The feeling that I’d jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire swelled in the pit of my stomach.
Chapter 6
Gabe
A few days after helping move Lena into Jodi’s cabin, I walked into No Sweat’s conference room, where Preston waited. We were meeting to discuss our latest prospect.
“You know Roger Wolcott died?” he asked as soon as he turned from the large window that peered down into the gym.
I nodded and strolled over to stand next to him at the window. Below, a handful of fighters, including Eli Gatlin, worked through a round of drills.
“I heard. A few weeks ago,” I said while still studying Eli.
“Heart attack,” Preston said.
There was a beat of silence.
“You think that’s why he agreed to come to Texas?” Preston asked me about Eli.
“Probably. He trained at Wolcott’s gym in LA.”
“What was your read on him in Thailand?”
I thought back to my time in Thailand while training with Eli. “He left abruptly,” I finally said. “Stayed only three months.” The initial commitment was to remain in Thailand for nine months. But one morning, out of the blue, Eli came to me and said he’d learned everything he needed to and he could find real competition back in the US.
“He’s lazy or arrogant.”
“Or both,” Preston countered.
“Or both,” I agreed. “But he’s good. And he’s got a hell of a shot in the league when he goes pro.”
It was Preston’s turn to nod. He, like me, knew raw, pure talent when we spotted it.
“He could go with the NFA soon.”
In our sport, there were two major leagues, the National Fighting Association and the International Mixed Martial Arts Association or IMMAA. I was a fighter for the IMMAA, but I knew we could get a better deal with the NFA for Eli.
“They’ll take him. He’s young.” Preston turned to me. “You think he’s ready?”
I looked from Preston back down to the gym and carefully watched Eli as he sparred inside of the gym’s cage. His movements were fluid, precise, and within a few minutes, he managed to wrap his opponent up in a triangle, forcing him to tap out.
“He’s ready.”
“Let’s call him up,” Preston said.
Minutes later, Eli, sweaty, in a pair of gym shorts and a tank, strolled into the conference room.
“You guys are interrupting my training,” he said before he pulled out the chair at the head of the table and sat.
Preston and I looked at one another. A muscle in Preston’s jaw ticked.
“This better be important,” Eli insisted, looking between the two of us with his arm draped across the back of the chair.
“We wouldn’t have pulled you from training if it weren’t important.” I kept my voice level even though he was treading close to my patience running thin. “In short, we want to sign you with the NFA.”
“But not before you sign with us,” Preston added.
We both stood on either side of the table, our arms folded.
