Chapter 2
Oson
The moment of truth.
What I’ve been working so damn hard for!
For the past five weeks, I’ve been training like a mutha to strengthen my shoulder and gain seventeen more pounds of lean muscle to up my weight class. Before my rotator cuff tear, I was a mixed martial arts light heavyweight champion and I’m ready to return to the cage as a heavyweight.
Training is an art. It’s more than striking, grappling, and conditioning. Nutrition, mental conditioning, visualization techniques, and recovery are a huge part too. It’s a total mindset, and to optimize my results and meet my goals, I need straightsolitude, which is why I picked Crescent Falls. I’m a thousand miles from the crib and I can stay to myself off in the cut.
“Two hundred and seven muthafucking pounds, champ,” my trainer Juice says. “You did it.”
“Like I said I would. My weight’s up and my shoulder is feeling good as fuck,” I say while rotating it. “Two more weeks and we out this bitch, heading to Colorado.”
“To take the win and that payout. Oson gotdamn Parks is back,” Juice says before dapping me.
Three months ago, I fucked up my shoulder during a battle match. I still won the match but I was hurt,badly. When the physicians examined me after the fight, they wanted me to go to the hospital but I refused. My adrenaline from the fight and win prevented me from realizing my true state. But I felt that shit two hours after I was back in my hotel room. In pain and uncomfortable as shit, I drove myself to the hospital. I had torn tendons.
After arthroscopic surgery, I wore a sling for almost six weeks. I couldn’t drive for a month and training was off limits for two, which kept me out of the cage. The moment I was cleared to train, Juice found this training facility, my agent secured it, and we were on a plane.
“Real shit. I’m back,” I agree, then nod. “Now it’s time for the best fucking part of training—rest and recovery. See you, Monday, my nigga.”
“Stay out of trouble, man,” he says while shaking his head.
“I’m not trying to get into trouble, just warm pussy,” I admit.
“Nigga, that’s the same damn thing,” he scoffs before throwing his hand up and walking off.
Warm pussy is definitely the goal during my recovery days. After five days of intense six-hour workouts, two hours of conditioning, a restrictive diet, and mandatory sleep, all I want is a good ass meal, a smooth drink, and a soft ass body laid upnext to me. The past few weeks, after dinner, I’ve been getting my drink at a nightclub, Black Diamonds, and ending my night at Topick, an escort agency. The ladies in there are bad as fuck but not one compares to this server at Black Diamonds, Taleya.
When a pretty face belongs to a thick ass body, I’m a fucking sucker. I can sit, enjoy my drink, and just watch her fine ass move around VIP for hours. And when she blesses me as her beautiful ass smile stretches across her juicy lips, I want to give her all my ends. Shawty can get it and I want her real bad.
Last week in Topick, I heard about this sex club on an island not too far from here. It’s called Seventh Heaven, and next weekend they are having an As You Wish weekend event. Ending my last week of training in this town with her sexy ass would be the fucking grand prize. I’ve already arranged my stay at the club and the delivery of her invite. I just need her to accept.
After grabbing my bag and towel from the bike, I give a nod to the owner then dip. All week I have been eating a diet high in healthy fats and moderate in protein and carbs, but not today. All I want is carbs and proteins, so I stop by the soul food joint and grab a smothered half-chicken dinner with mashed potatoes, mac-n-cheese, and a double order of cornbread.
The minute I’m in my hotel suite, before I can smash my food, my damn cell vibrates. It’s my agent, Carmen.
“Yeah?” I answer.
“You know I hate when you answer the phone like that,” she scoffs.
“Which is why I probably do it. What’s up?”
“Just checking in. March fourth…are we ready?” she asks, hopeful.
Carmen is the vice-president of Precise Management’s Mixed Martial Arts division. She represents elite fighters across top organizations like the UFC, Bellator, PFL, and regional promotions. She manages my entire career, including contractnegotiations, fight bookings, sponsorship deals, and even career development. When Juice found the facility here, Carmen handled everything else, including securing the facility for six weeks, our flights, and my suite and Juice’s room here at The Metropolitan. She’s currently negotiating a few sponsorship deals, all riding on my return to the cage in March.
“I’m ready and I did it. I’m your new heavyweight,” I tell her.
“Oson! You did it. That ups the ante.”
“As long as that translates to more money in my pocket, I’m straight.”
“Oh, it most certainly does. It certainly does,” she repeats and I hear her pen pop through the phone. Whenever she is pleased or excited, she pops the top on and off an expensive pen she always has. “Flights still the same? Sunday morning, the fifteenth? I need to confirm for my assistant.”
“It’s the same. The earlier the better.”
