“He’s got family stuff going on next week in Texas, so he pulled out of the fight Thursday night.”
“Shit.” Knox flopped into the office chair across from the desk. “How much money is tied up in the event?”
“Twenty grand.”
“Shit,” he said again. “This is why we’ve stayed out of the fight-promotion business.”
“I’m aware of that. I’m also aware that Blue runs events like this all the time, and we’ll come across as unprofessional if we can’t pull it together.” Ronin didn’t give a damn about the money. The dojo saving face was all that mattered to him.
“You worried advance ticket sales will drop off when we change the fight matchup?”
“Some. But that’s why there’s the disclaimer about fight matchups being subject to change without notice.”
Knox gave him a contemplative look. “The easiest thing would be to drop the last bout altogether since it’s the only pro matchup.”
“We’re not dropping the main bout. I’ve already got someone who can fight in Deacon’s place.”
“Who?”
“Me.”
“Hilarious. And here I thought you’d lost your sense of humor in the last week.”
“I’m not joking.”
Knox’s smile died, and he changed into that steely-eyed former soldier. “Fuck that, Ronin. You don’t have to do this.”
“Not a matter of have to. It’s a matter of want to.”
“With all the shit that’s happened in the last week, you are not in the right frame of mind. Let me represent the dojo.”
Ronin leaned forward and didn’t bank the rage fueling him. “Are you suggesting, Godan, that I don’t have the skills to adequately represent the dojo I own?”
“Jesus, no. I’m questioning why you’re doing this.”
“Because I can.” Ronin shoved the updated schedule at him. “Find replacement instructors for the times I circled. I’ll give Shiori a heads up and let her know she’s taking over Deacon’s classes.”
Knox opened his mouth to argue but thought better of it. He asked, “What else can I do?”
“Call Clint. He owes me a favor.”
“Maybe this is obvious, but Clint is retired from the UFC because his body couldn’t take it anymore. And he’s five years younger than you.”
Ronin shrugged. “One fight won’t kill me. But I’m not an idiot. I’ve no doubt I’ll feel every one of my thirty-eight years and then some after the final bell rings.”
“How long has it been since you’ve stepped foot in the ring?”
Hadn’t been that long ago, but he wasn’t sharing that information. “Between you and Clint . . . figure out a training regimen that will get me up to speed fast because Blue is one tough motherfucker.”
Knox stood. “I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t question your decisions.”
“Noted.”
After Knox left, Ronin headed to the training room.
Fuck finding Zen.
• • •
Six nights later
FIGHT night was a blur.
Ronin remembered getting in the ring believing he was the most impervious motherfucker on the planet. Acting like he’d bring the pain. Welcoming the physical punishment Blue Curacao would dish out.
But somewhere in the middle of the second round, Ronin’s focus shifted. He fought back with minimal effort. He embraced the feeling of numbness after his opponent’s blows connected with his body. Every drop of blood he lost cleansed him. Everything around him dropped into slow motion, so when he saw the powerful right cross headed for his jaw, he didn’t bother to block it.
He hit the mat and the lights went out.
People poked and prodded him. He answered their questions by rote. He’d been in this situation enough times that he gave them the responses they were looking for. He made it out of the ring on his own steam and promptly passed out in the locker room with only Shiori and Knox as his witnesses.
“Ronin.”
Go away.
“You managed to walk in here on your own after the medical team checked you out, so I know you can hear me.”
Ronin opened his eye—the one that wasn’t swollen shut. “What?”
“You’re smiling? Are you actually happy that you got your ass kicked?”
He choked out a simple “Yes.”
“Why? Brother, he knocked you out.”
“Not until the third round.” He slowly pushed up from the cot. Fuck. Every inch of his body hurt. The sadistic side of his brain smugly said, Good. The part of his brain with the pain receptors responded by kicking into overdrive.
“Why are you wearing that scary-ass smile?” Knox demanded.
“Getting beat means it’s a perfect setup for a rematch. I’ll probably have to fight a few other bouts to pump up interest.”
“Bullshit,” Shiori spat. “You said one fight, Ronin. One.”
“I changed my mind.”
Knox shook his head. “Sensei, you’re not a pro fighter. These twenty-something guys will be gunning to kick the shit out of an eighth-degree jujitsu master.”
“They’re welcome to try.” Ronin chugged half a bottle of water and spit it in the bucket. “I’m going home.”
“You had a knockout, which equals concussion,” Shiori snapped. “You need to go to the ER.”
“This wasn’t my first fight. I’ve lived the doctor’s advice: rest, painkillers, and alternate ice and heat for swelling.” Ronin pushed to his feet and swayed.
Shiori caught him. “See? You are not all right.”
“I just got up too fast.” He tried to sidestep her, but she wouldn’t let go. “What?”
“Are you doing this because of her?”
Ronin got right in her face. “You don’t get to play that card. Ever.” He dropped his arm. “My personal life is off-limits to you. Period.”
“Not when you are beaten and bleeding.”
“When I’m beaten and bleeding is the only time I really feel alive.”
Shiori looked like she was ready to cry.
“Don’t,” he warned sharply. “I’m f**king fine.”
“No, you’re not.” She took a deep breath and glanced at Knox before meeting his gaze again. “Ronin. Sensei. We can’t stand by and watch you do this to yourself.”