The day after Eddie's failed therapy session, no matter how well things had gone with Maverick, she had the distinct thought that she was going to kill herself before she ever reached her potential. That was a fun thought to wake up to. Definitely not a reason she should've booked another therapy session and spilled her guts to Roman Sahota, who was probably nice enough to pretend she wasn't being a cow during their first meeting. Instead, she laid in her bed for the better part of three hours, staring at her ceiling, wondering once again if her life was just a series of nightmares and she was going to wake up soon and she'd be 22 again with hope for the future. She spent a week trying to get rid of that one and couldn't really shake it.

Locking herself away from the nightmare of her life meant that Peter was more in love with her than he ever had been. His bowl was always full because Eddie was always refilling it rather than feeding herself. She never hired anyone to walk him because she was always wearing three hoodies and sunglasses and a baseball hat—the Giants, of course, best ballpark in baseball—and walking around the city until one of them was too tired to walk anymore. Peter got as many treats as he wanted because of how many walks Eddie would take him on. Even the dog knew which apartment building they were passing each time they went on a longer walk, and she hoped she didn't look as upset as he did that they were only passing by.

"Kid, can we talk for a moment, please?"

Peter barked.

"I've gotta take him out," Eddie said. "He's been drinking a lot of water."

"Noticed you haven't."

"What?" Eddie took the laces of her glove in her teeth and pulled. Tucked the glove under her armpit and yanked.

Coach wasn't the kind for heart to heart. Whenever he tried, it made Eddie's skin itch. He sighed a little. "Over the last little while..."

Eddie made a face at him. He made one equally as disgusted, if she was being honest. It was his deep in thought face, too. Eerily similar.

"We don't have to do this."

"You look leaner, kid," Coach said. He tucked his hands in the pockets of his joggers.

Eddie looked around as she tugged off her other glove. Kept the laces tighter than she should've and ignored the pull of the bones in her wrist. "Don't know what you mean."

Hunger yanked at her stomach. Twisted her insides and begged for sustenance.

"It should take months to do that, you did it in a couple weeks," Coach said. "Is this fight getting to you, or is something else?"

"I want the belt," Eddie said. "I've always wanted the belt."

"I want that for you too," Coach said. "But you need to take care of yourself."

"I am."

"You've got a weigh-in this week, Eddie," Coach said. "You know that, right?"

"Duh." Eddie couldn't even have told him the date for that day, let alone the day of her weigh-in.

"You drop too much you can't fight for the title."

"I know."

"Eddie."

"You don't have to baby me."

"Believe me when I say I wouldn't if I didn't have to."

Eddie rolled her eyes. "You don't have to."

"Are we gonna talk about it?" Coach wasn't great at hiding the disgusted expression on his face at the thought of having a heart to heart. Eddie didn't have parents to learn it from so it must've been him who taught her. Part of her hoped she didn't look that bad. If she did, she had a lot of people to apologize to.

"I don't want to."

Coach leaned against the ropes. "You sure about that?"

"I fucked up talking about things to a fucking therapist," Eddie said. Eyebrows raised so high it felt like they had flown off her forehead. "So yes."

"How did you fuck up—"

"That's what you took from that—"

"Seems hard to do—"

"Can you back off?"

Sometimes when Eddie fought, the ring felt like it was just her and the other fighter. There wasn't a crowd, a referee, no coaches; it was a ballroom dance with a single spotlight just the two of them. That was a welcome feeling. Eddie liked having her sole focus on her opponent, it helped her win fights. No distractions.

With Coach, it felt like the ring was getting smaller. That there was nowhere to run. Like he was taking the spotlight from the rafters and shining it on her so she couldn't let the darkness consume every fibre of her being.

Peter barked again. Ever Eddie's getaway excuse. Pulled her out of her hallucination.

"Kid," Coach said. His voice was soft and Eddie would've rather had him scream at her like he did when he wanted the best for her. This was a side she never saw of him. Never wanted to see of him. Never thought she'd be graced with. Eddie would've rather done burpees. "You need to take care of yourself."

"I am," Eddie said. "You said I looked leaner."

"Ed—"

"Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"I don't want you thinking..." Coach sighed. Loudly. "I'm not your parents, all right? You can talk to me—"

"Jesus Christ, now we're talking about my parents?" Eddie wanted to rip her hair out.

"Did I ever tell you why I took you on as a fighter?" Coach asked.

"Because you wanted a girl on your team," Eddie said, throwing her hands in the air. "Some kind of diversity hire. Or—or having boxers in the male and female divisions would get you paid more. I don't fuckin' know."

"I saw a spark in you that I hadn't seen in anyone before," Coach said. "There was a little girl shining in those eyes that wanted to fight like her life depended on it and something told me that it did. You had this... this determination that I've only seen in movies. A natural born fighter. A light that couldn't go out."

"I got old—"

"For once in your fucking life, will you let me finish, please?"

Eddie made a face that probably didn't look all that impressed. She loudly sniffed and rubbed the edge of her nose on the back of her hand. Some kind of consent to continue his speech.

