Page 76 of Punchline
“More videos?”
“I keep telling those punks to stop sending them to me,” he muttered as he texted a reply. Apparently there were a lot of videos of the EFC altercation floating around now, and his teammates were obsessed. Ethan didn’t watch any of them because he knew I was avoiding it at all costs and he was an amazingly supportive person, but that didn’t stop them from coming in.
“It’ll die down soon,” I said, trying my hardest to believe it.
Ethan nodded, then turned his phone off and put it on the counter behind him. “I’m going to go in to practice today,” he told me between sips of coffee. “I don’t get tobe on the ice yet, but my PT says I’m ready for some supervised training in the weight room.”
I grinned. “That’s great!” It was genuinely good news that Ethan could start training again. Sitting still for more than a few hours was anathema to him, and as he’d pointed out numerous times, “the rest of my body isn’t broken, damn it!”
“Yeah, I’m looking forward to it.”
“You want me to drop you off at the arena on the way to the gym?”
“Nah, I can ride with my roommates,” he said. They were both out on a run—they’d asked if I wanted to go with, and I’d said it sounded like hell to run in this heat but I’d make coffee for them to come back to. “But if you come get me this afternoon, we could have a late lunch out.”
“Deal.”
An hour later, I kissed Ethan goodbye and headed to the gym for the first time since the fight. My bruises were at their peak, which was irritating since I’d barely been touched. Stupid peach skin… Carson was going to handle all the kids classes until I looked less like a piece of rotting fruit, but I could do the noon and evening adult classes. I let my lesson plan take over most of the space in my brain as I drove, which was a great distraction… until I arrived at the gym and saw the Lamborghini parked out front.
A neon-yellow Lamborghini with a custom license plate that read DIMON1 on it.
JesusfuckingChrist, would this piece of shit never stop haunting me?
I slammed my door as I got out and left my bag in the car as I marched over to the gym door. It didn’t take me long to spot him, sitting in a sprawl across from Beth like he owned her fucking office. They both turned toward me as Ientered, her with relief and him with a weird expression I couldn’t quite place.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded as I walked over to them.
“Now, Mr. Radovitz?—”
“No, you said you were done with me at the fights and I’mfinewith that, by the way, so why are you here now?”
“You know what?” Beth said as she got to her feet. “I’m going to give you guys some space. Feel free to stay in here as long as you need.”
Guilt shot through me. “No,” I protested, “this is your office, we can take this somewhere else.”
She gave me a smile. “It’s fine. I’ll be right outside if you need me, though.” Then she was gone, closing the door behind her, and I was left caught between gratitude and irritation. I didn’t want to be talking with Dimon, I wanted him toleave.
“Sit down already, you’re making my neck hurt.”
“Ask me if I care.”
He smirked. This bald, brazen, bad-suit-wearing asshole stared at me like a man who thought he held all the cards, and it pissed me off even more.
The sooner this was over with, the better. I sat down in Beth’s chair and stretched out my legs so they were actually comfortable instead of bent up to my chest, then waited.
“You follow any fight stats, Radovitz?” he asked.
What? “No.”
“Huh. Maybe you should start. I know you follow the EFC, I looked you up on our socials.”
“I’ve hardly touched my phone since I ended up injail,” I said pointedly.
Dimon seemed surprised. “You haven’t even watchedyourfight?”
“Nope.Don’t really like thinking about it.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Hey, I dropped the charges for that. You’re welcome, by the way.”
