“What are boxing buddies for?” he replies.
The next week is miserable as they start radiation therapy treatment right away. When Mom comes home from it, it’s as if death is literally in our house. She cries and screams from the pain, and I can’t help but cry and scream with her. It’s as if we are all dying with her.
She’s suffering. It makes me angry and bitter at the world. Why would God take my mother away? I’ve been in many fights at school, my dad is not pleased with me. I’m trying to behave, trying not to bring any more stress to my mother but I can’t help it. I’m… I’m fucking angry! The only thing that helps is when Camden and I sneak to a judo class, or even a kick boxing class. Something about kicking that bag as hard as I can, it gives me sense of control… something I feel like I don’t have outside of the gym. I say sneak because Dad forbid me from any martial arts, and I tried to obey his wishes… but I just can’t.
One day after sneaking off to judo with Camden I find my parents home early from Mom’s radiation treatment. The good feeling from the judo class vanishes. A nervous sweat spreading along my back as I silently pray Dad doesn’t ask where I’ve been. I touch my cheek, where a growing ache has become hard to ignore.
In the middle of practicing a leg wheel with Camden, instead of landing on the floor, I landed my face right on my elbow. It’s a basic move, you spin your opponent to where their front is facing your back, apply pressure to their leg with your own, and flip them over your knee onto the floor.
I wince, pressing my fingers too hard on my sore cheek. It’s definitely going to bruise. I should just raise a red flag saying, ‘I’ve been sneaking behind your back.’
“I’ll see you later?” Camden asks, that flirtatious smirk of his making me weak in the knees. He tugs on my fingers that are holding his hand, refusing to let go.
A disgruntled cough sounds from the porch, catching my attention. My head whips toward the house, finding my dad staring down at me. He eyes zero in on my cheek, and his face reddens with anger. I swallow hard, awaiting the words to leave his mouth.
“You’ve been off fighting again, haven’t you?”
“I um—” I fidget on my feet, trying to look anywhere but at him. I don’t want to lie, he knows I have been.
“You should go,” I whisper at Camden.
“You sure?”
I silently nod. After Camden is out of sight I peek through my eyelashes at my furious dad.
I’m nervous of what kind of punishment I’ll receive. Surely I’ll be grounded for life. I wish he would just understand I need this outlet. Everyone is coping with Mom in their own way, fighting is mine. When I’m not in the gym, I feel like the world is swallowing me up with its darkness. I become as violent and ruthless as the reaper that is hovering over our house.
“I will not tolerate this. This ends now.” Dad shakes his head and stomps into the house.
“Wait, what are you doing?” My words come out frantic as I follow my dad into the house.
Giving Camden a meek smile, I pull my hand from his and head toward my house.
“I promised your mother that I would take care of you girls, and that’s what I’m doing.”
Walking into my room he grabs the posters of celebrity fighters, and tears them off the wall. The sharp sound of paper ripping echoing throughout the room.
“NO!” I run up to him, and tug on his arm, willing him to stop.
“It might have been cute when you were little, Tate. Hell, I might have even influenced it, but fun and games are over. It’s time to grow up.
His head whips back and forth, looking for his next item of destruction when his eyes land on the blue crate in the corner of my room. My prized collection of magazines. Some of them are even signed by indie fighters.
He marches forward and picks them up, and my heart thuds against my chest in panic. The idea of them being thrown in the garbage too hard to bear. The dew will make them wet, causing the color to run and pages to stick. They’ll be ruined. Years of collecting, gone.
I grab the crate, pulling it with all my might.
“Dad, you can’t do this,” I sob, tugging on the blue plastic crate until my knuckles are white. “Please!”
That rage and anger that boils deep within my soul surfaces, and before I can think about my actions, one of my hands releases the crate and I slam it into my dad’s face.
The crate drops to the floor, as he clutches his face in surprise.
A burning ache races down my arm, settling in my knuckles.
Surprise flashes across my face, before I mask it with a death stare. Pretending my hand doesn’t feel like a dozen bees just stung it.
“You’re killing us all,” I push through gritted teeth.
His face reddens, and he harshly grips me by the arm, tugging me out of the room.
“Let go of me!” I strain against his hold, shoving him and slapping him as he drags me out of the house. Before I can steady myself he pushes me out the door, causing me to stumble down the stairs.
I can’t help the tears streaming down my face as I stare at my father.
“You will obey my rules under my roof, or you won’t live here anymore!” he points at me, his cheek glowing red where I hit him.
“Maybe I don’t want to live here anymore!” I sob.
“I hope you don’t mean that.” He shakes his head, and slams the door shut.
Within seconds, Camden rushes from his house to my side. Our houses are close, and I know my window was open. He saw and heard the whole thing.
“Babe, what the hell?” he whispers, his hands snaking around me and cocooning me into his warm hold.
“I hit my dad,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around his neck.
“I know, I saw.”
“I don’t know what to do Camden.” My voice cracks as I grab at his shirt like a lifeline. Hoping he has the magic words to make everything better, to make the pain vanish that is vining its way through my body.
He pulls me an arm’s length away and looks me in the eye. His vivid blue eyes looking down into my soul.
“You know I’m here for you, but you’ve got to work through this with your dad, Tate. My dad is a piece of shit, and could care less about my mother and me. Your dad, he just cares too much.”
I wipe my stray tear, my heart cracking with the thought of giving up what I love, what sets me free. If it saves my family, I’ll do it though.
“I’m going to have to give up fighting, find a different passion. That means I can’t go to anymore classes with you, Camden,” I weep, looking down at my feet. Saying it, and hearing it come from my mouth hurts much more. When I was a little girl I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I wanted to be a professional fighter. The idea grew in my heart and mind and I had no doubt I would reach my goal.
