[Play: The Greatest by Sia]
A/N: Hello my lovely readers!! This story is going to be intense so buckle up. Also, you all are going to grow to hate Natasha more and more as the story progresses. Don't say I didn't warn you. Please comment and vote a bunch on this brand new story, it helps bring engagement and more readers.
Not to mention my usual 3rd person writing style is not anywhere in sight here... This story will be in 1st person for a more immersive experience for what is going on in a fighters head.
Enjoy loves <3
CW: Graphic descriptions of blood and professionally monitored violence.
~
The chill.
The rush of adrenaline courses through every part of my body as I stare back at those poisonous jade eyes. They haunt me; they always have. Her short, bleached pixie cut was falling into her eyes, sweat and blood dripped from the ends, and her entire body was soaked in it, including mine.
I've been a fighter all of my life, whether that be in the ring or in my personal endeavors. I worked for this and everything that I have now.
Natasha Romanoff, or The Widow in a professional sense, glares at me with a gaze of pure intention. She wanted my title. I couldn't give it to her. I earned that title over my entire career. I picked this fight because I knew I could beat her. Even if she was the most well-known fighter to defeat by knockout in my division, and it scared the hell out of me.
Before she could evade me, I threw another punch to her cheek, and the feeling ran through my knuckles and up my arm. This sensation was numbed at this point. I couldn't even feel the pain. It was pure power behind my muscles.
Tearing me from my thoughts, she lands a quick punch to my nose. Tears formed in my eyes instinctively, and I heard the crunch. The cartridge in my nose was fucked years ago. Just another trip to the surgeon to reconstruct it. How I wish nose shots were illegal, they always were brutal, and even a quick jab hurt.
I couldn't tell if it was hot blood or mucus from me instinctively crying flowing from my nose, but either way, I wiped it away, still keeping my hands in front of my face in case I needed to block her. But I was too late. She flung four erratic punches to my jaw and my cheek. My entire face felt like it was on fire as she continued beating me closer and closer to the wall of the octagon. My teeth threatened to click together as she hit my jaw again.
Inside my head, it was like a constant ringing. I could hear people chanting my last name in the stands. Over and over again.
Tate!
Tate!
Tate!
Couldn't I take just one break in the heaps of this chaos? I needed to see Sam. My best friend and Manager who would give me that sense of motivation back in the ring. But I had to block these strikes, or I would lose this. I wouldn't be able to fight in the ring again.
The indents of the fence wall imprinted on my skin as she pounded harder and harder against my face. I could feel the swelling. How bad my face hurt from the constant abuse it was enduring. My head was pounding, and I couldn't even imagine the migraines I would have tonight when I went to sleep.
Gripping onto her hand, I pushed her body away, and she spun around quicker than I could react. She punched me so hard in the jaw I saw a flash of light appear in my vision, and the blur overtook everything I'd ever seen. I gripped the fence and felt my body shake in tremors. She charged me, but I saw the black figure of the ref push her away from me. My body is pulled up, and I get seated down in the corner. I blinked, looking around, and I met Sam's deep espresso eyes.
His dark skin was all I could see, just the silhouette of his muscular frame as he tried to shake me awake. The medics are all over me, sticking cotton and antiseptics on my face, soaking up and stopping the blood. I could now taste it in my throat, and I wanted to gag as I spit out my mouth guard—they pushed the water through the long straw toward me.
"Viv! Stay awake! You got this!" Sam yells, trying to get me to open my eyes all the way.
Still, I couldn't fucking think if I tried.
Words, just words.
"I'm fine...." I slurred, sounding confident. "Sam, I'm fine!"
"You need to breathe for a second and drink some more water!" I felt the straw push between my swollen lips again, and I shoved the medic away in annoyance. "Remember what coach told you! Head up, protect yourself, keep defense, and tire her out!" He uttered everything so fast that it felt like he was speaking in a different language.
"I'm gonna fuckin' win! Stop doubting me, asshole!" I snapped at him. I never wanted to talk to him like this, but his voice was like a hit in the head as my ears rang over and over again, I was trying to find my composure, and it wasn't reaching me. My eyes cleared a little more, and I saw Romanoff staring at me from across the octagon, a smirk plastered over her features.
