Chapter 6 - St. Louis Called Me Back
I called Alexis Warren from the hallway.
Not a dramatic confrontation.
Instagram first.
Then a phone number.
Then twenty minutes waiting while she finished coaching a youth class in Missouri.
When she answered:
“Rachel Carter.”
“You remember me.”
“I remember being told you were scared to move up two pounds.”
I closed my eyes.
“What?”
Alexis laughed once.
“So we're finally doing this.”
“What did Mason tell you?”
“That you wouldn't fight unless everything stayed exactly contracted.”
“He told me you missed weight.”
“I did.”
There it was.
Not completely false.
“How much?”
“Enough that the original bout couldn't happen.”
“So you asked to adjust?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“My coach said you refused.”
“I never heard about it.”
Silence.
Then Alexis:
“Of course.”
I sat against the arena wall.
“What happened after?”
“I fought somebody else the next day.”
“You weren't suspended?”
“No.”
I had never checked.
Mason knew I wouldn't.
Not because I was stupid.
Because my career kept moving.
Winning creates excellent distractions.
Alexis continued:
“I was pissed at you for a year.”
“I was pissed at you.”
“Great system.”
“Did Mason offer you anything?”
“No.”
“Threaten you?”
“No.”
“Did he even speak to you?”
“Once.”
“When?”
“After.”
“What did he say?”
Alexis thought.
“‘No hard feelings. Rachel needed the contracted conditions.’”
My stomach turned.
A sentence constructed from nothing.
I asked:
“Why didn't you contact me?”
She laughed.
“Why didn't you contact me?”
Fair.
Again.
I had a growing collection of fair answers I hated.
Alexis softened.
“We're fighters, Rachel. Coaches manage the room. Matchmakers manage the bracket. We show up where they tell us.”
“That's not an excuse.”
“No.”
Her voice changed.
“But it explains why this stuff works.”
After we hung up, I found Mason outside a side entrance with his attorney.
He wasn't allowed onto the competition floor while Nora reviewed the voicemail.
He saw me.
His attorney immediately stepped forward.
Mason raised a hand.
“Five minutes.”
The attorney didn't like it.
Neither did I.
We stood beneath the concrete overhang while spectators moved through security twenty yards away.
I asked:
“Did you think I would lose to Leah?”
Mason stared.
“Maybe.”
“That's not an answer.”
“Yes.”
The word came flat.
“Why?”
“She was a terrible matchup for you.”
“You could've coached me.”
“I did.”
“You could've let me fight.”
“Yes.”
“Instead you moved her.”
“She was injured.”
“She was cleared.”
“Cleared doesn't mean smart.”
“That was her decision.”
“And her coach's.”
“Until you put showcase spots on the table.”
Mason rubbed his cheek where I'd slapped him.
“You still think I bought a withdrawal.”
“What would you call it?”
“I gave a coach options.”
“Because you needed me in the final.”
“Yes.”
No evasive language now.
It almost made me angrier.
I said:
“You told Jake Phoenix was for the gym.”
“It was.”
“You spent three years telling me that win proved I belonged.”
“You did belong.”
“Then why help me?”
Mason's jaw tightened.
“Because belonging doesn't pay rent.”
I laughed.
“That's your defense?”
“No.”
He looked toward the arena.
“You remember Reed Combat before Phoenix?”
I did.
Old warehouse.
Leaking roof.
Six heavy bags, two repaired with silver tape.
Mason teaching morning classes himself because another coach quit.
“Three staff had kids,” he said. “Jake was injured. We were behind on rent. Sponsor offered a real contract if we put somebody on the national podium.”
“So you chose me.”
“Yes.”
“Without telling me.”
“Yes.”
“Because you knew I'd say no.”
He looked at me.
“Yes.”
There it was.
Not misunderstanding.
Not accident.
A choice.
I asked:
“How many?”
“What?”
“Matches.”
His eyes moved.
“How many times did you open the path?”
“Not like Phoenix.”
“That wasn't my question.”
He didn't answer.
I stepped closer.
His attorney warned:
“Rachel.”
I stopped.
No more hands.
No more giving people an excuse to make violence the headline.
Mason said:
“Four.”
My stomach dropped.
“In my career?”
“Across the whole gym.”
“Which four?”
“Phoenix. St. Louis. Denver.”
“That's three.”
He looked at me.
“The fourth wasn't yours.”
“Whose?”
Mason glanced toward the arena.
Jake.
May you like
I knew before he said it.
And Jake had never mentioned another one.
