“Good.” Rick gripped Clay’s bare upper arm, squeezing the muscle. “Go lie down. Get rested. Wyatt ordered up a massage for you.”
Clay pulled a face of distaste. “I don’t—”
“It’s good for you. It’ll relax you, keep you loose for tomorrow.”
Clay studied Rick, with his false smile and tense lines around his beady blue eyes. Then he turned to look at everyone else. Jasper had been training him since he was in middle school. Tony showed up when Clay and Wyatt had first started on the MMA circuit. The two of them had showed enough promise in their youth that Tony moved to Garnet and never left. He liked both coaches well enough, but he was officially over bleeding for them and all the other leeches that benefited off his hard work. They were an excellent crew. Clay wouldn’t work with people who weren’t good at what they did and decent folks to boot, but he still felt done.
“I quit,” he told Rick simply. “As soon as I’m done with my contract, I’m retiring.”
Rick let out a nervous laugh and patted Clay’s bicep once more. “You’re just uneasy. It’s prefight nerves.”
“I’m not nervous,” Clay assured him. “Either I win or I lose; I don’t really give a shit. I’m done, Rick. I’m not fighting anymore. I’ve been on the circuit half my life. I’m done with the circus.”
“We’ll talk after the fight.” Rick balled up his fist, doing a fake jab and dodge. He lifted his leg, kicking at Clay’s bare shin with his fancy shoes. “You got ’em, right, Powerhouse?”
He shook his head in reaction, feeling like Rick had just spit on a sport that had been a lifestyle and an art form to Clay since he was a kid. “Don’t do that.”
“I’m getting you pumped.” Another fake punch, this time tapping Clay’s jaw.
Clay turned and headed for his bedroom, knowing he was about to say or do something he might not regret. Didn’t these assholes have their own rooms? Why were they all camped out in Clay’s suite?
Clay paused at the open door to the bedroom, hearing Wyatt talking in a low voice.
“I’m telling ya, I’m reviewing the video now. Wellings is on his game; ain’t no way of denying it. The octagon’s fresh for him. He got a first-round knockout two weeks ago. Clay’s been underground for months. He’s not hungry like Wellings. We’re in trouble.”
Clay frowned, his pride prickling. He couldn’t give a shit about everyone else, but Wyatt losing faith in him hit pretty low below the belt.
“I dunno.” Wyatt sighed, jerking Clay back into the conversation. “If he can get him to the mat, he’s got a chance. This guy is sprawl and brawl all the way. Clay’s taken down plenty of ’em before, but his head’s not in the fight. I don’t think he gives a shit. There’s no fucking drive; he’s been training on instinct since—”
Wyatt huffed, making it obvious he’d been interrupted, and then sounded exasperated as he barked, “What the hell am I supposed to do ’bout it, Jules? Don’t ya think I’m the last guy in the world who should be coaching him on love? I ain’t exactly succeeded at it. Why can’t you do something ’bout it? Aren’t you naturally supposed to know how to fix this shit due to the parts God gave you?”
There was a long pause before Wyatt groaned. “Christ, please don’t start. Okay, fine, you’re right, women’s liberation, blah, blah, blah. Can’t you just, I dunno, lie or something. Tell him his girl’s changed his mind, get him through the fight and—”
Clay chose right then to walk in. If he listened to any more, he was going to break Wyatt’s nose a second time, and he’d rather not. He’d felt sort of guilty about it the last time. He looked to Wyatt, who still had the green-tinged bruising from the injury across the bridge of his nose and darkened smudges beneath both eyes.
Wyatt winced as he looked up at Clay. “How much did you hear?”
“Enough.” Clay scowled. “I ain’t gonna get crushed by a cocky bastard like Wellings, so you can stop crying on the phone to Jules and getting her worked up.”
“You wanna talk to her?” Wyatt held out the phone with a hopeful look on his face.
“Nah.” Clay didn’t want to talk to anyone. He wanted to lie down and take a power nap before the weigh-in. “I’m closing my eyes.”
Clay walked to the bed and fell facedown on the comforter. He hated everything about where he was at that moment. It was almost hard to believe he used to live and breathe to fight. It hadn’t been about the money, though the money was nice. It was about the art of battle and the wild rush of adrenaline that came from being in that cage with nothing but skill, strength, and endurance to help him be victorious. Now it was about getting it over with. Fighting had lost its thrill, and that was a pretty damn good indication it was time to retire.