God is taking more than my mother away, he’s taking my life away.
Chapter Nine
Camden
When I walk inside the gym I immediately notice Tate is hitting the bag, wincing with every strike. Debs has had her on that bag the last few days, and hasn’t even corrected her stance. It’s no wonder Tate’s hurting.
Taping my hands, it eats at me that Thomas gave Tate the worst trainer and it’s my fault. I know he’s screwing Debs, but surely he knows she’s a shit trainer. Nobody wants her, not even Chase. She wants fighters who are already trained and, making it big. She’s a greedy bitch that knows nothing about MMA. If anyone doesn’t belong here, it’s her.
I’m nervous Tate may get hurt under Debs’ watch.
Flexing my hands, anger pools in my chest that I even care. I let go of Tate a long time ago, I need to keep it that way.
Stepping out of the locker room, I find Thomas and Debs sitting next to the ring. Debs has this love struck look on her face, and is completely ignoring Tate. Again.
Minding my business I climb into the ring, jumping on my feet and roll my shoulders trying to warm up.
“Camden, spar with Pinky for a bit on the mats,” Thomas instructs. Pinky is the one that drew the short straw in assisting my vigorous sparring sessions. He wears the full body shield, and lets me punch him around daily. He does a lot of sparring around the gym, and everyone loves him.
Pinky waddles into the ring with gear head to toe. He gives me a nod, and I start laying combos into him. Staying light on my feet I try to outsmart him, and hit him before he can think about blocking.
Even with all the noise in the gym, all I can hear is her. Tate. She whimpers with every punch, cursing every time the bag comes back at her. Glancing at her I find her bent over holding her wrist, her face in a state of pain.
I try to ignore it, but I keep finding myself looking back at her, worried.
“Stop!” I demand Pinky. He stills, lowering his hands. I glance at Debs, she’s oblivious to Tate’s pain. If I don’t step in, Tate is going to break her damn wrist.
Seeing red I climb through the ropes and I eye Thomas angrily. “When I told you not to train Tate, I didn’t mean find the worst coach you could find to train her,” I spit, before staring daggers into Debs.
“Excuse me!” Debs gasps, holding her chest.
Marching toward Tate, her face goes pale when she notices me coming at her.
She tries to play it cool, and hits the bag.
“Stop,” I snap. She huffs, rolling her eyes before standing straight. “You’re going to break your damn wrists if you keep at it like you are.”
“I don’t need your help.” She steps back, crossing her arms. Her pink nail polish sticks out amongst beautiful, pristine skin.
Since when does Tatum Davis wear nail polish?
“That might be so, but between your pink nail polish and that bitch face you keep wearing, nobody wants to tell princess almighty she’s not doing it right. So, that leaves me.”
Her jaw drops, her eyes frantically looking anywhere but at me.
Exhaling an annoyed breath, I step forward and grab her shoulders to position her. Warmth spreads through my palms from the contact, the fire licking up my arms and exploding in my chest. And just like that, years of telling myself I hated and was going to forget Tatum Davis… vanish. All the anger replaced with flashbacks of us together as kids.
Her eyes widen as if she felt it too and quickly I let go. My heart beating wildly as I try and shake out the memories of her.
“Um,” I stumble on my words. “Keep your fists closer to your chest. When you go to strike, twist your hand to where the top of your fist is horizontal,” I school, as I demonstrate. Her brows furrow as she watches me strike the bag.
“Got it?” She blinks a few times, as if she’s trying to focus.
Stepping back, I gesture toward the bag. “Hit it.” She eyes me warily, like she’s embarrassed to do it in front of me. “Do it,” I reaffirm, raising an eyebrow.
Getting into position, she gives it a punch, and her body sways inward.
What the hell? Did she move to LA and forget everything she knew?
“Wait, why are you leaning in like that?” Grasping her shoulders, she takes a quick breath. The subtle sound hitting me right in the cock. Images of her under me when we were teenagers flash in my mind and I have to let go of her.
Anger pulses through me, breaking through my concern for her. I want to hate her, why can’t I just stick to my guns and be an asshole!
“Just keep your spine straight,” I demand, my tone hard. Pissed at myself for giving a shit.
She nods, and hits the bag again. Her body stays straight, and her hit is more powerful and direct than before. She really is a great boxer.
“Good. Try that.” I can’t help the praise leaking through my tone.
Shit, I gotta get away from her.
Turning, Debs is staring at me like she wants to kill me.
“I thought her daddy was some famous boxer, how is that she can’t throw a correct punch?” she sneers. I glance at Tate, letting her answer that.
We used to practice hitting all the time as kids. I’m pretty sure we were doing it all wrong, but it seems like her skills are definitely lacking more than I remember.
Tate grabs the bag with both hands and leans her head on it.
“My dad played the role of being a father when I was finally old enough to practice the sport. He never taught me how to throw a correct punch because when we sparred we did it for fun. My mother was sick with cancer and let’s just say death has a way of changing people. Is that enough of a history lesson for you, or do you want to know more about my life?” Slowly turning her head, her sad eyes hit me and I instantly want to protect her all over again.
Exhaling a ragged breath I turn to get the hell away from her. Debs has a smart ass look on her face, her arms crossed as I pass her. I can tell she’s about to fire a smart ass comment back at Tate so I stop.
“It took me five minutes to teach her to throw a correct punch, how long have you been training her again?”
Marching past her, I search for Pinky. I’m so confused, so pissed at the way Tate gets to me that I may give Pinky the beating of his life. Thank god he has extra padding on today.
Tate
Thomas and Debs leave early, along with a lot of the other trainers and fighters. The storm has picked up, and nobody wanted to get caught in the middle of it.