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don’t know what happened to him.”
    “He’s dancing with Shiori.”
    “I’m surprised he stuck around as long as he did. He’s seriously on edge.”
    “And he’ll be like that until his next fight is over.”
    Gil picked at the bar napkin beneath his empty beer glass. “He’s gonna get his ass
     beat.”
    “What makes you say that?”
    “Because Deacon doesn’t care about winning. He cares aboutfighting.” Gil glanced up. “Sensei Black is a jujitsu master. He’s been a fighter.
     But he’s not an MMA coach. No offense, but neither are you. If Black Arts wants the
     fighters on their roster to win, you’ll have to recruit coaching talent, not more
     fighters.”
    The rivalry between Black Arts and ABC had lessened as the two dojos were under the
     same Black Arts umbrella. And it pained Knox to admit it, but Gil was right. Ronin
     had added ten new fighters to train at Black Arts. Out of five bouts in the last fight—which
     was more of an amateur “smoker”—they’d had one winner. ABC had four winners out of
     five.
    “You pissed off at me now?” Gil asked.
    “No. I’m frustrated because I know you’re right. And I don’t know what I can do about
     it.”
    “As of this week you’re in charge. If there’s ever been any time that you can make
     a change, it’ll be in the next two months when Ronin isn’t here.”
    Knox’s gaze sharpened. “You’re suggesting . . . what exactly?”
    “Make the Black Arts MMA program a priority by hiring a high-profile professional
     trainer. That way maybe Black and Blue Promotions can move out of the smoker category
     and get into the real fight-promotion business too.”
    “Did Blue tell you to talk to me? As one second-in-command to another?”
    Gil shook his head. “My first loyalty is to Blue and ABC. But I also know ABC would’ve
     had to disband if it hadn’t been for Ronin’s assistance. A stronger Black Arts MMA
     program only strengthens our position. I’m not looking to sabotage either dojo; I’m
     only looking to bolster the entire organization.”
    “Let’s say I agree with you. A high-profile trainer doesn’t come cheap. I don’t have
     financial discretion at Black Arts, and if I bring someone new on board without Ronin’s
     approval, he’ll just shitcan the guy the second he’s back in charge.”
    “You don’t have financial discretion, but Shiori does,” Gil saidslyly. “If you can convince her to back your plan, she’ll free up the funds to pay
     a trainer’s salary. And don’t discount Hachidan Black’s reputation as the real deal.
     I’ll bet you’d be surprised by the number of trainer applicants you’d get just on
     that alone.”
    Knox scrubbed his hands over his face. “Fuck, Gil. Why’d you bring this up now?” Then
     it clicked. He lowered his hands. “You know a trainer who’s looking to jump ship.”
    “Yes. I’m worried once word gets out he’s ready to move on, people will start offering
     him the moon and the stars.” Gil leaned forward. “This guy needs a change, and the
right
offer will hook him more than a big offer.”
    “Stop fucking around and tell me who we’re talking about.”
    Gil paused. “I need your promise it doesn’t leave this table. Your solemn promise.”
    Knox almost snapped off, “I prefer pinkie promises,” but he reined it in. “Fine. You’ve
     got my word.”
    “Maddox Byerly.”
    His jaw dropped. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
    “No.”
    “Why the fuck is he leaving TGL?” TGL—Tieg, Garvey, Linson—based in LA, culled only
     the best of the best for their MMA roster. They’d trained UFC champs, Bellator champs,
     Strikeforce champs, but their biggest claim to fame was Judson DeSilva, nine-time
     world champion. DeSilva had won three world championship titles in each division he
     fought in—an unheard-of feat. Different divisions had different training regimens
     because weight and size determined the level of physical activity. And who’d