Chapter 2 - Twenty-Eight Seconds
Nora put me in an officials' room behind the arena floor.
Not a locker room.
Not somewhere I could storm out through another entrance and pretend nobody had authority over me.
A folding table.
Four chairs.
One security employee outside.
I paced.
Nora watched.
“You want me to tell you hitting him was wrong?”
“I don't need you to tell me.”
“Good.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I stopped.
My palm still burned.
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“Because whatever Mason did last night, you don't get to convert anger into permission.”
“I know.”
She let that sit.
Then:
“You've been removed from pre-fight staging while we review the incident.”
“Am I out?”
“Not yet.”
“Mason said I was already out before I touched him.”
“I heard.”
“He has been trying to scratch me since last night.”
“Why?”
I held up the phone.
“That's what I’m trying to find out.”
Nora looked at it.
“Is there evidence of something affecting event integrity?”
“I don't know.”
“Then don't play it for a room full of athletes.”
That annoyed me because Mason had said almost the same thing.
Nora noticed.
“His motive and mine can be different.”
Fair.
I sat.
“What happens now?”
“You give me a statement. Mason gives one. We determine whether you remain eligible to compete under another coach if necessary.”
“Under another coach.”
“Yes.”
“And Mason?”
“If he says he cannot safely corner you after being struck, I won't force him.”
“I don't want him cornering me.”
“Problem solved.”
“No.”
I looked at the phone.
“Not remotely.”
Nora left me alone for three minutes to call someone from competition oversight.
I stared at the voicemail.
Twenty-eight seconds.
That's all I'd heard.
At 1:14 that morning, my phone had rung once and stopped.
Then voicemail.
I played it again.
Mason's voice appeared first, muffled.
“…Carter cannot go tomorrow.”
Another man.
Jake.
“Then tell her the truth.”
Mason:
“I am trying to keep this contained.”
Jake:
“You said Phoenix was over.”
A chair scraped somewhere in the recording.
Then a woman's voice I didn't recognize.
“She is already seeded.”
Mason said:
“Then unseed her.”
The woman:
“You know I can't do that.”
Mason's voice became clearer.
“If Rachel sees Leah Ortiz in this building, she starts asking questions.”
That's where I had stopped.
Not because the recording ended.
Because my hands had begun shaking.
Leah Ortiz.
I hadn't heard that name in three years.
Not since Phoenix.
Leah was supposed to fight me in the semifinal.
She had been the favorite.
Not slightly.
Everybody thought she'd walk through me.
Then twenty minutes before the match, Mason came into warm-ups and said Leah had withdrawn.
“What happened?” I'd asked.
“Personal issue.”
“What kind?”
“Not your business.”
I remember being offended.
Then relieved.
I advanced.
Won the final.
Got interviewed afterward.
Two sponsors called within a week.
Mason told me opportunities were finally catching up with ability.
I had believed him because I wanted to.
The door opened.
Jake slipped inside before security could stop him.
Nora wasn't back yet.
“You have thirty seconds,” the guard told him.
Jake closed the door halfway.
“Rachel.”
“What happened in Phoenix?”
His face tightened.
“Don't ask me like there's a clean sentence.”
“Try.”
He looked at the phone.
“How much did you hear?”
“Twenty-eight seconds.”
He exhaled.
“Don't listen to the rest alone.”
“Why?”
“Because Mason wasn't talking about only Phoenix.”
My stomach tightened.
“What else?”
Jake looked toward the door.
“St. Louis.”
That name hit next.
Two years ago.
Another opponent withdrew.
Official reason: missed weight.
I had never questioned it.
Jake saw recognition.
“Yeah.”
I stood.
“What did you do?”
“Rachel.”
“What did you do?”
His jaw tightened.
“I carried messages.”
“What messages?”
“Not here.”
I laughed.
“You all love that phrase.”
Jake lowered his voice.
“In Phoenix, Leah didn't have a personal emergency.”
I stopped.
“Why did she withdraw?”
He stared at the floor.
“Mason gave her coach a reason to.”
The door opened.
Nora returned.
Jake moved away.
I looked at him.
“What reason?”
He hesitated.
Then said:
“Ask Leah.”
Nora frowned.
“Leah who?”
I turned toward the arena.
If the voicemail was right, she was somewhere inside the building.
May you like
Three years after disappearing from my bracket.
And Mason was more afraid of me speaking to her than he was of getting slapped in front of the entire sport.
