. So it wasn’t to do with me, it was the other guy.
“They want you in,” he went on. “They’ve always wanted you on the roster, mate, it’s just they were waiting for a good pairing. You would steamroll all of the recent qualifiers. It would be too easy for you.”
“Like that would be bad.”
“A good fight is a fair fight. Do you want to win against a pansy-ass fucker? Or do you want to win against a tough son of a bitch?”
“Tough son of a bitch,” I replied, seeing the point. Winning an easy battle didn’t mean much, but when you triumphed over greater odds, the win would be much more satisfying.
“That’s the way,” Ash exclaimed, clapping me on the shoulder and practically shaking me in his excitement. It was a big deal, both for my fighting and his coaching career. “C’mon, we’ve got a lot of work to do. Cole.” He gestured for him to follow. “Here’s your chance to skip ahead before your qualifier.”
“I got a qualifier?” he asked, scurrying along behind us. “No shit!”
Elbowing my best made, I grinned. “Things are finally happening. This is it, dude.The big leagues.”
“About fucking time,” he grumbled.
“Faith,” I said. “Didn’t I tell you? And with your qualifier, you’re next.”
“Lucky I’m welterweight, and you’re middleweight,” he said with a grin. “I don’t think you could handle losing to me.”
“In your dreams.” I slapped him on the back of the head, my palm cracking against his empty skull.
As Ash talked us through our game plan for the next fortnight, all my thoughts about Jade and Margaret dissolved until they were completely gone, and all that remained was stats, techniques, and strategies for my upcoming fight. This was my chance to finally be rid of my old life—the life where I loved too easily and had trouble letting go—and step into a new one as a professional MMA fighter. The first step on the road to becoming a champion. I couldn’t let a squabble between two women get between me and all that.
I was going to go all the fucking way, and nothing, not even my fickle heart, was going to get in my way.
25
Jade
Sittingon the edge of the squeaky bed I was now calling home for the next who knew how long, I scrolled through my phone, my heart sinking further and further.
The backpacker hostel in the heart of the Melbourne CBD was quick to take my money for the single room, shared bathroom on a week-to-week basis. Considering I was having zero luck getting approved for my own apartment now I was unemployed, I was quick to give it to them. I wasn’t quite at the twelve-bed shared dormitory level yet, but it was getting that way.
I had a plastic tub with my name on it in the ragged kitchen in the basement, I had some spare gold coins for the washer-dryer, and my suitcase had become my wardrobe.
Last night, I’d eaten a Styrofoam cup of instant noodles while sharing a table with a pair of eighteen-year-old girls from Croatia, a dreadlocked hippy from America, and a couple in their early twenties from the UK. Then after being kept awake by hordes of drunken gap-year kids coming in from their night on the town, this morning I’d showered in a stall while wearing a pair of flip-flops to protect my feet from getting a million warts.
One thing I’d learned was European women weren’t embarrassed about being completely starkers around other women they didn’t know. They would have the whole ‘getting to know you’ conversation while everything hung out. I was so not European.
Studying my contact list, I knew I had to at least try to put some feelers out, despite knowing the photo Margaret had of me in Hunter’s car had probably already done the rounds. I couldn’t let this beat me.