Her coach and manager were speaking to her as medics patched up her face, she waved at me tauntingly, and I bit down on my swollen lip in pain from one of the medics pressing too hard on my wound around the split skin of my brow. Sam snapped his fingers in front of my eyes, and I directed my glare back in his direction.
"You have to win this fight! Get that head back, Tate!" He yelled at me, handing my mouthguard back to me, and I locked it between my teeth.
I nodded curtly, and the ref called me back over to the center. It was the final round, and if the judges scored me higher, I could still win, even if I'd taken the fucking beating tonight more than her gorgeous face had.
Natasha stood and walked back over with her mouthguard in hand. I glare at her, tilting my head. My tight two braids are resting on my shoulders. The ref stood between us, and I heard him scream, 'Fight!'
I was livid. I wanted her on the floor and blood pouring from her nose, even worse than mine. Circling her, I kept my hands up, keeping my eyes on her body as she attempted to throw a kick in my direction, but I blocked it. She continued circling me like I was her prey, eyes locked on mine and unwavering.
Her boyfriend and also coach, Steve Rogers, was in the corner screaming random shit at her. I always hated that kind of relationship between the fighter and the trainer. How could you learn if you're fucking the person who is supposed to be telling you everything about how to fight? Not how to suck their dick.
I throw a quick punch to her cheek, and she shrugs it off like nothing. Her shin came up to my ribs, and I felt the spiking pain in my side, but I kept my head up as Sam told me to. Biting the mouthguard in my teeth, she throws another kick, and I block it again. Hitting the side of her jaw, she shoved me away with a push kick to my diaphragm. I managed to get back in and close to her and lock my hands around her waist, bringing her down to the ground.
Unable to stop myself, I continued punching her ribs, her cheeks, her nose, anything I could to hit her as hard as possible, just to keep her on the ground. The chanting started again, and Sam yelled, 'Hold her down, Tate!' I noticed the ref getting closer to us because of how I was acting, but I didn't care. I knew what was legal and didn't fight dirty.
She manages to wiggle her way out and flip me over so I'm on my knees. I heard Sam scream at me, but I was too blinded to take it in. She brings her fists to my face over and over again, each punch like a rock. I push her away and get up to my feet before she strikes my nose with her knee.
It was legal... if I were grounded, I would have beat her ass.
Okay, let's pretend I was grounded.
I met her eyes and threw as many punches as possible, throwing her against the fence with a thud. I kicked, and I punched. I was blinded by the need to win and had no other motive. The judges had to give me points for this shit and the number of hits I was getting on her. I groaned in annoyance at the fact she wasn't falling to the ground, hitting her harder and harder until I knew my fists would bruise and split. She finally threw a strike back and hit me square in the jaw. I staggered back, and she charged me. I'm expecting a punch, maybe a kick to the ribs again, but no...
Before I was conscious enough to realize it, she spun around in a split second, and the back of her heel hit my temple. It felt like my brain rattled in my skull before my eyes rolled back, and everything went black.
My body crashes to the ground, and the echoes of the crowd scream in my ears. I knew I fucked up. I didn't keep my head up. I didn't anticipate the kick. Spinning kicks were the one fucking thing I couldn't ever evade.
Probably three medics surrounded me, and I heard Natasha screaming in victory, and so was everyone else. I was the rookie, and I got into this shit myself, all by myself.
Growing up in the foster care system with Sam was hell. I went from house to house, and sometimes I didn't even get to live with him. Fosters were abusive. They would tell me I was trash and say I was worthless.
One of the few days they would let me leave, Sam and I were walking, and I passed an MMA gym. I always picked fights when I was younger with the people in my life. I can admit I would threaten people that would cross me merely because my parents were meth addicts that decided to overdose and leave me for dead when I was six. So the trust issues were understandable. Sam joked with me and dared me to go in there and take a class to deal with my anger.
I walked in, the owner was holding a girl's fight that afternoon, and I beat a girl into the ground in not even a minute. I didn't have much technique then, and admittedly I still don't. I just use my past to fuel my hotheaded urges to put people in their place when they are being assholes.
