Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
“What’s your number? I’ll text you a few hours before the next one starts.”
This is the moment. The one that will decide everything. Because if I give him my number, the safe life is over. All this pretending is over. I don’t want to be a fight slave. I don’t want to live in a jungle. I want what Maart gave the other fighters. I want what Maart gave the boys.
I want what Paulo got—a life doing what you’re good at, what you’ve trained for, without the threat of death lurking around every corner.
It’s a sickness inside me, this longing. This urge to hurt and be hurt back. But when I pretend that the sickness isn’t real, it just eats away at me from the inside out.
I don’t know how long I can keep going if I have to keep pretending.
Maybe I was thinking about killing myself today?
Maybe every time I’ve come out here to float, all I was really looking for was the end.
It’s hard being so alone. But if I could fight again, and be with fighters again, maybe I’ll stop feeling like a freakshow hiding under a circus tent.
I spit out my digits. The guy smiles, texts me a message, then gives me a little salute and walks back down the break wall without looking back.
I get my phone out of my beach bag and check the text. I’m Dog, it says. Nice to see ya again, Storm.
I sit down on a rock and smile, just looking at those letters.
Storm. It’s better than Honey B and Hurricane.
At least it’s pithy.
And anyway, maybe I am the storm?
Maybe I have always been the storm.
Fighting in Miami was way different than fighting in the Rio tournaments. There were no women in Miami. Maybe a few girlfriends hanging around, but no fighters. Certainly no teenagers. I was most definitely the youngest one there.
The Rio fights were different in another way too. Everything about the fights revolved around desperation. Everyone in the favelas was desperate for everything.
I was desperate too. Desperate to make Maart pay for ruining my sixteenth birthday.
I was sloppy about those Rio fights. I wasn’t even trying to hide it. By this time, a few months after I turned sixteen, I was leaving the village in the jungle, catching a ride with random people on the road.
It’s not like Cort was my father. And while Anya and I were friends, she was far, far too young to have any say over my life. Rainer was the only one who could’ve stopped it, I guess. But he wasn’t there. He was on the road with Sergey.
So off I went. Every single weekend.
I wanted Maart to find out about those Rio fights. I wanted him to ask me what the hell I thought I was doing. Why I needed so much money. But most of all, I wanted him to stop me. To come to me and say, “You’re still one of us. Come and train. Come be yourself with us.”
And then, maybe, after a while—after I turned eighteen—he would look at me differently one day. And we would be something different.
Not fighter and trainer. But woman and man.
He never did look at me differently. And he never would.
That’s why I was standing outside his office window the day I left. It was his last chance. I had everything I needed. New passport, money, and a plan.
He saw me. And then he closed the blinds on me.
In Miami, no one was desperate. Everyone had way more than they needed and they just wanted more, more, more.
Which was OK with me. I wanted more too.
After I did the photoshoot, I was more careful with my money and took more precautions with my safety. I hadn’t chosen South Beach—it was just close by when I got off that boat, and it seemed like as good a place as any. I didn’t realize it was kinda high-end at first. But there were hostels there, really cheap places to stay. And it was small, an island. I liked that. I didn’t need a car, I could just walk everywhere. It was perfect, actually.
I’d been in the hostel for two days when I heard a couple of guys talking about the fights. They were playing cards in the community room, lots of people around, so it wasn’t like it was a private conversation. They mentioned a gym about ten blocks up. I didn’t ask them any questions. I walked up to the gym just as the sun was setting, and watched what kind of people were going in. What kind of atmosphere it was.
They were generally young. Early twenties. And it had the feeling of a good time. In other words, not only was no one gonna die at the end, but the loser would probably still be your friend. It felt like they all kinda knew each other, so I was hesitant to go in that night. But the guy at the hostel had said that the fights were never in the same place twice. So if I didn’t go in, and didn’t take part in some way, I wouldn’t know how to find the next one.