He’s a testy, unpleasant man who seems to take pleasure in delivering statements like, “She was a couple of millimeters from paralysis, and a few more from death,” and, “I know it’s not what you want, but this is a lucky outcome.”
You can’t look badass with a neck brace on, but I give it my best go as I leave at the fastest pace my battered body will allow. Walking reminds me my neck isn’t the only thing wrong with me. My legs feel chopped to bits, my left ankle isn’t too keen on bearing my weight, my back is so sore it hurts to breathe, being in the light feels like standing right next to the speakers at a concert, and my jaw is screaming, but most of those are familiar feelings. Laila and Arlo help me into the back of the SUV before Arlo gets in the driver’s seat and starts us back toward Emerald Tiger. Jin sits next to me in the back, ever stoic.
The beginning of the ride is silent as I stare at the back of the leather seat, pissed I can’t turn my head to look out the window. I don’t know what I could possibly say. The doctor is right, of course. I’m lucky. The fighter in me can’t prove him wrong fast enough, but the part that knows what it felt like to be paralyzed, even though it was only for a minute, even though I was wrong, that part would never let me risk it.
“You’ll be back in there in no time, Champ. Don’t even worry about it,” Arlo says.
Just picturing myself in the octagon again makes me queasy. I can’t stop replaying the fight, a full body recoil hitting each time I have the overpowering, visceral memory of my neck bending too far, hearing the pops, the shock of pain and numbness. I don’t know how I got to my feet. It feels like it was someone else. But it snaps back into excruciating detail when my heel connected with Brooklyn’s head, the scary solidity of the blow, the way she slammed lifelessly to the mat.
I’ve always thought martial arts were beautiful, that competition was honorable. It’s a shared moment with your opponent where you each find out exactly what you’re capable of. I’ve never been oblivious to the risks, but coming that close to paying the ultimate price puts a new tint on the art that has been the love of my life, and I can’t pretend it didn’t shake my foundation. I don’t think I even want to get back into the octagon. Inflicting or enduring that type of violence suddenly seems crazy. Worse than crazy, wasteful.
“You think I could make it as a coach?” I ask. Speaking sends pain shooting through my jaw and up the side of my face. They each look at me, examining me like they’re trying to decipher what I said.
“Of course, you can,” Laila says.
“Don’t let that doctor get in your head,” Arlo says. “You’ll make a full recovery. You’re young and super healthy. You don’t have to coach.”
I sigh as I let the thought settle in my mind. I crave the incense and stillness of the dojang, the ceremony and respect. Just the thought of returning to teaching Taekwondo full time soothes my soul. It’s still combat, but there are so many more rules, so much less risk, and the atmosphere is as much about character as it is about fighting.
I don’t know how to look them in the eye and tell them I don’t want to go back to the UFC. A fighter’s fighter doesn’t quit because they got hurt. Champions don’t get scared when their body breaks. Black belts don’t cower in the face of danger. Warriors must be ready to die. And yet, do I not have a responsibility to honor and care for my body? Can I still disconnect from inflicting harm?
“I’m not going back.” I try not to say it like a scared little lamb, but it still comes out quiet. There’s a long beat of silence, and Arlo spins and looks back from the driver’s seat.
“You’re not talking about retiring, are you?”
“Yeah. I think I am.”
“I know you got rocked, girl, but you’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t go back. You can’t go out like that.”
“Like what? On top?” Laila asks, shocking me.
“No,” Arlo says slowly. “Because of a scare.”
He craftily avoids saying because I’m scared, but it’s the same thing.
“She achieved her dream,” Laila says. I was prepared for her to side with Arlo. It’s surprising and heartwarming when she rushes to my defense instead, but it makes me wonder how badly I must’ve freaked her out to make her feel this way. “She’s the greatest female to ever do it. Youngest champion, most title defenses, and she’d be retiring undefeated. Why fuck with that and risk everything when she probably wouldn’t be the same fighter she was anyway? Don’t start with the macho shit. There’s no reason to risk her health.”
