Chapter 8 - I Was Allowed To Fight Without Mason
The event panel gave me three things I didn't want.
A formal warning.
A fine.
And a choice.
Mason had declined to file a police complaint.
That did not erase what I'd done.
The tournament could have disqualified me.
Instead, after reviewing video and taking statements, they decided I could remain on the card if I competed without Mason or any coach directly involved in the integrity review.
Jake was involved.
So not him.
Assistant coaches who had known about the old arrangements were being interviewed.
Not them either.
Nora said:
“You can use a neutral event-approved corner.”
I stared.
“Some stranger.”
“Qualified coach.”
“Still a stranger.”
“You can withdraw.”
That was the choice.
My actual first-round match was in ninety minutes.
I asked:
“What about Mason?”
“Removed from the active floor pending review.”
“Jake?”
“Eligible unless new information changes that.”
“Why?”
“Because knowing about misconduct and participating in it are different questions event by event.”
I didn't love that.
It was still better than everybody being punished by proximity.
Nora looked at me.
“Rachel, before you answer, I need something from you.”
“What?”
“If you compete, today's match is not a referendum on whether Mason was right.”
I frowned.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Everybody kept asking me that.
She continued.
“If you win, it doesn't prove your career was clean. If you lose, it doesn't prove he built you.”
My stomach tightened.
That one reached the part I'd been avoiding.
What if I lost?
What if Mason had been right three years ago?
What if Phoenix had been the beginning because he opened a path I couldn't have opened myself?
I looked through the glass toward the arena.
My division had begun warm-ups.
I knew those women.
I'd beaten some.
Lost to others.
Real fights.
Real rounds.
Real bruises.
Real work.
But suddenly every win had a question attached.
I hated Mason for that more than the withdrawals.
He had contaminated memory.
Nora asked:
“What do you want?”
“I want to fight.”
Immediate.
Then less certain:
“I think.”
“Those are different answers.”
I laughed.
“You're annoying.”
“I've heard.”
She gave me ten minutes.
I called my mother.
Not because she knew combat sports.
Because she didn't.
She answered from Connecticut.
“Did you hit your coach?”
News traveled faster than electricity.
“Yes.”
“Rachel.”
“I know.”
“Open hand?”
“Mom.”
“I'm asking because your aunt said punch.”
“Slap.”
“Still stupid.”
“Yes.”
She waited.
I told her the rest.
Not every detail.
Phoenix.
Mason.
The manipulated withdrawals.
The choice to fight.
My mother listened.
Then said:
“You want me to tell you you're still good.”
That annoyed me.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“What?”
“You called the wrong woman.”
“Helpful.”
“You are good.”
“Mom.”
“But that's not what you're asking.”
She was right.
I wanted certification.
I wanted somebody untouched by the scandal to tell me my record still meant exactly what it meant yesterday.
She couldn't.
Nobody could.
“What should I do?”
“I don't know.”
I closed my eyes.
“Fantastic.”
“You're twenty-seven.”
“So?”
“Make a twenty-seven-year-old decision.”
“What does that mean?”
“Not the decision Coach wants. Not the opposite because you're angry.”
She paused.
“And maybe don't hit anybody else.”
I laughed despite myself.
When I returned, Nora was waiting.
“So?”
“I’m fighting.”
She nodded.
“Neutral corner.”
“Yes.”
“Your opponent has been informed there was an internal coaching issue, not the details.”
“Good.”
“Rachel.”
“What?”
“You need to apologize to Mason for the slap.”
I bristled.
“Not today.”
“Not my decision.”
“Then why say it?”
“Because you keep looking for ways his wrongdoing changes yours.”
I stared at her.
She left.
I hated her.
Then I found Mason at the far end of the concourse, escorted toward an exit.
I walked over.
His attorney immediately stepped between us.
I stopped six feet away.
“Mason.”
He turned.
I swallowed.
“Slapping you was wrong.”
He stared at me.
That was all.
No but.
No because.
Mason's face changed slightly.
“Okay.”
I almost said more.
Didn't.
He looked toward the arena.
“You're fighting?”
“Yes.”
“Who's cornering?”
“Neutral coach.”
He nodded.
Then:
“Don't let them put you in a bad—”
He stopped himself.
For six years, he had decided which risks were mine.
This time he caught the impulse halfway out.
I noticed.
So did he.
I turned away.
Then Mason said:
“Rachel.”
I looked back.
“You were always good enough to compete.”
My jaw tightened.
“That's not what you said out there.”
“I needed you angry.”
“So I'd leave.”
“Yes.”
“And instead I hit you.”
“Yes.”
He touched his cheek.
“Bad plan.”
For the first time that day, I almost smiled at him.
Almost.
May you like
Then he was escorted out.
And I walked toward a match he had not chosen for me.
