Page 12 of Stone’s Cage

"But you fight. And you do this for money?"

Hitting the fan hood with my knuckle, it starts up. "Yep."

"So you're in a league?"

My shrug should have been a clue to the fact there's a legit league and an illegitimate league, but she doesn't catch on.

Sliding the omelet on a clean plate, I try to explain. "There's a whole bunch of gyms that have joined together and created their sort of dark league. Let's put it that way. We all fight each other as a lot of money's involved. But I'm not in any official, what they call 'sanctioned' league."

"Really?" She takes the fork I hand her and then waits as I pour in my egg whites. Clearly splitting an omelet won’t work.

"Go. Eat. Don’t wait for me."

I don’t have to say that twice.

"Where'd you get that tattoo?"

"Which one?"

"The one with the hook and the worm."

Why did she pick that one? I'd give anything to get rid of it. "Don't remember. Probably after a fight." She doesn't need to know the fight left me with a broken rib, bruised kidneys, and a guy holding me down while Shreve drilled me with ink as blood poured from my ear and mouth. That was after the dice roll and before the trip to the hospital.

"So. Do you win a lot?"

I wince. "Not really. I win some."

And then I smile at her. She doesn't know anything. She's totally naïve, and clearly is not from the streets. Something about this truth allows me to be honest with her. She seems to have no ulterior motives. "Let's just say, I win strategically."

At this, she lifts a bite of egg to her into her mouth, and then lowers her fork again. "You mean you throw fights?"

The ease with which she asks the question startles me. She has no idea what just breathing this could do to me. To Coach.

"No, I don't. Don't ever say that. Ever."

"Okay, okay. Don’t get all weird on me."

"No, I mean it. That could ruin me." And not just me.

"All right."

"And get me into a shitload of trouble." A knife in my back. My fingers hacked off. A bullet in my knee. Or temple, like Jonny Jet, a cage fighter in Jersey who threw fights and got aired out to dry.

"Okay," she says, waving her fork around. "Who the hell am I going to tell? I get it."

Shaking my head, sliding my omelet out onto another smaller plate, she starts with, "Don't think I'm an idiot," but she's not mad, she's just stating a fact. "What? What's that look for?"

"I'm not so sure you're as street savvy as you're coming off."

"Fuck you," she says in a desperate attempt to prove she's from the hood or whatever. There's a flush in her cheeks that turns them a buttery copper.

"I am more street savvy than you'll ever know. I know more what goes on here than anyone."

She picks up her plate and sets it in the sink. I half expect her to throw it or break it or have some sort of tantrum like every other woman I've ever had here. But instead, she just gives me a look and starts washing up her plate and mine.

"You cooked," she says. "Go sit. Besides, I'm sure you don’t pollute yourself with caffeine, but I need some coffee."

"I don't have coffee."