“Whoa,” Arlo says. “Easy. I just think she’ll regret it, that’s all. And you don’t know she won’t be the same fighter. Don’t shortchange her. Eden’s a savage.”
“Yes, she is, no matter what she does. She doesn’t have to come back to prove to you she’s a savage. If she wants to coach, she should coach.”
“Still here, guys,” I say.
“Sorry,” they both mumble.
Laila turns back. “You know I think it’s a good idea. I always have. Have you two talked yet?” She points from me to Jin, and I cringe. She thinks I’m planning to do what she’s been suggesting for years and turn the dojang into an MMA gym. I’ve considered the financial state of the dojang, but I’m far from sold that’s the only way to save it, and I’ve definitely not talked to Jin. I can’t turn to look at him, but I feel his eyes on me.
“About what?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say. “There’s no need.”
“Eden, it’s time,” Laila says.
“Laila,” I warn her sharply.
“It may be a good time to consider converting the dojang into an MMA gym,” she says quickly, spitting the words out before I can stop her.
“God damn it, Laila,” I say. “She’s speaking out of turn,” I say to Jin, but to my horror, she goes on anyway.
“The dojang has been losing money for years. Eden’s been putting her winnings into keeping it going, but she can’t do it forever, especially now.”
“Laila!” Pain shoots through my jaw, but I can’t stop my anger from coming out in a snap of venom. There was a time she’d never ignore my authority this way. Have I lost her respect so soon? She just keeps talking.
“If we convert it to an MMA gym it will make so much money. You would never have to think about it again. MMA is what everyone wants now. And Eden could coach.”
“That’s enough,” Jin says. I have no doubt it’s for my benefit more than his own. I wish I was in the proper condition to strangle Laila.
The silence drags for what feels like a decade. I understand Laila’s intentions, but she’s never ignored my will before. I could stomach her politely mentioning the idea, but to tell Jin the dojang is failing is too far. Acting like I’m on the brink of collapse when I actually have more money than I have ever had is enraging. Jin puts his hand on my knee.
“Is that what you want?”
“No.” I wish I could look at him when I say it so I could stand a chance of making him believe me.
“How much money have you spent on the dojang?” The stillness in the car is excruciating. I’m fairly certain none of us are breathing except Jin.
“I would never keep track of that. It hasn’t hurt me. It’s been one of my greatest joys. It’s my responsibility to give others what you gave me.”
“It won’t make it as it is,” Laila says.
“Silence,” Jin says sternly. “Your instructor has already informed you you’ve forgotten your place.” Laila looks like a beat puppy, but I’m too furious with her to care. Jin addresses me again. “If it’s your wish to convert the dojang, you needed only to ask.”
“Jin, please don’t,” I say, grasping for his hand, not sure where it is. He reaches back out and holds it.
“You can’t ask, can you?” he says. “I should have known that. The dojang was always meant to be yours. It doesn’t grieve me for you to make it your own.”
A tear spills down my cheek imagining losing the dojang, but even more so imagining
Jin losing it. “It is my own.”
“Make yourself whole, Eden. However you need to.”
I’ve had an idea in the back of my head since Laila brought this up to me the first time. Not my first choice, but a contingency for this exact situation. It’s still difficult to mention, but it’s better than Laila running her mouth.
“What if we do both? We could convert the south side student housing into an MMA space. I have more than enough money to do that. I’ll coach MMA during the day, and the dojang will operate as usual.” I tense waiting for a response. This is the best way to save the dojang with the smallest amount of change, but it’s still a change. It still means the dojang can’t survive. I hate the thought of Jin feeling that.
“It’s a good idea,” he says. “I want your future secure.”
There’s a beat of silence before Arlo tentatively speaks up. “I think it’s brilliant. I pay my gym ten percent of my winnings, and I don’t want to brag, but that alone is a pretty penny. A few decent pros or one absolute stud, you’re already bringing in quite a lot, especially if that’s on top of what you’re already doing.”
