But that left me still needing a hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars and as you can imagine, a coffee shop manager doesn’t have that type of financial portfolio. It meant I had to turn outward for help.
Over the last week, I’ve met with my bank about a business loan, but I need an appraisal on my house for collateral, which could take weeks. I considered, but quickly turned down, an offer by Fallon to ask Blain for the additional money—as a loan, of course, because he’d never just give it to me—but I didn’t want to be indebted to him in any way. I immediately discounted other lenders who could easily qualify me but would charge exorbitant interest rates I’d never be able to pay off in my lifetime.
In the end, I focused on my best shot at success, and that was applying for small business philanthropic grants. I filled out a total of five applications, and I was able to secure an appointment with one where I’d have to make a business pitch.
The organization is called Olympic Dreams, and I’m not sure if it’s because they grant huge wishes to want-to-be business owners or in honor of our beautiful Olympic mountains just to the west of Seattle. Before my interview this afternoon, I’m going to try to look up the answer to that question just in case they want to grill me about my knowledge of their organization.
But first… I fight to become zen.
A back fist catches me on the right temple. Luckily, my headgear absorbs most of the impact, and I manage to block a left Thai kick coming in quick succession. Following my block, I launch a flurry of punches at my opponent.
Jab, jab, cross, left hook, right uppercut.
Every single one is deflected, and I growl in frustration.
Planting my left leg hard, I raise my right knee and launch a push kick right at my opponent’s midsection. It’s caught in gloved hands and with a sharp twist, my body spins in the air for a brief moment before crashing down onto the mat, face-first.
Something pokes me in the back of my leg, and I glare over my shoulder to find my coach nudging me with his foot. “Get up.”
“I’m tired.” But my mouth guard makes it sound like um thard.
He pulls his own mouth guard out, bouncing lightly from foot to foot. “Tough shit. You’ve gotten lazy lately. No stamina. You need to build it back up.”
Rolling over on my back, gasping for air, I pull my mouth guard out before pleading for mercy. “I’ve been working my ass off, Duane.”
“Not here in the gym,” he retorts.
Duane’s been my MMA coach for the last three years and I used to train with him at least four times a week. Lately, I’m lucky if I get in one day because I’ve been so busy at work, and he’s right… my stamina sucks these days. I used to be able to hang with him for three-minute sparring rounds, but now I can barely survive a minute without getting knocked on my ass. The only thing that makes these failures bearable is the fact I really don’t do anything with these newly honed fighting skills. I don’t compete at karate and jujitsu like I did when I was younger. I was just a kid then, and I had no responsibilities that took priority. I had all the time in the world outside of school to practice, and, well, I had my dad always urging me on.
Now I don’t have the time to commit to serious competition training. No, the mixed martial arts is just for my own joy and satisfaction in knowing I could adequately defend myself if needed. Plus, it’s a great way to stay in shape, particularly because I eat way too many of One Bean’s chocolate croissants.
There’s also the added benefit that punching and kicking things is a huge stress reliever, which, in turn, makes me zen. Duane also teaches me fun stuff like how to use nunchucks, fight with staffs, and defend against knife attacks, so it’s always a good time.
Duane sits facing me, and I push up to my elbows to at least make eye contact. “Your head isn’t in it today,” he observes.
“I know,” I mutter, sitting all the way up and pulling at the Velcro straps holding my gloves on.
While he can be a tough-as-hell coach, Duane is probably the nicest person in the world. He genuinely cares about people and even when riding my butt to do better, it’s always done in a way that lifts me up rather than knocking me down. His brown eyes are soulful and watchful in a way that tells me he understands.
“Need to take a break from this?” he asks, stretching his legs out beside mine in the opposite direction. His dark skin makes mine look ridiculously pale, to the point of appearing sickly. Maybe I should hit a tanning bed or something, but I know that will just cause me to break out in a rash of freckles.