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Chapter 1
Five years ago
Katrina George
“The mouthguard didn’t do its job,” I mutter as I take a seat and pull it from my mouth.
“What the fuck are you doing Katrina? Are you intentionally trying to lose the match?!”
That’s supposed to be my better half, Xavier Craig, who is currently screaming in my face as I spit blood into a bucket at the side of the ring.
Resisting the urge to hawk the next mouthful into his face, I slide my tongue along my teeth, looking for the tooth my opponent knocked loose a few minutes ago with a shin kick to my jaw. I wince when I find it, a fresh coppery tasting pool of blood comes to the surface, and I spit it in the bucket again.
Snagging the cloth from his hand that is flapping around while he spews out his toxicverbiage, something he always does that irritates me to no end, I wipe my brow and wonder what the hell I’m even doing here. It’s not for me anymore, it’s for him. I no longer love the thrill of being in the kickboxing ring, or the thrill of winning. At least not since Xavier showed up in my life three years ago, that is. I need to get the love for the sport back, and there is only one way to do it.
The bell rings calling for the second round, and I stand and look up into his eyes. “When this match is over, so are we,” I say, smacking my gloved hands together for emphasis.
His eyes grow large then he raises his hand, intending to choke me. But then the coward that he is thinks better of it when there are hundreds of witnesses around. He leans forward and looks down his nose at me. “This isn’t over,” he mutters, then steps out of the ring, taking the stool with him.
Ignoring him, I bounce on the balls of my feet to the middle of the ring and touch gloves with my opponent as the ref calls the second round. I throw a couple of jabs at her, but each one misses as she bounds out of the way then returns with a shin to my jaw. AGAIN.
My head goes flying back and I swear I’m on the verge of passing out, but then I hear Xavier screaming and my blood boils in my veins.
My right fist strikes her chin, and when she staggers back, I hook her behind the neck and pull her towards me, kneeing her in the gut as I do. She doubles over, and I take advantage of that with a hip toss that lays her flat out on the mat. Landing on top of her, I deliver a succession of punches to her face. I felt bad while I was delivering each one of them. They were for Xavier. Not her. Before I know it, the ref is dragging me off her. She had tapped out and the match was over, and I didn’t even realize it.
There is no celebration because I just want to get the hell out of here and get in a hot shower, then slap an ice pack on my face while I head to the hotel.
But Xavier has other ideas.
He follows me to the changing room. Not just to the door but follows me around the privacy wall and past the bay of lockers, yelling at me the whole way, and all I want to do is turn around and knock him out. But if I were to, there would be a shitshow to follow. He would cry domestic abuse, even though he is the abuser. Everyone would believe him, and my sponsors would drop me faster than it would take me to knock him out.
No. I don’t need the headache.
I headed to the shower and turned it on, ignoring him as I did.
“We are not over Katrina,” he mutters, shiftinghis eyes about as the other fighter getting ready for her match, gives him the side eye.
“Get the fuck out of here man,” she calls out.
“Shut your trap bitch and mind your own business,” he shouts back.
During their exchange, I focused on the task at hand. Getting in the shower.
She walks out, shooting him the finger, and I, taking a clean towel off the rack, hang it on the hook beside my stall. Pulling my hair free of the bun on top of my head, I shake my hair loose. And then, I sigh. “Get the fuck out of here Xavier. Leave. Go back to the hotel and wait for me there.”
I have no intention of going back to the hotel with him, I decided while pulling my sports bra off. I fling it at him like it’s a rubber band, and I take great satisfaction when it hits him on the cheek and a look of revulsion flashes on his face as the sweat soaked garment slaps against his skin.
Juan, the security guard that travels the circuit with us, shows up, his eyes averted as he comes over to us. “Come on buddy. The women’s locker room is no place for a man.”
“I don’t think so. Katrina and I have something to discuss.”
Juan raises his brows. “You don’t say? Well, guess what? You can do it after she’s done in here.”
He grabs hold of Xavier’s arm, and when that doesn’t work, Juan wraps his arms around him and carries him out.
Finally, some peace and quiet. I step under the hot, cascading water and groan as it soothes my sore muscles.
I’m getting too old for this shit. His shit. I’m so done with him.
