Page 2 of Craving the Edge

I straightened, my gaze fixed on the water stain on the ceiling. He was trying to hide behind his usual bluster of self-importance. Gary Henderson had never gotten the memo that he was not the main character in everyone else’s life.

I wasn’t having it. “I’m not cancelling twelve private sessions and the open mat without a name, Gary.”

A pause crackled down the line. The forced cheer evaporated from his voice. “Just do it, eh? I’m telling you, it’s important.”

“A name,” I repeated. “Or the schedule stays as it is.”

The silence on the line stretched. Gary hated losing a power play, especially to me, but even he knew challenging me was futile.

He let out a dramatic sigh. “Okay, okay, don’t get your knickers in a twist, Char. It’s Declan Walsh.”

The name didn’t just hit me. It blew up in my face. A boom that made my ears ring. I knew him, but that wasn’t the problem. Everyone in the bloody country knew Declan Walsh. The Geelong boy turned golden god of Australian MMA. His face stared down from billboards selling everything from sports drinks to luxury cars, all cocky grin and sponsored logos. I’d seen the interviews, the showy confidence he wore like a tailored suit.

Shallow, fake, and completely nauseating.

And now he wanted to train here? In this crumbling dump held together by my spreadsheets and Gary’s bogun talent with duct tape? I felt a headache begin its slow crawl up the back of my neck. Paparazzi lurking on the street. Sponsors wanting everything just so. He wasn’t a client. He was a bloody nightmare. Another expensive mess I’d be left to clean up.

My gaze drifted to the schedule on the clipboard, at the neat black ink of a morning I’d spent hours organising. All of it, about to be torched.

“Fine,” I ground out. “Whatever you say, Hendo.”

“Great. I knew you’d see sense⁠—”

I didn’t let him finish. I slammed the phone down, cutting him off.

A few of the pre-work crowd glanced my way, but my face was a closed door. They knew better than to try the handle.

Declan Walsh. I pictured the Vanguard World Fighting Alliance billboards. The smug tilt of his head, the curated stubble, the eyes that looked right through the camera lens as if searching for a bigger pay cheque. A manufactured product, built in a boardroom and polished for mass consumption. He was the kind of fighter who worried more about his Instagram feed than his footwork. The kind who would walk in here with an entourage of sycophants and demand the temperature be set just so.

My gaze swept over the gym. The heavy bags swayed under the steady pounding of the morning regulars, each thud strangely calming. The weights clanked in harmony, a symphony of physical strength. All that was missing were the baby animals and butterflies.

Despite the grime in the corners, the peeling mirrors, the faint stench of male sweat, this place was honest. It was hard work, but it was real. That honesty was the one thing Gary couldn’t ruin with his idiocy, but a celebrity circus could. It’d trample all over the fragile ecosystem I’d fought for four years to maintain. Declan Walsh wasn’t just taking a morning slot. He was invading my territory.

I grabbed a red pen and turned back to the clipboard and scored a thick line through Monday morning. Six a.m. to eight a.m. Erased. I wrote Declan ‘Dickhead’ Walsh in the newly cleared space.

I dialled the first number, apologised and rescheduled. A cancellation fee waived here, a free session offered there.

I pictured Declan rolling up in some ridiculous luxury car, trailed by leeches with clipboards and phones pressed to their ears. He didn’t want a gritty gym for a real workout. He wanted a gritty-looking set to film his next inspirational training montage on.

A knot of frustration tightened in my gut. I slammed the phone down, the plastic rattling in protest.

I pushed away from the desk and walked onto the mats, my boots silent on the worn rubber. One of the heavy bags swung slightly off-kilter, its rhythm disrupted by a loose strap. I grabbed the thick nylon webbing, my fingers finding the buckle, and with an aggressive tug, I yanked the strap tight, cinching it into place.

“What did that strap ever do to you?”

The voice was laced with a familiar humour that cut through my foul mood. I released the strap and turned.

Billie stood at the edge of the mats, leaning against a ring post with her arms crossed and a gym bag slung over one shoulder. Even after what was probably a long night slinging cocktails, she looked flawless. Her honey-blonde hair was pulled back into a tight, high ponytail that showed off her perfect bone structure. Dressed in coordinated dark leggings and crop, she carried herself with an easy grace that made most of the actual fighters look clumsy. A small, knowing smile played on her lips, her hazel-green eyes sparkling with mischief.

“The strap was loose,” I muttered.

Billie’s smile didn’t waver. “No, it wasn’t.”

I didn’t answer. She knew me too well for me to bother with a lie I couldn’t sell. My gaze flicked back to the bag, now hanging perfectly still.

She pushed off the post and her gym bag hit the rubber floor with a soft thud. She started to wrap her hands, her gaze fixed on me the whole time. She was waiting me out.

I folded my arms across my chest, a weak defence. “Gary’s making me rearrange the entire morning schedule at a day’s notice.”