Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
I’ve tinkered with this over and over, adding, deleting, and clarifying. There’s a red lipstick in my cosmetics bag and a tab open at the top of the screen for lingerie. But I’ve been too hesitant—too scared—to really act … until now.
I don’t have all the answers, and I don’t know what the future holds, but I know it’s time. I feel it in my bones.
It’s time to find the real Audrey Van.
CHAPTER
FOUR
Brooks
“How does that feel?” Achilles asks as I set the foam roller against the wall. “Any pain? Burning? Tightness?”
I grip my left shoulder with my right hand and work it into slow, small circles to cool down from our session. I’m so over this shit.
Rock music pulses through the back wall of Alfie’s Gym, the dank space that Alfie lets me use as a rehab room while I’m in town. When we made the agreement over a couple of beers and cheeseburgers last spring, we both thought it would be just a few months. After all, it was just a torn rotator cuff.
Two surgeries later, I’m still here because it wouldn’t be my life if it weren’t complicated. It’s been almost a year, and it'll likely be a full year before I’m cleared to go back to Vegas and train normally—if I’m allowed back in the sport at all. It turns out that defending yourself at practice from some asshole motherfucker trying to hurt you brings the sport into disrepute. And when an anonymous source accuses you of fixing fights at the same time? Your license gets suspended until they sort it out.
And if I can’t fight anymore—can’t provide for my mother anymore—over shit I didn’t do? Someone’s gonna fucking pay.
“Feels fine,” I say, swiping a towel off a weight bench. “It’s exhausted, but nothing hurts.”
“That’s normal, and a good sign. The repair is holding, and your muscles are working again. Let’s keep focusing on core work and full-body endurance. Your strength is getting there. We’ll start drills for power and stability as we go to get you back in the ring.”
“You say that every damn week.”
He chuckles. “So you are listening.”
I roll my eyes and wipe the beads of sweat off my face.
Achilles has been a godsend during the rehabilitation process following my injury last March. For the past ten months post-surgery, he’s flown to Nashville and driven down to Sugar Creek twice a month to oversee my progress along with online check-ins. He costs a small fortune, but it was either fork over the cash or do the rehab in Vegas—a city I have a love-hate relationship with at the moment. Besides, there are only a handful of things I can think of that would be worse than sitting around my condo with absolutely nothing to do but therapy. At least here I can see my family and friends and help some on the ranch.
I can be somewhat useful.
“Don’t forget that I’ll be out of the country for the next three weeks with Barrett Landry,” Achilles says, throwing his bag over his shoulder. “We’ll keep everything the same except for my visit two weeks from now. Let’s try to Zoom that session so I can get a visual on you—make sure you haven’t gone rogue.”
“I love the faith you have in me. It really hits me right in the feels.”
“You’re an asshole,” he says, shaking his head.
We chuckle, walking side by side out of the room. Achilles pats me on the shoulder before heading to the parking lot.
Being at Alfie’s is such a mindfuck these days. On one hand, it’s a burst of nostalgia from days gone by. It’s familiar and comfortable, and everyone treats me like I’m a hero—which I secretly love. But, on the other hand, it feels like a regression.
Many of my friends wanted to leave Sugar Creek as soon as they graduated from high school, but I never had that need to get out of here. Growing up in this small town was a blast, and there’s something to be said for walking into Patsy’s or Piper’s Pizza and knowing every person sitting at the tables. But leaving was the only way I could take care of Mom, so I had to do it.
And I did it.
Now? I don’t get to choose anymore, and being at Alfie’s every day is a reminder of that.
“Hey, Brooks! Check this out!” A red-haired boy named Trent waves at me with a gloved hand from a heavy bag across the room. “Watch this.”
He faces the bag and squats down, circling the bag with his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth. Then he launches an attack, throwing decent combinations—ripping his right hand across the leather as we practiced. The black eye he got from getting a little too big for his britches while sparring a couple of days ago shines.