“Sure,” he says nonchalantly. “What’d you have in mind?”
I guess we’re going to find out.
Chapter Five
That Sense of Belonging
Mason
I’m a little sore coming up to the door of my modest abode.
Manny, my fight trainer, and I have bit hitting it a little extra hard since I told him about the tournament. He even filled in a few missing details.
According to Manny, the prize money is all going to be donated by a former underground fighter turned MMA pro as his way of giving back to the community that served as his launching pad.
Manny doesn’t know who the mysterious donor might be and, frankly, the whole thing sounds like the kind of answer someone gives when they don’t know the real one, but it’s a nice story, if nothing else.
I guess it really doesn’t matter if Manny’s version of things is true or not. It’s just as possible that someone stands to make money from taping the fights and posting them online. Nobody seems to know directly who went to Madison and set the whole thing up, but the tournament’s existence is real enough.
Today, I got the call.
I vaguely recognized the voice on the other end of the phone, but only the way someone recognizes the sound of traffic around their home. I can’t think of a name that would match the voice or a face to go with it, but it didn’t matter.
“Hello, is this Mason Ellis?” the man asked.
“Yeah, who’s this?” I answered.
“Do you know why I’m calling?” he asked.
It wasn’t until he asked that question that I figured it out.
“Yeah,” I said.
“You’re first match is in a week, featherweight. We’ll call again with directions to the location. Don’t talk about this to anyone you haven’t seen at a
fight,” the man said finally and hung up the phone.
The whole thing seemed really shady. It was pretty cool.
Now, though, I’m tired and I’m sore and I just want to open my front door, walk to my couch, fall down and not move for about a week.
It looks like someone else beat me to it.
My brother, Chris, isn’t so much lying on the couch as he is draped over it. From the smell of him, even standing ten feet away, I’d say he’s more passed out than he is asleep.
I could really do without this right now, but I’m not going to wake him to kick him out. This isn’t the first time he’s shown up inside my home without announcement or invitation.
He does this whenever he gets in trouble, and as sick of it as I am, I’m not going to make any kind of headway with him while he’s still drunk. To that end, I set my things down gently by the door, which I close, being sure to turn the knob before it can latch and possibly wake Chris.
I slip off my shoes and I’m holding my breath as I try to sneak past the couch toward my bedroom door at the far end of the living room.
Behind me, there’s a piercing noise in the form of my phone’s ringtone, and I’m shuffling as fast as my socks will allow back toward my gym bag. I open it and find my phone, quickly muting it.
Ash is calling.
Chris stirs a little, and I’m holding my breath again as I return to my feet to get a better look at him.
He stirred, but he’s still asleep, so I head toward the kitchen and out to the back porch before I look down at my phone again and answer the call.