"You were so good at shaking off the bad, it seemed like nothing could phase you. And when things were good? God, all you wanted to do was become better," Coach said. He scratched at his tattooed bicep, didn't meet her eye. Stared at the floor like she was hard to look at. "I haven't seen that little girl in a while. You punched that reporter and... it was like you grew up in front of my eyes. Like the world slapped you with a calloused hand and knocked you down a set of stairs that you can't find your way back up."

"Thanks—" Eddie's stomach twisted. She wished there was something in her to vomit.

"It's like you've lost yourself. And I get that what he said was shitty. I'm not excusing that. But..." Coach shook his head and looked over at her. "Kid, somewhere you gotta know you're better than anything he has to say to you. Anything anyone has to say to you. Right?"

Eddie couldn't even find it in her to lie. If she couldn't lie, she wasn't going to speak. No words found her tongue. No sarcastic comment left her lips. She was silent. For once in her fucking life, Eddie Yamaguchi, Akuma, had nothing to say.

"I know that you weren't little when I first took you on," Coach said. "That you were 25 and you wanted a belt. I hope you still want that belt—"

"Of course I want the belt—"

"—Then fucking prove it, kid. Where's that girl who came to me with stars in her fucking eyes?" Coach asked. "One fucking man cannot take away everything you've worked for. That's not fair to yourself."

"Coach—"

"I want to see you go all the way," Coach said. "But I'll leave before I sit here and watch you throw it all away."

Eddie nodded. Swallowed hard.

Coach looked like he debated himself before he walked over and gave her a hug so quick it felt like Eddie made it up in her head.

"Hit the showers," Coach said after pulling away. He grabbed Eddie's gloves from her hands and started across the ring, back facing her. "You fucking stink. I'll see you tomorrow and you better have fucking eaten something."

*

I've been told by a certain person that I owe an apology and I believe I do.

Let me start by saying I'm sorry that this took so long. It has been a little over a week and I can't begin to apologize that I should've addressed this right away.

Giovanni Perez is a shitfuck asshole who dreams of being a somebody and to do so, he enjoys creating narratives instead of reporting on them. More storyteller than journalist but then again, any man with a podcast usually is.

I'm sorry that I didn't come on here within 24 hours of bullshit being posted and shut that down immediately. I'm sorry to my friends caught in the crossfire. I'm sorry to every bisexual person who read that article thinking it would be celebratory and were met with the worst excuse for journalism I've ever seen.

To be bisexual in a relationship with someone of the same gender is to have people discriminate against you. To be bisexual in a relationship with someone of a different gender than you is to have people discriminate against you, only this time for different reasons. To be bisexual is to feel, as Giovanni Perez has proven, that sometimes there's no community in the world where you are accepted. To be bisexual is to love freely and in captivity in the same breath. I'm sorry to anyone, whether mentioned in the article or not, who I hurt because I didn't put a stop to this sooner.

Giovanni Perez should not be allowed to write for any publication worth a damn for the rest of his time in this career and beyond. To give him a platform is to be a part of every heaving pile of shit he puts together instead of doing anything meaningful with his life.

I have loved very few people in this life and I hope that one day, I can love someone for the rest of my life. Their gender identity won't matter, bullshit article or not. There's something nice about the idea of having someone who's yours – whether I'm at that stage or not in my life at this moment doesn't matter. Who I chose to spend my time with privately doesn't matter. Who *you* choose to spend your private time with doesn't matter. My and others' lives do not deserve to be thrown on billboards in a piss poor and frankly embarrassing attempt at revenge.

I've done many things wrong in my life and being out and proud was never one of them. No godawful so-called journalism should make me feel any other way. I'm sorry if that made anyone who read that article feel like being proud of who you are is something that can be erased by any old loser with a keyboard.

I'm sorry to anyone I've ever kissed; you shouldn't have been brought into this.

I'm sorry to the kids who are scared to come out for exactly this reason.

I'm sorry that some asshole thinks he has the right to publish whatever he wants to make a quick buck.

I'm sorry for having sex in my free time and thinking that my private life was ours to share. I'm sorry we live in a world where my status means cameras capturing what were supposed to be our moments broadcast to the world.

I'm sorry to the LGBTQ+ rights movement going back a hundred years because Giovanni Perez exists in our community. Out and proud and never afraid to write whatever he's thinking even when it's complete and utter bullshit.

I'm sorry that I have to write this. I'm sorry I don't have as many words to say—but please know my words weren't written with a pitchfork in hand. I'm sorry that this is where we're at in 2024. I'm sorry he has access to the internet. I'm sorry that fuckhead losers think they deserve to be heard from. I'm sorry if this photo ruins any plans of sharing photos of my moments. I'm sorry for swearing so much. I'm sorry that I'm not good at this. I'm sorry I waited a week.

Eddie pasted a couple stickers over parts of her body Instagram would've flagged but otherwise left it unaltered. Face flushed red from her bottle of maroon. The bottle of white hadn't balanced it out as much as she'd hoped. Pressed post with heavy eyelids, her phone dropped somewhere next to Peter on the floor.

To new days. To fucking stars in her eyes or whatever the hell.

Eddie needed to stop drinking.