EIGHT
FAULT LINE
DECLAN
I'd been in my office in the recovery center since six that morning, moving through treatment rooms, checking in on athletes who trusted me with their pain and their futures.
This was my space. The place I'd built from nothing after fighting stopped being enough on its own. Rehab and recovery for fighters, athletes, anyone who'd pushed their body too hard and needed help putting it back together.
I was good at this. Good at reading bodies, understanding pain, knowing when to push and when to back off. Good at being steady while people fell apart and put themselves back together piece by piece.
It was easier than dealing with my own shit.
“Declan, you got a minute?”
I looked up from the resistance bands I'd been organizing for the third time in twenty minutes because my hands needed a task and my brain wouldn't shut up. Ralph Stevens stood in the doorway, twenty-six years old, recovering from a torn ACL that had ended his MMA season early. He was three months into rehab and making good progress, but the frustration still lived in his eyes.
“Yeah. What's up?”
“Just wanted to check the rotation schedule for next week. Sarah mentioned you might be adjusting my sessions?”
“Thinking about it. Depends on how your knee responds to the load work we're doing Friday.” I walked over, gestured for him to follow me to the scheduling board. “You're progressing well, but I don't want to rush it. Rush leads to reinjury.”
“I know. Just. Fuck, I want to be back in the gym.”
“You are in the gym. You're just not punching people yet.”
He laughed, bitter and tired. “You know what I mean.”
“Give it time,” I said, forcing my attention back to Ralph's face. “You do the work now, you come back stronger. You rush it, you come back weaker and do more damage.”
“Yeah. I know.” He shifted his weight, testing the knee without thinking about it. “Thanks, Declan. For being patient with me.”
“That's what I'm here for.”
He headed back to his session. I watched him go, then turned to find Rafael leaning against the doorframe with a coffee in each hand.
“Thought you could use this,” he said, offering me one.
I took it. “Thanks. You're here early.”
“Had a meeting nearby. Figured I'd stop in, see if you needed anything.” He took a drink of his own coffee, eyes scanning the space with the easy familiarity of someone who'd been here often enough to know the layout. “Place looks good. Busy?”
“Always.” I gestured toward the main floor where three different athletes were working through their routines. “Winter's rough on joints. Everyone's showing up with injured rotator cuffs and tweaked knees.”
Rafael had been helping with the business side of the centre for the past year. Investment advice, connections to sponsorships, financial strategy that kept places like this afloat when insurance reimbursements were shit and most fighters couldn't afford to pay full price. He was good at it. Made himself useful without being intrusive.
We'd met through mutual contacts in the fight scene, back when I was still competing regularly. He'd offered advice that turned out to be solid, and over time that had evolved into a working relationship. Not formal. Just the arrangement where he showed up, helped with things I didn't have time for, and never asked for more than I was willing to give.
“Speaking of which,” Rafael said, taking a drink of his coffee. “I ran into Troy the other day. Heard he's back in town, staying with you.”
“Yeah. He's staying with me for a while.”
“How's that going?”
“About as well as you'd expect.”
Rafael's mouth curved slightly. “That bad?”
