He turned and began straightening up the pads that had been left on the floor around the crates they belonged in.
“Quicker than most. Which is why I know you’re going to be taking me on as your trainer. And the sooner the better. You’re in negotiations to do that Rodriguez fight in six months, right?”
He paused, finally lifting his head to stare at me. “Just because you know a little about the fighting world, doesn’t mean you’re cut out to be a trainer, sweetheart.”
“And now we’re back to the pet names.”
“See? And offended easily. The last fucking thing I need is a trainer who’ll pop up and sue me for sexual harassment or some bullshit like that because they couldn’t take being called sweetheart one too many times.”
“Then you won’t hire me because I’m a woman and you don’t know how to control yourself around women?”
“That’s not what the hell I meant.” He tossed the boxing pad in his hand into the black crate.
“Sure sounded like that’s what you meant. Also sounds like something Harvey Weinstein would say.”
“Don’t you dare compare me to that fucker.” Luke charged, angrily, pointing his finger at me.
I held up my hands. “Wouldn’t think of it.”
Slowly he lowered his hand, glaring at me before turning and heading to the other side of the gym.
“You’re still following me,” he said over his shoulder.
“Indeed I am. We need to work out your training schedule. I notice you’ve been taking on about five or six fights per year over the past two years. Frankly, for someone of your experience and at your level, I think that’s way too many fights. We’ll likely have to cut the amount of fights in half, so that you can have more time to train and recover, and—”
“Why are you still talking like this is a done deal?”
I slumped my shoulders and pushed out a heavy breath. “Tell me something? Did you ever call any of those trainers you were bragging about yesterday, who are beating down your door to train you?”
The narrowing of his eyes told me his answer before his lips even parted.
“I was busy.”
“I’m sure. The truth is you don’t want to take on a new trainer. You’re pissed you have to, but you do. That’s just the reality of it.” The entire NFA world knew Luke’s trainer of more than a decade had died nearly eighteen months ago. Since then, he’d been training himself and it wasn’t working out for him.
“You know what they say about people who try to represent themselves in court?”
“Of course, I do.”
“They have a fool for a lawyer.”
“I said I fucking knew what the saying is.”
“It’s the same for any fighter who tries to train himself. You think you know all there is to be taught, or what’s good for your body, but you don’t. It’s my job as the trainer to be up on the latest research about recovery, best ways to enhance your workouts and build the type of body that will withstand the grueling three rounds inside the cage, five if we’re aiming for the championship bout. Which we definitely are. I know all of that. It’s my job to collaborate with you and help reign you in when you’re going too far or push you when you’re getting lazy. Right now, you’re spinning your wheels and while it hasn’t cost you much except a few fights, soon enough you’ll be losing ground. And do I even need to get into your poor groundwork?”
Luke stood there, arms folded over his broad chest, staring at me for a few uncomfortable heartbeats. My mind told me to keep talking, to keep using my words to persuade him I was the right person for this job, but I bit my tongue to keep my mouth from opening. Words wouldn’t suffice in this situation. Luke was a fighter, a man of action. If I talked too much, I could talk myself right out of this position.
“How old are you?”
Tilting my head to the side, I replied, “You know it’s rude to ask a woman her age?”
“How old?”
“Thirty-one.”
He snorted. “Young as shit to be a head trainer.”
I nodded, knowing he was right. Most NFA fighters had head trainers who were in their fifties or even sixties.
