me.
“What does she mean, hand the company over?”
“Gregg, what is this?”
I had no idea. We’d had differences of opinion over twenty years—she’d resisted the corporate affiliations of CEO TKO; I’d thought Strike Next would consume too many resources—but in the end we both recognized the value of the other person’s vision, and we always made the ultimate decisions together with our team.
It was Logan who originally came up with the Strike Down concept, but I’d loved it immediately; it would give the media and entire global athletic community a ringside view of everything we’d become. The directors had thrown themselves into the planning with such dedication and enthusiasm that to award them less than five-figure bonuses was unthinkable, especially since, as more time passed, Logan participated less and less.
She’d made Aaden a trainer as soon as he’d graduated from college and had spent increasing amounts of time with him, coaching him between member sessions and sometimes late into the night. I’d called her more than once after midnight to hear Aaden’s grunts and laughter in the background and then hung up afterward, trying not to imagine them sweating together, her fingers positioning his arms, rotating his hips. Again. Harder. When he began competing professionally, she accompanied him to prize fights across the country—just the two of them together—and gave vague answers whenever I asked about the fights. She deferred all the Strike Down decisions to the managers who were working their asses off, until the day she went rogue.
Giving the company away. She refused to explain or defend her decision, saying it was done and she rebuffed any attempt to question her. Marketing tried to get on board with her “New Face of Strike” campaign and, to show their collaboration, came up with several options for new faces. They’d found some premier prospects: a Chilean fighter training to be the first two-sport Olympian from her country, an African-American woman out of Chicago who was putting all her brothers through college with her fight winnings, and several title-winning trainers we already had in place at various Strike locations.
But Logan wouldn’t even look at the profiles. She took the presentation remote out of C.J.’s hand, dropped it with a bang on the table, and told us she didn’t need any market polls to make her decision.
As the Marketing Director, C.J. tried to explain. “You don’t understand the months of work that should go into a decision like this, how capricious a consumer can be about their supplement purchase, how every single nuance of our packaging design has to be perfect. The fighter we put on the label must simultaneously challenge and reward them, dare them to be better, and allow them to see themselves strapping on those gloves and kicking some ass.”
“Why are you only showing me women?”
“Three quarters of our revenue is female-driven. The women’s side of the tournament brackets are filling up twice as fast as the men’s.”
“Aaden just signed up.” Logan’s eyes seemed to glow as she pushed away from the table, effectively ending the meeting. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a sparring date.”
And that’s when it hit me. Time slowed as the pieces of the last few months and years slammed into place. I ran out of the conference room and caught up with Logan as she walked into the gym. Aaden was warming up in the ring. He bounced around the mat, shuffling and feinting, loosening up. When he caught sight of Logan, he started to smile and then—seeing me behind her—the smile died. He turned away, punching invisible foes into the ropes.
I grabbed Logan’s arm before she could go to him.
“The entry fee is five thousand dollars. You told me he was using his salary to help support his mother.”
She avoided my eyes. “He paid the fee.”
My grip tightened. “Really.”
She stopped trying to pull away and drew herself up, squaring her shoulders and daring me to keep speaking.
I took the dare.
Dropping my voice, I glanced at the ring where Aaden still threw jabs and crosses. “You can’t pick him, Logan.”
“The fuck I can’t. I’ll pick any winner I want. It’s my company.”
I drew in closer, within striking distance, and my next words came through clenched teeth.
“It’s our company.”
I wanted her to hit me then, to feel the shock of the blow in my gut and the waves of pain reverberating to every extremity. I wanted her to pummel me. Me. Not Aaden. The person who’d stood behind her for two decades, refining her edges,