“Yes,” I say, excited he sees my vision. “I don’t want a lot of clients. I still want the dojang to be the focus. Do you think they’ll come if I don’t have many training partners to offer them?”
He tilts his head side to side considering it. “You’re a specialized coach, and they get all your attention. That’s what you’re selling. You’ll bring in partners when you need them.”
“Does my name carry enough weight for that? You think they’d want to learn from me?”
“All right, I already went down your list of accomplishments,” Laila says. “You’re just fishing now.”
“I got my ass handed to me in that fight,” I say.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Arlo asks. “You did not. You won. You were winning anyway, and then you knocked her out. There’s no dispute.”
“Yeah, I knocked her out, but it’s not going to be a secret who almost died and will never fight again. And it wasn’t just the slam either. She was rockin’ me.”
“You need to watch the fight,” Laila says. “Nobody saw her rocking you. Not like you were rocking her. She was hell-bent on beating you on your feet, didn’t work, then she took you down and that didn’t work either. You were owning her and she panic slammed you. The story is that you had a freak landing, not that she should have won.”
It feels like a lifetime ago. Normally, I would have re-watched it a dozen times by now, but I haven’t had the chance in the hospital. I probably could have gotten someone to show it to me on their phone, but truth be told, I’m afraid to see it. It’s already playing on a loop in my mind. Maybe seeing it would take some of the bite out of my seared memory.
I slowly turn my whole body so I can look Jin in the eye. “I need you to know I love the dojang. I would never do anything to hurt it. If this is wrong, I can find another way.”
He squeezes my hand. “I know you love the dojang. That’s why it’s yours.”
“Tell me what you need,” Laila says. “I’ll work on it while you heal. When you’re ready to come back, I’ll have the gym and your first client ready.”
Chapter Eleven
Twelve weeks in a halo-vest is hell on earth. It’s a contraption you wear on your chest that circles your head and holds it still with rods that are screwed into your skin. They explained it before they put it on, but I didn’t fully comprehend the apparatus or just how cumbersome it would be. I thought going home was going to be a sweet relief, that I was going to take it easy for a few weeks, watch a lot of stupid videos on the internet, and then more or less get back to life, even if it was going to be Diet Life.
Instead, I found out that for all freaking twelve weeks I was going to need help with basic things like getting up, and I had to be monitored like a fucking baby by Laila and Jin. They took turns staying in the student room across the hall to be close. A week of it is humbling. Four is humiliating. After that it was soul crushing. Getting back to eating solid food helped, but independence is the very thing I’ve built my life around since I was a kid at the mercy of my train wreck of a mother’s whims, and now it’s gone. A week ago, I went to my own doctor back home to finally have the halo-vest removed, only for him to slap a collar on instead because I was too weak to hold my head properly.
The collar was obnoxious, but don’t get me wrong, being rid of the halo-vest is euphoric. Today, I’m finally rid of the collar, too. I can completely take care of myself again, but I still feel something close to panic about my physical condition. I haven’t been able to exercise for fourteen weeks, and I feel it everywhere. I’m weak. I’m vulnerable, and it’s horrifying. It’s not like someone is going to run up and attack me. That’s not my life anymore, but not being able to stop them if they do is still the worst feeling I’ve ever carried.
My head weighs a thousand pounds, and sometimes it feels like it’s getting away from me like I’m a baby. My neck is stiff and tight all the time. It feels like it’s been permanently immobilized, and it still hurts more or less all the time, but it’s a dull pain that’s become a familiar companion. I consider it a reminder of how bad things could’ve gone.
