A man in a sharp, tailored navy suit and polished Italian loafers began descending the stairs, his face tight with anger. It was Damon Vance, Brad’s manager, sponsor, and the man who effectively subsidized half the rent of Apex Combat Academy. He held a smartphone tightly in one hand, having clearly watched the disaster unfold from the VIP viewing balcony above.
“What exactly is going on down here, Vic?” Damon demanded, his expensive shoes clicking sharply against the concrete as he approached the cage.
Damon didn’t look at Maya. He looked straight at the old coach, his expression dripping with corporate authority and condescension.
“Just a little sparring, Damon,” Vic said mildly.
“My fighter has a regional title bout in six weeks,” Damon snapped, pointing a manicured finger at Brad, who was currently pouting against the fence. “He’s the only reason this rusted-out warehouse of a gym hasn't been foreclosed on by the bank. And you let some off-the-street amateur nearly tear his rotator cuff?”
Inside the cage, Maya quietly peeled the velcro straps off her four-ounce gloves. She slipped them off, tucking them under her left arm. She walked out of the cage door, stepping directly past Damon and Brad without acknowledging either of them.
She walked back to her worn, faded duffel bag resting by the heavy bags.
“Hey!” Damon barked, turning toward her. “I’m talking to you. You don’t walk away when I’m talking.”
Maya stopped. She didn't turn around right away. She simply knelt beside her bag and unzipped the main compartment. Inside was a collection of frayed athletic tape, an old jump rope, and a heavily scuffed leather mouthguard case.
“You better find out who she is, Vic,” Damon sneered, turning back to the coach. “Because I’m having my lawyer draft an assault claim. If Brad’s shoulder is compromised, I will sue her for lost wages, and I’ll pull every dime of funding I give to this academy. She’s banned. As of right now, she is permanently banned from this facility.”
Coach Vic didn’t flinch at the threat. Instead, he reached down behind the scorer’s table and picked up a weathered, black-and-gold jacket.
“You sure you want to ban her, Damon?” Vic asked, a slow, dangerous smile finally cracking through his gray beard. “You might want to take a closer look at who you’re talking to.”
The silence in the gym had shifted from shock to a suffocating tension. The fighters who had been training didn’t go back to their bags. They stood by the water coolers, leaning against the walls, watching the standoff.
Damon smoothed the lapels of his suit, his face flushed with the kind of anger only a man used to getting his way could manifest. He looked from Coach Vic to the old black-and-gold jacket in the coach's hands, then scoffed.
“I don’t care if she’s your niece, your cousin, or some washed-up golden gloves champion you dug out of a trailer park,” Damon said, his voice carrying easily across the silent gym. “My agency pays your rent, Vic. Five thousand dollars a month for exclusive use of that main cage for my fighters. The bank has been breathing down your neck since your brother died, and I’m the only thing keeping the lights on. If I say she’s out, she’s out.”
By her duffel bag, Maya finished packing away her gloves. She didn’t look frightened, nor did she look angry. She reached into the side pocket of her bag and pulled out two rolls of heavily used, distinctly red cloth hand wraps.
She began winding the red cloth around her knuckles in a very specific, deliberate pattern. Over the thumb, across the back of the hand, locking the wrist, and then weaving intricately between each finger.
Damon noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye and glared at her. “Are you deaf? Pack your bag and get out.”
Maya didn’t stop wrapping her hands. She looked up from her knuckles and let her eyes drift toward the wall behind the front desk. Pinned to the cheap corkboard, surrounded by local fight posters, was an old photograph. It showed Coach Vic, looking twenty years younger, standing next to a massive, smiling man with a shaved head. Tommy Vicario. The co-founder of the gym, who had passed away unexpectedly five years ago.
Standing between the two brothers in the photo was a young woman, her face obscured by the shadow of a baseball cap, her hands raised in victory, wearing bright red hand wraps.