Sam saved me from a lot of shit. Fighting saved my life and took away my desire to scream at kids in my school. I could walk straight from public school to the gym and train until the sun set and sometimes Sam would go with me and watch.
I never really had relationships because of this, though. I would go out on dates and choose not to tell people that I could beat their asses easily. It would create insecurity issues. Hookups were the safest option, and not having a role model in that department wasn't healthy. My first time was the fucking worst. I was drunk, underage, and met a guy at a house party at sixteen. I still don't remember a thing of the night, but I woke up that morning, finding pain between my legs and a killer headache. I had to call Sam for help.
I got in his car and sobbed the whole morning, in fear that I didn't use protection or would get pregnant. At this time, he was twenty and out of the foster system, and after this snafu, he found a way to legally adopt me, so I didn't have to move from place to place anymore.
Sam cared so much about me that he took me to the store every day that week and bought a pregnancy test just to prove to me that I wasn't that stupid. I was petrified but decided I didn't need to drink and get shitfaced anymore. I ended up dropping out of high school because of how much my suspensions from fighting with guys were affecting my education. I didn't have a good life growing up and prioritized street smarts... clearly.
When I turned eighteen, I continued to live with him for the next few years and eventually started going to fights in my neighborhood. I was eventually recruited into the UFC by twenty-four years old after I received my black belt in jiu-jitsu, Taekwondo and became extremely good at boxing.
Sam got a job as my manager, and It was simple. I was a rookie, won last year, and now I'm here because Natasha picked a fight with me, and I knew I would win because I have better technique than her. Everyone loved me because I was new blood, I would win, and I was pretty enough for the press to love me... at least, that is what they liked to say.
But when I went to the UFC, the coach I grew up with passed away of cancer, and I was left without one. I didn't need one anymore. I'd already learned enough from him as a teenager and preferred training on my own anyway.
People in the industry nicknamed me The Whip because I'm fucking fast. I punch and kick so quickly and have knocked people out more times than I can count, from a punch to the correct place in the jaw.
But now, all my years of training just to get to this octagon... just disappeared with one fucking knockout
~
I leaned over my knees, looking at my hands as I unwrapped them, blood was dripping from the white wraps, and I bit my split lip. Sam was standing and staring at me from across the room. My face and body stung. I needed to take a fucking shower.
"Viv..." Sam started, walking up to me, and I raised my hand up, stopping him. I couldn't take a hug from him right now.
The thing was, Sam and I were never romantic. We just didn't ever think about it, and our age difference in the foster system seemed like an older brother complex, and he was to me. He gave me advice, he got me here, and I was grateful for that, even if he sometimes pissed me off.
"It's okay. You just need to do the press conference with Natasha, and you can hype people up for the next fight you'll do."
I was so angry I didn't want to tell him. I want to quit. I'm done with the professional aspect of it, it was toxic, and people wanted more from me every day. Fighting became an obligation and less of a therapy for me. I was broke when I should be rich like they said I would be. I got paid for fights, but I often donated my money to teens in the foster system. The apartment I lived in was nice, but if I didn't win this fight, I wouldn't be able to afford it. I'd probably have to go live with Sam again.
"Vivian," he tore me from my thoughts, and I flicked my eyes up to him angrily.
"What?" I snap.
"Talk to me. You're acting off!"
I scoff, staring up at him in annoyance. "No shit. I just got my ass kicked, I have probably ten stitches in my face, and my sponsors are definitely about to transfer over to Romanoff," I chuckle to myself, licking over my teeth that still tasted like blood. I spit onto the ground, and Sam sits next to me, looking me over and giving me a condescending look.
"You're going to lose your title, but that doesn't mean you can't train to win it back," he met my eyes. I couldn't even focus on his face, it was blurry, and my head was pounding. I wanted to pass out but was too pissed to let myself. "You lost, and I know you were on a streak of winning, but you can't let this speed bump impact your career!"
