Queen, I am the Duchess of Muffins.
Which, by the way, I’m glad it’s Saturday night and I don’t have to work tomorrow. I’d hate to have to call into work ... from jail.
However, this isn’t my first episode, as my mama likes to call them. I wish they really were episodes, because then, maybe I could figure out a way to stop them … cancel their subscription.
I don’t want to be a person with a rap sheet. Orange is not a good color on me. Driving that truck into Mr. Miller’s pond was definitely not my finest moment. Believe me, I know the law, but when my soon-to-be ex-husband is in the picture, all my rationality flies out the window.
It usually goes something like this:
I’m minding my own business, trying to live my life.
He shows up out of nowhere, his presence alone reminding me of everything I had and have lost. I get pissed off… sometimes just because he’s doing something as simple as breathing.
My vision gets hazy.
My body tingles with untapped aggression.
Then, the crazy sets in and there isn’t a lick of reason to be found.
From that point on, I have somewhat of an out-of-body experience and I just do whatever feels right in the moment—whatever will ease the pain or let me vent my anger—and hope to hell I don’t get caught.
Chapter 2
Cage
As the car I’m riding in passes a sign that reads “Green Valley—population 12,539”, I sit up in my seat a little straighter, focusing on the scenery. But there’s not really much to look at besides trees and hills and the occasional car, until we come across an old farmhouse and a wrecker’s flashing lights gets my attention.
Craning my neck as we drive past, I notice it’s pulling a truck from a pond.
Smirking to myself, I shake my head. There’s bound to be a story there. But what do I know about small towns? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’ve lived in Dallas my whole life, so this, along with everything else that’s transpired in the last couple months, is a serious change of pace.
“Hey, thanks man,” I tell the guy I paid to give me a ride from the bus station, tapping the side of his car once I have my two duffle bags unloaded from the backseat. I could’ve flown into Nashville and rented a car, but the less-traveled path seemed to suit me better right now. Besides, I don’t know how long I’m going to be here and I didn’t want the hassle of returning a rental car.
A few months ago, I felt like I was in the prime of my life—finally fighting on the professional circuit. Everyone always tells you it won’t last forever. My mom has always been on my case about the future and making plans for the next phase of my life, but I’ve always felt like I’ll either die young or fight until I’m ninety. I’ve never seen an in between for me. There’s never been a second love or a Plan B. It’s always been fighting or nothing.
A career-ending injury was definitely not on my radar.
I eat well, train well, take every precaution to keep myself in top shape. Physically, I’m in the best shape of my life, but my right shoulder no longer allows me to have full-range of motion. I can’t complete an uppercut without excruciating pain radiating through my arm and up my neck, which leaves me vulnerable in the ring.
Cage Erickson is synonymous with champion.
I’ve only lost a handful of fights in my life and most of those came during my amateur years. And no, I don’t normally refer to myself in the third person, but I’ve made my name my brand and I refuse to let that be tarnished. With forty-nine wins under my belt, seven draws, and five losses, I was on my way to a title and a lucrative career as a UFC fighter.
I can still remember feeling the tear, something foreign, a pain I wasn’t used to, but I kept fighting. I won the round and eventually the bout. Initially, I thought the injury wasn’t so bad. Maybe a few weeks in PT and I’d be good as new, until the doc sent me for an MRI and showed me the extent of the damage.
Less than a day later, I was in surgery, having my shoulder cut open.
Ruptured right subscapularis and bicep tendon tear.
I spent six weeks in a sling and another six weeks doing physical therapy. And another six weeks