Beside

40 - preparation

"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."

ᖴO᙭

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."

Why am I not surprised.

I glance up. Camila lounges against the corner post, clipboard in hand, her eyes flicking over notes and stats. "Pardon?"

"Yeah, uh..." She purses her lips. Her dark curls are pulled back into a tight knot, accentuating the angles of her face. She looks every bit the strategist. "So your next fight is actually in two days. Yeah."

"No way. You're kidding."

She meets my eyes, wincing. "They moved you up. 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."

I ignore the slight twinge of fear and throw on a lazy smirk. "Let me guess, some clown with a nickname like The Destroyer or Mad Dog."

Her eyes stay on the clipboard. "They call him The Hunter."

I scoff. "Sounds like a guy compensating for something."

Her gaze snaps up. "This isn't a joke."

Is everything a joke to you? Gwen had said.

"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.

"Fine. What's the plan?"

She steps into the ring, the clipboard discarded on a stool. "We need to tighten up your defence against throws. Your footwork is sloppy when you're pressed."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

She smirks. "You know I believe in you. That's why I'm here. Also, you have to put on three pounds."

"Easy enough."

"Yeah, you say that now, but it's only two days. Now, square up."

We move through drills, her movements sharp and precise. She throws me to the mat more times than I'd like to admit, each impact jarring bones and ego alike. The dull ache of bruises forming under my skin feels like penance. Sweat stings my eyes, the salty tang on my lips.

Two days is not enough time to prep for this. It can't be. I know Cam's aware of that, but her faith in me is so solid she's choosing to lean into it.

We continue until my muscles burn and her shirt is soaked through. She finally calls for a break, and I collapse onto the mat. It sticks to my bare back.

"By the way," she breathes, picking her shirt off her torso, "Chris and I won't be around tomorrow night."

I raise an eyebrow, ignoring the tweak in my neck.