Seeing the fight brought that home. I’ve been watching it obsessively, almost on constant replay. I lean forward and click to the place in the video that I’ve memorized to be the start of the third round. Brooklyn came out in the third so aggressively, so sure she had me. I pause the video on her first attempt that round to take me down and look into her eyes. Her arms are so wide trying to wrap me up. Her brow is cut, her legs and body splotched with red where she’s taken hit after hit. And still she’s coming in with no regard for protecting herself. She wanted it so bad. I hit play and watch the rest.
Laila was right. There’s no question I was winning the third round, which means I was winning two out of the three we fought, in addition to getting the finish. And she did have her chance on the ground and couldn’t end it. There’s no question, but I still can’t help but look at her and wonder if she was in half the pain I was, if she took half the damage I took. I’ve watched the slam so many times now, but it still sends a shudder through me. When she lifted me, because she managed to sneak down past my hips to my legs, it was a top-heavy configuration, which made it possible for her to dump me on my head the way she did.
Sometimes the worst injuries come from maneuvers that look like nothing on video. This isn’t like that. You can see that it was brutal. You can feel the crowd hold its breath. But as quickly as they do, I’m moving to defend myself, and they come back to life tenfold. I thought I was lying there lifeless for a century, but watching it now, I barely paused. I stop the video again and look at my own face, searching for signs of the terror I felt at that moment. Nothing.
A tap at the door breaks my concentration, and Laila sticks her head into the room. “Don’t tell me you’re watching it again.”
“I’m not insane.”
“I think you may be.”
I sigh and shut my laptop, then wave her in. “What’s up?”
She sits on the end of my twin bed. “I need to talk to you.”
“Okay.” I pull my knees to my chest to give her more room. “Go ahead.”
“I promised I’d have the gym ready and your first client lined up by the time you were well enough to come back,” she says. She looks down and scratches the back of her neck, falling into silence.
“It’s okay if things are behind,” I say. “I’m still trying to figure out how to hold my own head up anyway. Probably not the most inspiring thing for a client to witness.” I try for humor, but she doesn’t laugh.
“It’s not that. The gym is close to ready. We separated off a space for you. It’s lined by a fence that you can use to mimic the octagon. We have all the equipment you could ever want. You should come see it.”
I haven’t been able to walk back into the dojang. I’m afraid to see it changed, afra
id I’ll realize this was a huge mistake, or that it’ll remind me of too many things I’ve lost. I still feel good about retiring, but Arlo, Laila, the UFC, even Jin, have all asked me to wait before I announce it, insisting I have time to sit on it and should use it, convinced I’m going to come out of this and want to fight again. It’s not unheard of for a champion to wait a year between title defenses, especially when there’s an injury involved, so there’s no pressure.
I’ve never been an indecisive person, but their unanimity on it makes me nervous. Part of me is afraid seeing the finished MMA space will wake that dormant thing they all insist is waiting under the surface. I don’t want it awakened. No one fights forever, and most fighters wait too long to get out, waiting to be pushed out by age, injury, and losses. Even if I go now, it won’t exactly be in one piece.
“What’s wrong then?” I ask. “No clients?”
“Not the interest I hoped for. We only have one pro offer. Everyone has good things to say, Eden. It’s mostly that they can’t move to New York or they’re locked in contracts with current trainers or they just think you should have a bit more time to heal. In a year or two you’ll have plenty of options. Or you could work with amateurs. There are plenty of those. You’d just need more of them because they can’t pay much.”
“Wait, there’s one pro offer, though? I only need one right now. Who is it? Do I know them?”
“Yeah, you know them.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask, but she can’t seem to spit it out. “Jesus, is it Arlo or something? You tell him to take his ass back to Canada. I don’t want pity clients.”
“It’s Brooklyn Shaw.”
I feel my face scrunching up, my brows pinching together even though I don’t mean to do it.
“What are you feeling?” she asks.
“Huh? Feeling? I don’t… Huh?”
Laila nods. “I know. I wanted to just tell them to go fuck themselves, but Jin told me I had to at least run it by you. Just say the word, and I’ll tell them to drop dead.”
The Clinch Page 8