A camp that had only ever produced one American champion.
Damon’s breath hitched in his throat. The blood rapidly drained from his face, leaving him looking like a ghost in an expensive suit.
“No,” Damon whispered, taking a half-step backward. “No, that’s impossible. You… you left. You’ve been gone for five years.”
“Who is she, Damon?” Brad demanded, annoyed by his manager’s sudden change in posture. “Just call the cops already so I can get back to training!”
Damon didn’t look at Brad. His eyes were locked in sheer terror on the small, quiet woman standing ten feet away from him. He swallowed hard, a bead of sweat breaking out on his forehead.
Ten years ago, before Damon was a slick manager, he was a low-level bookie taking bets on underground fights in Nevada. He remembered a night where he had bet everything he owned against a virtually unknown female fighter taking on a veteran twice her size. He remembered watching the unknown fighter systematically dismantle her opponent with a terrifying, emotionless precision that bordered on surgical.
He remembered losing his entire savings, and learning a name he never forgot.
“Damon?” Brad pushed, stepping up beside him. “What’s wrong with you?”
Coach Vic stepped forward and tossed the heavy, black-and-gold jacket he had been holding. It landed softly on the edge of the mat, right at Damon’s Italian leather shoes.
The jacket was worn, the leather sleeves cracked with age. But the gold embroidery on the back was still perfectly legible.
It read: MAYA “THE VIPER” HAYES. UNDISPUTED.
“Tell the kid who she is, Damon,” Vic said softly, the smirk returning to his weathered face. “Since you’re so eager to have her arrested.”
Brad looked down at the jacket. His brow furrowed in confusion. He was a new-generation fighter, obsessed with social media and flashy knockouts. He didn't know the history of the sport before he bought his first pair of gloves. But he could read the tension in the room.
The older fighters by the water coolers were no longer just watching. Two of them, veteran heavyweights who normally ignored everyone, had set down their bottles and were staring at Maya with expressions of absolute, hushed reverence.
“Maya Hayes,” Damon choked out, his voice trembling as he looked at her. “You… you were Tommy’s prodigy. The one who went over to Thailand. The one who won the unified rules tournament before it was even sanctioned.”
“Tommy taught me everything I know,” Maya said softly, touching the faded red wraps on her right hand. “And when he died, I didn’t think I could step foot in this building again. It hurt too much.”
“Yeah, well, history lessons are great,” Brad scoffed, trying to regain control of the situation. He kicked the edge of the championship jacket away with his toe. “I don’t care what you did ten years ago in some basement. You attacked me. I’m the money here now. So you’re leaving, or I’m laying you out for real.”
Damon spun around and grabbed Brad’s arm, his eyes wide with genuine panic. “Brad, shut up. Shut your mouth right now.”
“Get your hands off me, Damon!” Brad yelled, ripping his arm away. The embarrassment of the tap-out was overriding whatever survival instinct he had left. He glared at Maya. “She’s a nobody! I’m the one on the posters!”
“Brad,” Damon hissed, his voice dropping into a desperate, frantic whisper that carried perfectly in the quiet room. “You idiot. She isn't just a retired fighter.”
Maya looked at Coach Vic and gave a slow, barely perceptible nod.
Vic reached into the back pocket of his jeans. He pulled out a folded, heavy piece of legal paper, stamped with a blue notary seal.