“You know what, I’m sick of this.” Nash didn’t raise her voice, yet the emotion rang in it. “I have never once disrespected anyone the way I have been disrespected lately. You want the truth? Here it is. I didn’t want to humiliate Beckinsale on here while she’s still busted up because, no doubt, I’ll be criticised for that too. But my legacy is being attacked. The reason she got so many hits in was due to a mistake. My mistake! Nothing else. My game plan was to toy with her from the opening round. Even though it was an exhibition, it was her first professional match. I remembered mine. I assumed she would be terrified, and the longer it goes without getting into a rhythm, the sloppier you become. I underestimated her. I realised I’d screwed up after my nose had been broken and one eye had nearly closed. Did I get angry? You’re Goddamn right. At myself. I do not hate her, and I did not try to maim her. But, yes, I snapped.”
“Will you answer the calls for a rematch?”
“Why should I?”
“Why not?”
“You see all this that I’ve had to deal with? The attacks on me? Booing me out of the building? Vandalising my property? It’s insulting, criminal and offensive. You think I don’t know winning a rematch could reduce a lot of this bullshit? But why would I increase the heat on myself?
A momentary brain snap has caused the fighting world, and non-fighting world, to think they can weigh in on this. They think I’m a monster and she’s some sort of victim. Almost fifteen years in this business and I’m suddenly reduced to this? This is what I’ll be remembered for?” Nash paused as her voice became thick. She waited, it seemed, to draw her tears back. “I’ve given everything to this business because I love it. I have no kids. No partner. No one is waiting for me at the end of the day. My legacy is all I have. I’m not complaining. I’d gladly do it all again. But attacks on that legacy hurt me and I take that personally.”
“You’ve said a rematch could go a long way to putting this heat to rest. It would also help in cementing that legacy, wouldn’t it? Provided you could put her away early? And you have never faced the same opponent twice. It could be very lucrative all around.”
“The last thing I care about is money. As good as she is, as good as she might turn out to be, she doesn’t deserve a rematch based on that performance. That’s the truth. But if you, and the couch experts out there, want to push this, to pushme? I tell you what, if she’s watching, or if any of her people are watching, listen up. A rematch will only happen if she wants to try and take this belt from me.
They say to never make fighting personal, but this is. I hope for her sake she never says she wants a rematch. I don’t want to hurt her again, but if she’s determined to stand toe-to-toe one more time, I won’t be responsible for what happens. If I ever step in the Cage with Beckinsale again, I’ll put the belt on the line, but I won’t just be defending my title. I’ll be defending everything I am. You’ll see me at my absolute BEST. No toying. No playing. People think I was ruthless in that last fight? I’m angrier now than I’ve ever been. And it’s not even her fault. She’s done nothing to provoke this. Apparently, she’s working on a modelling career or something. Good luck to her. But if she’s opposite me again, she’ll be in my way. And I will run over her.”
24
The good news was Ava,with the assistance of her boys and a walking stick, managed to gingerly walk out of the hospital the next day. The bad news was the media were waiting outside.
“Ava! Have you seen the interview posted yesterday?”
“Do you think you’d give a better match than Felicia Wale?”
“Do you have a response for Veronica Nash?”
Chris shoved some of the cameramen back. “Out of the fucking way! Christ! Move!”
Ava kept her head down, trying to stay on balance, but it was no short order even with Ruben supporting the arm not holding the stick. She was being jostled as the crew around them shifted back yet still didn’t give enough room to move.Fuck this, she thought and stopped dead before turning around to face the cameras. They weren’t going to go away. They wanted a statement to go with their story. She tried to remember they were just doing their jobs even though they were as annoying as all hell.
Ruben squeezed her arm. “Don’t bother. Don’t strain your voice.”
Ava glanced at him, patting his hand, but tried to clear her throat. “Guys, I can’t talk long, as you can tell. I saw the interview, and I’m sorry she’s having a hard time, but she’s the champion for a reason, and she’ll bounce back.”
“Do you want a rematch with Veronica Nash?”
Before she could answer, Ruben gripped her arm, almost screaming, “Does it look like she’s in any condition to talk about rematches, you tool?” He picked her up in his arms and pushed forward.
They were moving faster, but the questions didn’t stop.
“Do you still consider yourself a fighter?”
“What will you do now, Ava?”
“Do you have any intention to fight again?”
That last question stuck in Ava’s brain on repeat. All the way to the car and on the ride home. She barely spoke once inside, content to head to bed. The boys understood why or so they thought.
Yes, it had been an exhausting day, and she was tired, but that wasn’t why. She needed to be alone with her thoughts. She climbed into bed with so many of them racing through her mind. What was next for her? What was she now? If she couldn’t fight anymore, she wasn’t a fighter and that was the only thing she’d ever wanted to be. It gave her a purpose, strength and focus. Three things she desperately needed right then.
For the first time since she had washed her hands of her parents, Ava felt truly lost, and it wouldn’t get any easier. Tomorrow night, she and the boys were hosting a dinner party for Jasmine and her husband.
Ava awoke to pitch blackness well after three in the morning. Her stomach ached with hunger, so she made her way downstairs to the kitchen. She opened the fridge, looking for her options and spotted a plate sporting homemade lasagne. Chris had saved some for her, obviously anticipating she would get up sooner or later. Bless him.
She sat in silence as she finished her meal, and well after it, drumming her fingers on the table and staring at the full-length punching bag hanging in the backyard. She made her way out to it and positioned her feet as best she could given the pain. She hit the bag with two clumsy, floppy punches. And again, another two. Same feeling. She shook her head slightly and steadied herself. One, two. One, two. The punches started feeling faster though nowhere near her competing speed or power. That was OK. She didn’t need them to be at this stage. She just needed to know that she still had it, that she wasn’t washed up.
She planted her surgery-fixed leg and swung with her left into the bag. Agony shot up her right leg, and she crumbled to the wooden decking, her fist stuffed in her mouth to drown out her scream. She barely made contact with the bag, but her support leg, the weak one, couldn’t handle even that.