The cool air of the player lounge settles over my skin, a stark contrast to the heat already building inside my muscles. I move through the space, my shadowboxing a fluid dance against the white walls. When I am preparing for a match, I prefer an empty lounge thus I had chased everyone out.
My breath hisses through my teeth with each phantom strike—a crisp right cross, a weaving left hook.
Inside my ears, the rich, soaring strings of a classical symphony drown out everything else. It's pure, beautiful chaos, and the rhythm of the music guides the rhythm of my feet. It is the perfect contrast, my savage motion layered over sweet, civilized melody.
I bounce lightly on the balls of my feet, my focus absolute, my mind running through combinations like a deadly arithmetic problem. Then, a sudden, light tap on my shoulder.
My focus shatters. Instinct takes over. I pivot, my right shoulder driving forward, and my fist shoots out, a blurring projectile aimed at a spot just below the jaw.
But he is fast.
A strong, familiar hand flashes up, catching my wrist mid-flight, a fraction of an inch from contact. The shock of the stop sends a jolt up my arm, but I don't flinch.
I chuckle, the sound low and dry as I yank the headsets off my ears, the classical music instantly muted. "Keep sneaking up on me, Mac," I say, my voice still slightly breathless from the effort, "and one day I will break your jaw."
Mac, a few years my senior, just smiles that easy, infuriating smile of his. He is already backing away, hands up in a gesture of surrender and defense. "No problem. I'll just ask Coach to compensate me. You are his daughter, after all."
I smirk, pulling my wrist free from his grip. "He has nothing worth giving you."
I watch his face for a beat. He wants to say something, I can see the thought flicker in his eyes, but he holds back, pressing his lips together.
"What?" I prompt, crossing my arms over my chest.
He clears his throat, rubbing the tip of his nose a nervous tell I have seen a thousand times. "It's nothing." He pauses, then can't help himself. "Just… remember what Coach said about Viper. She reads patterns fast—"
I cut him off, turning to grab a towel. "Don't be predictable. I know, I know."
"...your right hand is a missile, Tyr," Mac continues, his voice pushing through the mental fog I have tried to build. "Don't trade in the pocket, she'll eat you alive there. Viper will try to frustrate you, she'll make you chase, then catch you coming in slow. You need movement, angles, the—"
I barely hear him. His words are just a buzzing backdrop because a different, more insistent buzz is vibrating through the bottom of my duffle bag.
It's my phone. It has to be my dad.
I reach into the bag, pulling the phone out while half-listening to Mac. I nod automatically, managing an empty, "I know," just as Mac says something about staying out of the clinch.
I look at the screen, my thumb poised over the green swipe icon, ready to answer my father's call.
But my fingers freeze.
The name on the screen isn't dad. It's the two-word contact I have left unchanged for years: Old Bastard.
My maternal grandfather. The man I haven't spoken to in over a decade.
A cold, bitter sneer pulls at my mouth. I don't hesitate. I jab the power button, cutting the call dead. The phone goes dark, and I am about to shove it back into the duffle bag when it erupts with a series of quick, silent shudders.
An SMS.
The first one pops up: Pick up my call.
Before I can even process the implication, the next one appears below it: Otherwise.
My chest tightens, a sudden, familiar spike of fury and confusion. What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Before I can text a suitably profane reply, the phone is snatched out of my hand.
I look up sharply, meeting Mac's firm, frustrated gaze. He grabs my shoulders, his grip tight and grounding.
"Focus," he demands, shaking me once, gently. "Tyr, this is the title fight. You can't be distracted. Put the phone away and breathe."
The immediacy of his touch and the urgency in his eyes pierce through the haze of the text message. The one thing I had been working hard for was now at the tips of my fingers. One more fight and I would have fulfilled my dream. I gather the scattered edges of my composure, taking a sharp breath.
I swing my right fist, not with force, but with enough accuracy to connect with a light tap against his stomach. "I know."
Mac doubles over, faking the impact with dramatic flair. "Ah, ah, Tyr! You are so heartless!" he gasps, clutching his gut.
I smirk, moving around him. "You want to see heartless? I'll show you heartless."
I hook my arm around his neck and pull him down into a playful headlock, using my knuckles to vigorously ruffle his hair.
Mac yelps, flailing wildly and begging for mercy. "Okay! Okay! I'm sorry! You are not heartless! Mercy, Tyr, mercy!"
***
The world outside my skull is a riot of noise. The jeers and screams of the audience crash against the inside of my ears, a thick, roaring wave that makes the air feel heavy. I stand surrounded by the familiar faces of my entourage, but their presence is a distant shield. All I can focus on is a two-word text message: Otherwise.
I take a deep, struggling breath, trying to inhale only the cold, dry air of the arena and not the suffocating weight of my estranged grandfather's threat. I bounce, flexing my calves, shaking off the burdensome emotions, trying to become nothing but muscle and reflex.
The announcer's voice cuts through the chaos, a booming, amplified deity of hype. "In the red corner, the challenger… forged in frost and fury, she's the storm that never breaks. With fists like thunder and a gaze that could split stone—she is the Northern Blade, the Iron Valkyrie, the one they call... TYR!"