Chapter 12

It’sa long night at the clinic the show has on standby.

After the doctor finishes stitching my eyebrow, takes a few X-rays, and decides I don’t have a concussion or any broken ribs, he says I’m free to go. I’m handed a book’s worth of paperwork on how to treat my various aches and pains, decline a prescription for Vicodin, sign a bunch of papers and hobble outside to a waiting car.

The ride to the house is a blur. I think I passed out. But at some point, I stumble into the big mansion. Silence follows me through the long hallways. Every cell in my body throbs with pain.

This is it. I’m free. I’m finally going home.

I groan as my gaze lands on a concerned Jordan pacing in front of my door.

“What?” I mumble through sore lips and an aching jaw. Every part of my body is a hot needle of pain.

He lifts his head. “Final exit information for you.”

“Now?” I shove the door open and walk directly to the closet.

“It’s late, what are you doing?” he asks, peering around the corner of the closet door.

“Packing my shit.” A wave of dizziness turns my head inside out. I stop and draw a ragged breath. “I want to go home.”

He blinks and stares at the bundle of clothes clutched in my right hand.

“What?” I groan. “I’m not allowed to take this shit home?” I don’t feel like sorting through and separating the clothes I brought with me from the ones the show gave us through different sponsors.

“No, no. It’s all yours. I’ll get you a bigger bag or a suitcase.” He steps back. “You can’t leave until tomorrow morning at the earliest.”

“What?” I drop the backpack and clothes on the floor. “Why not?”

He gestures toward my forehead. “We need to monitor you and arrange transportation.”

“I’m tired of being ‘monitored’ every second of my life.” I also don’t think I can stand on my own two feet much longer. “I just want to go home.”

“Please?” he says simply. “I don’t want to send you home and have you collapse.”

He almost sounds guilty. Why? This is what fighters sign up for. It’s not like I didn’t know serious bodily harm was a predictable consequence of getting in the ring.

“Fine.” I’m too tired and in too much pain to argue with him.

“I need to get you set up with someone to monitor your kidney function over the next few weeks too,” he says, following me into the bedroom. “The other guys did it here since they were sequestered?—”

Hell, no.I’m not getting stuck in that hotel. Venom made it sound awful. “I’m going home.”

“Yes, yes,” he hurries to agree. “You still have to return for the reunion show. We won’t have a date until Naptime’s out of surgery.”

I’ve never taken pleasure in injuring an opponent. It’s not like I’m some deranged, blood-thirsty sicko who gets a thrill from hurting people. It’s a fight. We get in the ring, trade blows, and shake hands afterward. Nothing more. Nothing less. The only people I’ve ever held any animosity toward were the ones who forced me into a fight or fought dirty.

But after the sneaky moves Naptime pulled, never mind his general assholery over the last few months, a faint ember of satisfaction smolders in my chest at the thought of him laid up for weeks. Recovering from the beating I gave him. Hope he pictures my fist flying at his face every time he wheezes in a breath.

“Fine.” I stare at him.

“You’ll get half of your winnings tomorrow, plus your KO bonuses.”

“My what?”

“Every time you knocked someone out in the house, you earned an extra five thousand.”

“Well, fuck. If I’d known that, I woulda been knocking out people left and right.”

He grins. “That’s why we don’t tell you. But you knocked out Bull the day you took your joyride.” He skewers me with a scolding stare. “I should subtract five thousand for taking off on the Ninja the way you did.”

“Oh, come on,” I scoff. “Bet that was one of the highlights of the show.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, it got a lot of attention.”

“Anything else? I’d like to take a shower and go to sleep.”

“Uh, yeah. I’ll have some stuff brought up. Painkillers?—”

“No. Tylenol or Advil are fine.”

“Okaaaay.” He stares at me. “Well, then…ice packs. Food. Whatever you need.”

There isn’t an icepack big enough to cover all my aches, but I thank him anyway.

“Oh, you can have these back now, too.” He picks up a bag by his feet and hands it to me.

I peer inside. My phone, charger, and the burner phone I’d had stashed away until it mysteriously “disappeared” rest at the bottom.

“Same rules. You can’t talk about the show at all. Normally, you’d be at the hotel with the others but because of the?—”

“I got it. No talking about the outcome. Wait, what about the audience?”

He waves off the question.