I ripped off the wrap, and it fell to the floor. I examined my bruised and bloodied knuckles, and my hands were trembling. I wiped my nose and tried to breathe through it, but it just brought more pain. The cartridge was fucked, and it gave me breathing problems over the years.
"This isn't a speed bump," I hiss. "I don't have a trainer. He died. You know this."
"I know you don't wanna hear this, but you need some tough love right now. I think that's the reason you lost."
"No, it's not. I'm better off alone," I stood up from the bench, grabbed one of my braids, and picked at the rubberband with my fingernails to dig it out of the end. It snaps, and I start to unravel my dark hair out of its binds.
Sam runs a hand over his buzzed head, shaking it. "No, you're not. You think you are."
"I'm fine, Sam."
The door clicks open, and one of the press managers, that always manages to get into my designated space, walks in. I saw flashes from cameras and yells of people demanding questions before he shut the door and noticed me.
"Hey, Tate, they want answers. I'm gonna need you out there in five minutes."
Sam throws his hands up in protest. "C'mon man, have some respect! She just lost a huge fight, and you already want her to go in front of five hundred cameras and answer questions!?"
He sputters for a moment, looking confused. "Well, Natasha is ready to speak."
I glared at Josh, wanting to smack him so badly since the first day I met him. That urge was really increasing at this moment in time. He was a scrawny little guy with a smile that made me want to throw up in a trashcan.
"Listen, Joshua? Was it?" I ask teasingly. I know his name, but I just wanted him to leave.
"Yeah?"
"Frankly, if I were to go out there right now, I would have half a mind not to go and beat Romanoff's ass prison rule style. So if you ask me to go out there again until I walk out willingly, you should be ready to explain to the public why I drastically injured my competitor during a post-fight press conference," I gave him a cheese grin, and he backed away a little bit.
His shock was evident as he blinked at me, completely stunned that I would have the guts to speak to him like that. But he should know by now that I don't give a fuck what anyone thinks. "A-alright, uh..." He swallowed, clearing his throat. "I'll tell 'em."
"Great," I reply and watch him back out of the room, more people are trying to get in, but a couple security guards are pushing them away.
I continued to unwind my hair and hated the feeling as the braid came out. Some of my hair falls out from unwinding it, and I flick it onto the ground in annoyance.
Sam clicked his tongue.
"Vivian, you need to find a new trainer-"
I continued to unwind the other braid and met his eyes again in annoyance. "I'm going to shower, Samuel."
He raised his brows. "Oh, full name? I see how it is."
"Be scared," I say with a humored chuckle as I walk off toward the locker room, and he chuckles back in the distance.
I stepped into the shower and, grasped the cold handle, turned it on hot, not even bothering to take off my clothes yet. The water fell down my body, and I finished taking out my braids. The stream cascaded down my back and my face. Running my hands through my hair, I try to get all of the sweat and blood out of it, watching the dried crimson color drain into the pipes.
My face was on fire from the pebbles of water hitting my flesh repeatedly, making me hiss in pain. I eventually peel off my shorts and sports bra, throw them onto the ground and start to wash my hair and my body. I hated how much it hurt when I lathered soap over the places that had abrasions. The bruises would be worse tomorrow, but at least you could recognize my face.
Lathering the expensive shampoo and conditioner I brought from home into my hair, I leaned against the cold tile, enduring the pain until it became too much. As much as I dealt with this on a day-to-day basis, it wasn't anything I particularly looked forward to.
As soon as my entire body was clean, I stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around myself. I made my way through the bathroom and found Sam on his phone. He was scrolling through some articles and didn't acknowledge my presence because he knew I had forgotten to grab my clothes from my bag.
I knelt down and dug through my duffel to find some sweats, a bra, socks, underwear, and a sweatshirt, tucking them beneath my arm. I picked up my bag and brought it with me as I returned to the locker room.
The mirror was immense, and I plopped everything into the long sink that extended to both walls next to me.
Peering up to check my appearance in the mirror, it was busted. But it wasn't anything different. My dark brown eyes stared back at me, my left one bloodshot from the beating. My full bottom lip was split, and stitches were in different parts of my complexion: My brow, cheek, nose, and jawline.
