Stud Muffin (Donner Bakery #2) - Jiffy Kate Page 0,52

you, man?” my brother asks, huffing. Knowing him, he’s beating a speed bag while talking with me. I swear, he’s never doing just one thing.

Conducting a board meeting while trading stocks on his phone.

Watching a football game while negotiating a deal.

Out on a date while hitting on the chick at the next table over.

You know, you’ve got to keep your options open.

“Just working at the Pink Pony for Hank,” I start. “Living in this great, old building… just started turning the downstairs into a studio—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Viggo cuts me off and I hear his activity die in the background. “You said this was temporary… going to Bumfuck, Tennessee, getting your shit together, getting back. I thought that was the plan.”

Pacing the downstairs, which is quickly becoming my favorite place, I let out a huff. “Look, I don’t know what my plans are anymore.”

“I can’t believe you’re just giving up this easy,” he says, disappointment thick in his tone. “Oz said you were done, but I figured you, of all people, would find a loophole… some way out of this.”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I reply, “It’s an injury, Viggo... a career-ending injury… it’s not like I got my wrist slapped for using supplements… or I failed a drug test. Y’all act like I’m just on hiatus. I don’t know how to make it any more clear… it’s over.”

Dead silence is all I get as a reply.

Quiet, uncharacteristic silence.

“Does Dad know this?” he asks and I feel the familiar lead weight that appears every time I think of our dad and the look of disappointment on his face when the doctor gave me my verdict.

Sighing, I take a deep, steadying breath… similar to the ones I’ve been coaching Tempest in lately. Tempest. God. I cannot start thinking about her right now, because there is no way I’m telling Viggo, the Mouth of the South, about Tempest Cassidy. The next thing you know, my mother would be calling, planning a visit.

The thought of her drives an imaginary stake into my chest.

“Yes,” I finally reply. “Of course Dad knows…”

He lets out a defeated breath. “This isn’t good,” he sighs. “This thing we’ve got going… it’s like a machine… me, you, Val, Oz… it takes all of us contributing to make it work.” Now, I feel like I’m one of his employees or minions who’s not quite performing up to snuff. “Without you, things just don’t work as well as they should.”

“Vig,” I start, but stop while I try to wrap my head around all of this and try not to lose my cool with him, because what he’s basically saying is that without me fighting, I’m killing the family business, which is a well-known gym in the Dallas area. We thrive off of word-of-mouth and the publicity that fights bring. Without me fighting, we lose a key component of our marketing strategy.

Over the years, starting with our father who was a boxer, we’ve turned the Erickson name into more of a brand. Erickson MMA houses some of the best fighters in the world.

I was their anchorman.

I was what brought people in.

Every time I stepped inside the cage, I was a walking billboard.

Come to Erickson, be a champion.

“Vig,” I start again, “it’s not like I planned on getting injured… I didn’t plan on leaving until I was good and ready. You know what my plan was,” I tell him, reminding him. “We’ve talked about it hundreds of times over the years.”

He sighs. “I know… fight until your forty-five… beat all the greats… your final fight, a KO.”

“I didn’t get a chance to fight half the people I wanted to fight,” I tell him, hoping he realizes I’m just as disappointed as everyone else. This is not how I saw my life going. But here I am—twenty-eight, retired, no college degree, and no clue what I’m going to do for the rest of my life. But I’m starting to see glimpses of a vision, and since I have the luxury of exploring my options, I’m going to take my time and figure it out.

That’s the beauty of Green Valley.

Yeah, it’s a slow town, but in the relaxed atmosphere, I’ve found a different part of myself. I never thought I had the patience for teaching, but my sessions with Tempest are easily the best parts of my week. I count the days between our time together. And yes, some—a lot—of that may be due to my student, but some of it’s not. Some of