“After the reunion show.” He hesitates. “They’re going to go over all of this with you tomorrow, but I wanted to warn you, so you’re not surprised.”

I sense he’s trying to genuinely be helpful. So instead of shoving him out of my room, I drop the bag with the electronics on the nightstand and sit on the edge of the bed. “Yeah, okay. Give it to me.” I attempt to wiggle my fingers, wince at the pain, and drop my hand into my lap.

He grabs a small chair by the closet door and drags it over until he’s sitting in front of me. “You’re still under contract with the show. That means no social media posts. No interviews. No photographs, appearances, YouTube. Nothing.”

I circle my hand in front of my face. “In case you haven’t guessed, I’m not real eager to have my picture taken.”

Although…maybe I should take some photos to document what I looked like after the last fight. In case the show tries to come after me for something later. I reach over, take my phone out of the bag, uncoil the charger, and plug it in.

“We can’t stop you from seeing friends and family, of course. But try to limit what details you give them about your time here.”

“Only details I’ll be sharing are how I didn’t fuck Kiki,” I remind him. Highly doubt the show ever cleared up that lie.

His lips twist into a guilty frown. “Well, yes. I can understand that but still…”

My eyes keep wanting to close but the rest of my body wants to stand under a warm spray of water for at least an hour. “Anything else?”

“That’s the basics. I’ll be downstairs and some of the other crew members are still around, so you won’t be totally alone in the house.”

“Good to know.”

“All right.” He stands and nods. “I’ll let you rest. If you need something, let me know.”

“Thanks.” I don’t have the energy to walk him out, but the door closes behind him with a click.

I strip down, no longer caring if the camera’s still recording, and shuffle into the bathroom. While I was at the clinic someone filled the tub with ice. It’s melted enough for a cold plunge, but my most sensitive parts are strongly opposed to the idea, even if it might help speed up the healing process.

Instead, I hobble into the shower, flip on the hottest water I can stand, and get in.

Thirty minutes later, I return to the bedroom. Damn, I’m going to miss that shower. The hot water never seems to run out.

Someone stopped by while I was turning myself into a prune. A bunch of stuff that wasn’t here earlier is scattered over the desk and chair.

I tuck my towel around my waist and shuffle across the room. An industrial-sized bottle of Tylenol. Tubes, bottles, and tins of pain relief creams, gels, and ointments. Ice packs of various sizes shaped for different parts of the body. It’s like the world’s most depressing gift basket. At least the ice packs are cold. And a low, unfamiliar hum draws my attention to a slim refrigerator/freezer combo now installed in the corner of the room.

“That would’ve been helpful three months ago,” I grumble as I walk across the room to check it out.

It’s stocked with a tray of cold cuts and cut fruit, hard boiled eggs, bottles of muscle milk, juice, and water.

I grab an egg and water, choke them down, then hit the Tylenol bottle.

The freezer has another set of ice packs up top. I grab one designed to wrap around the ankle, one for my knee, and one for my shoulder and carry them to the bed.

Once I have the ice packs arranged on my aching parts, I pick up my phone and turn it on. A barrage of texts flash on the screen. Several from my mother—at least she’s alive—who apparently forgot I told her I’d be away at the reality show and needed money. None of her many messages ask if I’m okay. I don’t bother replying.

None from Molly. Not even a “fuck you for cheating on me” text. Maybe that’s a good sign? Probably not. She knew I wouldn’t have my phone on me.

I’m too tired to look at anything else. I send a group text to Eraser, Vapor, and Remy to let them know I should be headed home tomorrow.

I tap out a text to Molly and my thumb hovers over the send button. Finally I hit it.

Me: On my way home tomorrow. Miss you bad.

Three dots blink, blink, blink as if the message isn’t going through.

I check the text I sent to the guys. That was delivered.

Vapor: Let me know when.

Me: K

Remy: I’ll stop by your place on my way to work and leave keys.

Me: I’m fucked up. Not going anywhere.

I snap a pathetic selfie, send it, then set my phone down.

The ice packs are more annoying than helpful now. My bleary eyes swing toward the fridge. I should toss the packs back in the freezer but it’s too much trouble to get up.

Sleep.

I click the lamp off and roll over.

The Tylenol barely dulls the pain but at last I fall into the frantic tumble of sleep.