My nose, surprisingly, wasn't broken when the medics checked on me. The skin just split. I sighed and grabbed some chapstick from my bag, and applied it to my dried lips. Putting on each of the clothes I had brought, I slid on my socks to finish off the look. The wet floor was soaking into them, and I had to dig the high-top converse out of my bag that I'd had an emotional attachment to for six years. They were scuffed and even had holes in them.
Sam tried to buy me new ones a few months back, but these were important to me. I wore them every day for running in my sketchy neighborhood when I finally got the money to buy them at twenty. I would train in these sneakers, and I think it was just an emotional attachment at this point. The laces were fucked up and dirty, the soles were starting to fall apart, and they have probably been personally cleaned with a toothbrush and soap by me 100 times, just to keep them somewhat presentable.
My hand ran through my hair, and I looked back at myself in the mirror again. I wasn't in the mental capacity to do press right now, but I had to. I had to get up in front of thousands of people on tv and sit a few feet away from Natasha and her intimidating demeanor.
Turning on the faucet of the sink, my trembling hands run through the stream, splashing my face with the cold water, just to wake myself up. I slapped my cheeks and buttoned my lips, taking a deep breath and blowing it out with a wince. My ribs hurt so fucking bad. I just wanted to scream and then run out my anger back home as I used to.
I stood up straight again and put my hood up, zipping up my bag and kneeling to tie my shoes.
As I emerged from the locker room, Sam noticed me fully dressed this time and stood up, following me as I started to walk away.
"Wait, no, no! What are you going to say when you get out there?" He demands.
"I quit," I force a smile, quickly receding it and staring at him with a deadpan expression.
I don't know if he thought I was serious or not because he just squinted at me like he always did when he was confused.
"You're not going to tell them you quit. Not unless you want five hundred people demanding answers from you!"
"I just won't give them shit then!" I turned away, and Sam caught my arm, spinning me around and looking me in the eyes. Mine squinted back with pinched brows.
"Vivian..." He warns.
"What?!"
"Don't cause an issue where there is none. You lost a fight. Move on to the next and win again next year!" He tells me.
I didn't want to listen to him. In fact, I wouldn't typically. But he had a point. If I yelled, I quit in front of all of those people, it would make Natasha feel superior, and I couldn't just give that to her. The satisfaction she would feel if I decided to take that route in the scenario would be evident on her cocky face.
My glare softened, and his expression was gentle, pleading. He didn't want me to blow up because he knew that side of me the most.
"I won't," I whisper.
He loosened his grip on my arm and pursed his lips.
"Okay. Let's do this."
Sam pushed through the door, and lights flashed in my vision. Even though my hood was up, the light still made me want to throw up.
Probably fifty people were crowing at me, and my security guards were pushing them away. Sam had his arm around my shoulder, keeping any of the press idiots out of my way as I walked.
A hundred questions at once were being thrown in my face. I made eye contact with one of the reporters, shoving a microphone in my face, and glared at them. They can't ever catch the hint, though.
"Tate! What are your plans beyond this fight?!"
Sam shoves them out of the way, knowing I'm about to tell this person off for trying to get my mouth as close to the mic as they can. I was never good at the press side of being in the UFC. Paparazzi just got on my nerves and my urge to yell in their face for the disrespectful screams and demands directed toward me. I'm human, everyone else in the public eye is human, and these sick people place them on pedestals like they are a god to be praised.
We aren't. We just are in an occupation where somewhere along the way, humans started treating us like garbage and Gucci all at the same time. They shit-talk us like we don't have ears but then praise us like it will make up for it.
After walking for what seemed like an hour, we finally approached the room where the post-fight press conference was being held. Natasha and Steve were both sitting at the table, along with her manager. Cameras were positioned directly in front of them for the live stream and also in front of the seats where Sam and I would sit.
I tucked my hands into my sweatshirt pockets, and as we entered, Natasha turned her head to look at me. She jutted her bottom lip out in pity and chuckled to herself for a moment. Her expression was patronizing toward my existence.
My fists clenched at my sides, and I sat in the fold-up chair. It squeaked beneath me as I shifted my position uncomfortably.
