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I knew my car was due for an oil change at some point. Maybe I could take it to the shop in the next day or two.
“Hang in there.” I spoke to it after backing out of the driveway. Was the pep talk for me or the car? Yeah, I was slowly losing my mind.
The drive to Warrior's Den gave me time to mentally prepare. I had to remain professional, despite my growing personal feelings for Ryder.
This is for the best, I kept telling myself. This was what I wanted, wasn’t it? A chance to start over with a new career. Ryder was working on his, too. He had to maintain the heavyweight championship in the league. Did we really have time for a relationship?
A familiar fear crept in. If I let him in, would he just hurt me in the end?
I made an effort to cast the thought aside. This was necessary. I didn’t protect myself in the past. I was too trusting. Now I knew better.
My feelings didn’t settle easily. When I arrived at the gym, I found him already there, pummeling a punching bag with focused aggression. His muscles flexed with each strike, showcasing the power contained in his frame.
For the next few hours, I observed and took notes as Ryder trained, avoiding direct interaction. During water breaks, I busied myself interviewing other fighters and staff so I could have a thorough description of Warrior’s Den for the article. Ryder's eyes followed me around the gym, but he kept his distance as well. The air between us crackled with unspoken words and unresolved tension. Still, we both maintained our stoic roles - him as subject, me as writer.
After the gym session ended, I retreated to my hotel suite. The introverted side of me enjoyed the solitude and welcomed the opportunity to drop the unbothered mask. Letting the door click shut behind me, I leaned against it. My body hummed with pent-up energy, both from watching Ryder's intense training and from holding myself back around him.
I needed to focus, to channel all this restless energy into my work. Sitting at the desk, I opened my laptop and notes. The rhythmic tapping of computer keys soothed me as I dove into writing about the world of MMA, the Fury League, and Ryder's rise to the top.
Facts and figures, training regimens, injury rates - my article slowly took shape. The more I learned about Ryder's sport, the more I understood what drove him. MMA was far more than brute force. It required athleticism, technique, strategy. Ryder hadn't just stumbled into success. He'd earned it through endless hours of honing his skills.
Glancing at the clock, I realized I'd been writing for over two hours. My growling stomach protested being ignored. As I read over the room service menu, my phone dinged with an incoming text. It was from Ryder, asking if I wanted to meet for a late dinner. I hesitated, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. My gut impulse was to say yes, but my brain held me back.
With a sigh, I texted back. Can't tonight. On a roll with the article. Raincheck? I hated turning down the invitation, but I just wasn't crossing the line again.
I took a deep breath and hit send on the text, trying to ignore the pang of regret. This assignment was too important to let myself get distracted, no matter how magnetic the distraction was.
SUNRIDGE AUTO, FIVE days later
The bell above the door jingled as I stepped into the auto shop the following afternoon. I pulled my jacket tighter against the chill breeze blowing in from outside. Grease stained the concrete floor and the air smelled of motor oil and burnt rubber.
Two men in coveralls hunched over a toolbox, their conversation drifting over.
"You going to Carnage tonight?" The taller man asked.
The other snorted. "Wouldn't miss it. I heard the mystery fighter is back. My money's on him to take the championship."
"Whoever he is, the dude's unstoppable. Brutal in the cage."
I casually got closer, eavesdropping to hear. Carnage? A mystery fighter? My reporter instincts came to life. Details on one of Sunridge’s underground MMA associations would inspire a future report. More material meant more longevity in this biz.
The mechanics noticed me then, conversation halting. I gave them a small smile.
"Hi. I’m here for an oil change." I took seat on one of the waiting room chairs.
They exchanged a look but said nothing more. My fingers twitched with the urge to grab my phone and kick up the search engine while peppering them with questions. But I held back, feigning nonchalance.
There was a story here. And I was going to find it.
I sat in the auto shop determined, mind racing with possibilities. Who was this mystery fighter that had the mechanics in such awe? And what all could I find at Carnage? The name alone set off my adrenaline and left me curious.
With all the patience of a squirrel, I pulled out my phone. It wasn’t long before my fingers flew across the screen as I searched for any info I could find on Carnage and underground fighting in the city. The search turned up little, just vague whispers on forums and social media. I guess Carnage and its fans were keeping things under wraps. A secretive, underground event was no surprise.
Still, I had to know more. A good reporter never shied away from a story. And my gut said this could add more hot sauce to my existing work or be big enough to keep my career headed uphill.
THE CAR MECHANICS NEVER said another word about Carnage. I left Sunridge Auto after getting my car serviced and returned to my hotel to work on my article.
Night fell as I paced my hotel suite, debating what to do now. I could show up at Carnage tonight, yet it could be dangerous without knowing what I was walking into.
