Sick Heart: A Dark MMA Fighter Romance

Did I really speak to him?

I did. After all these years of silence, last night I spoke words. And I don’t even remember what the first one was.

This blows my mind. Because in the early years, when I first stopped talking, I used to fantasize about what the first word would be. I imagined whole scenarios. And Lazar was a part of each and every one. I was going to spew the perfect words at him and make him sorry.

Today, all of that feels very juvenile. Just a child’s dream of vengeance. I never did it, for one. I never spoke to him and none of my fantasy revenge plans ever came to fruition.

“OK. That’s it. Good job, everyone. Welcome to month three.” Maart pauses. “You have one day off and you’re—”

Whoa, whoa, whoa. What the actual fuck is happening here? I stand up and take a few steps forward. Maart stops talking mid-sentence, his eyes fixed on mine. What about me? I sign.

“What about you?”

My fight? Where’s my fight?

“You don’t get one this time.”

“Why not?” I turn to find Cort walking up behind me. “Why doesn’t she get a fight? She’s been training as hard as anyone else.”

Maart sneers at him. “Because she doesn’t need a fight. She won’t be on a platform in a few months fighting for her life.”

“How do you know?” Cort asks. I turn to look at him because his tone is dark and serious. And this is Maart. He doesn’t speak to Maart like that. “You have no idea what’s gonna happen to her when this is over. So why would you take this away from her?”

Maart’s eyes track over to mine and he lets out a contemptuous laugh. “Am I stealing something from you, Anya? Because I thought I was doing you a favor. I’m not going to pair you up with little kids to stroke your ego.” His eyes go back to Cort, narrowing down into slits. “Raffie sprained his ankle yesterday. So he didn’t fight today. And you were so busy this morning coddling that useless toddler and dreaming about your night down below with that overgrown house slave that you didn’t even notice Raffie didn’t fight today. There is no one left for Anya to fight, so this is settled.”

He pauses and I swear, the entire ocean goes still waiting to see how Cort will react to Maart’s words. Because it’s very clear that Maart is pissed. And it’s also very clear that the reason he’s pissed is due to Ainsey and me.

“What the fuck?” Cort’s voice is low.

“What the fuck?” Maart repeats. “That’s what I should be asking you. What the fuck are you doing?” Then his gaze lands on Rainer. “You’re already fucking shit up, Rainer. Telling him you’re staying behind. And whatever. If that’s how you want to waste your one life, who am I to tell you no? But you’ve been going around telling these damn kids that you’re staying behind to take care of them.”

“So what?” Rainer asks. “Why do you care? In one month, you’re washing your hands of the entire thing.”

“Because this isn’t over yet. And you two dumb fucks don’t seem to get it. And that’s fucking funny, coming from you, Rainer, since I’m the only one who seems to be taking this camp seriously. You’re trying to make these kids into your best friends. And you?” He points to Cort. “You’re trying to play Daddy to a little girl who won’t—”

“That’s enough!” Cort snaps. “We can talk about all that shit later when we’re alone. Right now, we’re talking about Anya’s test. She did the work, she gets a fight.”

Maart and Cort lock eyes as several long, awkward seconds tick off. “There’s no one left for her to fight. Unless you want to force Raffie on to the mat.” Maart looks at me. “But then again, maybe that’s what you need. An opponent who can’t even stand.” Maart snickers. “Nah. He’ll still kick your ass.”

I step forward again. Because I get it. Maart hates me. He hates the fact that Cort brought me here. He hates the fact that Cort likes me because this reminds him that he’s replaceable. I point to myself and then I sign, How about you?

“How about me what?”

Fight me.

Maart laughs.

All the kids gasp.

Cort says, “Fuck that. You’re not—”

But before he can get all the words out, putting an end to my challenge, Maart says, “Fuck yeah. Let’s go.” And he whips his shirt off over his head and begins circling me on the mat.

Cort steps between us, arms wide to form a barrier. “Stop it. She’s not fighting you. You would kill her.”

Maart stops circling and straightens up out of his fighter’s stance. “What the fuck is wrong with you? That’s not a rhetorical question. What. The fuck. Is wrong with you? I’ve fought plenty of our kids and not a single one ever died.”