"Fox, why is your hair all pokey?"
"Faro says it's called bed head."
"That's silly. Beds don't have heads."
"I think it means my head was fighting the pillow?"
"Tell it to stop. Your hair looks like a porcupine."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
F O X
Fox... it's okay.
I crack my neck in the centre of Skyfall's ancient ring, the ropes frayed like old wounds, rewrapping my hands methodically.
"So, bad news." Camila lounges against the corner post, clipboard in hand, her eyes flicking over notes and stats. Her dark curls are pulled back into a tight knot, accentuating the angles of her face. She looks every bit the strategist. "Your next fight is actually in two days. Someone saw your knockout win against Onyx and wants you with this next guy instead."
"But I'm fighting Falcon in two weeks."
"Freckles, what did I just say? You got moved. I've got your next opponent."
"Let me guess, some clown with a nickname like The Destroyer or Mad Dog."
"They call him The Hunter."
"Sounds like a guy compensating for something."
Her gaze snaps up. "This isn't a joke. He's trained in motherfucking judo. Competed nationally."
Shit. Judo means grappling, throws, and submissions. Not the usual fare in these underground bouts where fists and bravado are the currencies, but I'm up for it.
I lay down on the mat, exhalling.
Cam steps into the ring, the clipboard discarded on a stool. "We need to tighten up your defence against throws."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"You know I believe in you. That's why I'm here. Also, you have to put on three pounds."
I throw a sweaty arm over my eyes.
Cam continues, "Whenever you need to talk about what happened with Gwen and Faro, I'm here."
"Hm."
She kicks me. "Freckles." After a drawn-out sigh, her feet pad away. "We'll check in later?"
I push myself up on my elbows, squinting under the harsh overhead lights.
The Hunter. Judo. Gwen in that garden. Faro's dead eyes. Chris's soft hands...
Fox, it's okay.
I peel myself off the mat, every muscle protesting. The gym's fluorescent lights buzz overhead. I need a shower.
Grabbing my towel and gear, I head to the locker room. I finish up. Towelling off, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror—bruises blooming along my ribs, shadows under my eyes. I look as rough as I feel.
No wonder Chris touched me, held me like I was breaking. It was just pity. Fucking pity. I hate pity.
Dressed in fresh clothes—a worn black tee and faded grey sweats—I make my way upstairs. The sounds hit me first: laughter, the clatter of equipment. Skyfall's main floor is alive, the rainbow contrast to the gritty underbelly I'm used to.
YOU ARE READING
Beside
Romantik''Tell me how it feels,'' he whispers. "Good," I gasp, my entire body trembling. Deeper. Harder. Perfect. Like we've been doing this for years. His hand finds my jaw, fingers firm as he tilts my head up, making me look at him. And that's it. Waves...
