Page 21 of Main Event

“Neither do I,” I say.

We leave it there.

Reyes finds me on the floor after the call. He doesn’t ask about the Commission or the footage—he reads me the way Mack reads everything, which is to say he reads what matters and doesn’t editorialize about the rest.

“You’re not here today,” he says.

“I’m here.”

“Your body is here.” He crosses his arms. “Where’s the rest of you?”

I look at the far wall. “Working through some things.”

“Work faster. We have a fight to announce.” He uncrosses his arms. “Tuesday. Press conference at the arena. You’re headlining a title eliminator in eleven weeks, which means starting Wednesday, I own your mornings, your afternoons, and your evenings. Whatever is happening outside this gym happens somewhere I’m not responsible for.” He looks at me steadily. “Can you do that?”

“Yes,” I say, meeting his gaze straight on.

“Then be here tomorrow. All of you.” He walks away.

I stand in the center of the gym floor and think about eleven weeks. About what eleven weeks means—for the fight, for the Commission file, for Andi’s knee, for the investigation, for every thread that’s currently in motion. Eleven weeks is either enough time, or it isn’t. Either way, it’s what we have.

I go back to the movement work.

The press conference is Tuesday.

I stand at the podium in the arena with Reyes to my left and my opponent’s camp to the right, and I say the things you say at a press conference. I’ve prepared. I respect my opponent. I’m focused. I’m ready. The reporters ask the questions they ask. Three of them ask about the gas station footage. I give them the same answer I gave the Commission.

“My fiancée was being attacked. I intervened. I stand by what I did.”

One reporter asks if the Athletic Commission’s conduct file concerns me.

“My record in the ring concerns me,” I say. “Everything else is noise.”

Reyes, beside me, permits himself a small expression of approval.

It makes the evening news. The footage of the press conference runs alongside footage from the gas station because that’s how news cycles work. Everything becomes a context for everything else. The Commission’s conduct file is mentioned in four of the seven stories I see before Andi takes the remote away from me.

“Stop watching it,” she says. She’s on the couch with her leg elevated, wearing a knee brace in place of the original full leg brace, a minor escalation that the orthopedist says isn’t as bad as it could have been. “You know what it’s going to say. Watching it again doesn’t change it.”

“I know.”

“Then come and sit down.”

I sit beside her. She puts her hand on my arm without looking away from the window.

“Eleven weeks,” she says.

“Eleven weeks.”

“Then this is what the next eleven weeks look like,” she says. “You train. I manage the rest. We move on Evelyn when Bill has what he needs and not before.” She looks at me. “You were exactly correct when you said everything else is noise during the press conference. That’s what you’re going to live out for the next eleven weeks.”

I look at her, a slight smirk on my face in response to her words.

“You’re quoting me at me,” I say.

“Only when you’re right.” She squeezes my arm once and lets go.

“Andi, you are everything to me. If you think I can let you handle Evelyn alone while I focus on my career, your concussion is obviously worse than we initially thought.”