The paparazzi all were flashing their cameras, taking as many photos of me as they could. Sam sat directly next to me, and I leaned back in the chair, taking a deep breath to calm myself.
The conference started, and I listened to the event manager announce a bunch of bullshit that I'd heard way too many times before. It takes them a moment before the interviews start. People with a press passes begin to stand up to ask questions, and for a good five minutes, all of them are directed toward Natasha and her win.
This was good. I preferred not to talk about the fact that I lost anyway. Even when I won, it was a drag. Just explaining how practical my tactics were was getting old.
A specific woman with light brown hair and blue eyes stood and directed her attention to me. Sam had to tap his foot against mine under the table to snap me out of my daydreaming.
"Miss Tate, I understand this is your first loss of the season. How devastating was this for you?" Her soft voice asked.
I stare at her for a few seconds.
Did she really just ask me that?
I bite down on my lip, stifling my laughter. "Um, I'd say this was a definite disappointment. I'm not devastated though because losing comes with the profession. Natasha won... clearly," I gestured to my face and a few people chuckled in the audience.
"Yes. But you have stated in previous fights that you found your opponents easy to beat. You took Natasha's challenge because you thought the same about her, correct?"
Natasha peers over at me. I could feel her eyes drilling into mine just to rattle me. She was so fucking close to getting slapped. I clear my throat, noticing the girl's honest and genuine curiosity.
"Yes. I took the challenge with the intention to win-"
"But she didn't!" Natasha interrupted, raising her hands in a mocking shrug. "See, to answer your question with honesty. I picked the fight with Tate here just so I could beat her cocky ass! She always won and approached her fights with not the desire to win, but the entitlement to defeat her opponent!"
I was so close to standing up and stabbing the pen on the table in front of me directly in her eye. My intrusive thoughts were about to win, but Sam met my eyes, mouthing 'Don't' to me.
"Thank you!" The reporter replied kindly to Natasha, completely disregarding me and my answer.
Sam grabs my clenched fist underneath the table and runs his thumb over my bruised knuckle gently. Natasha leans back into her seat with folded arms.
She cleared her throat and neared the mic closer to her. "I'm just happy that this happened as fast as it did. I mean, I was excited to fight the champion and was honestly expecting more of a challenge," she furrows her brows, trying to act like she's thinking.
Her manager, Steve, leaned forward to his mic and nodded. He runs a hand through his perfectly manicured beard. "Agreed. I started training Natasha shortly after she divorced from her husband. I'm proud of her development and incredible progress over the past year. She is much more vigilant and aware of her style now."
My brows furrowed at his statement. She was married? Last I checked, the only person in her life was Steve, and maybe a prior coach, but I never knew she was in a committed relationship.
Sam met my eyes and shrugged.
Another reporter stood up and looked at me. She repositioned her outfit
"Vivian, would you say your background has anything to do with your ability and lack of training to fight? You grew up in foster homes your entire life-"
I clenched my jaw at that, gritting my teeth, my hand reached for the microphone, and I looked around the room. "Does anyone have another question?"
Natasha looked over at me again. She wanted to piss me off. She knew that this was a sensitive subject for me because I never talked about it, and when I did, I deflected the topic.
"I'd honestly love to hear the answer to that," she replies.
I had to hold back the urge to snap at her before I swallowed my tangy saliva that still had that bloody taste in the back of my throat.
"I was. Yes," I bite.
"But... did that effect-"
"No," I cut her off. "If anything, it got me here today, and I am proud of myself for that."
The reporter grimaces to herself, looking offended. "Yeah, but you were in and out of juvie for most of your teen years. Do you think this is what caused your violent tendencies?"
"Might I add the lack of technique?" Natasha chuckled mockingly as she butted into the conversation.
Don't do it, don't fucking cave before you get kicked out of the UFC for good.
"No," I snap. Sam holding my hand, was still helping me resist the urge to lash out.
"Do you think that your angry personality and demeanor come from your time spent in there and the unstable home life-"
That's it. I can't fucking take it anymore. My hand ripped away from Sam. He grabbed the mic before I could.
"I'm sorry, ma'am. These questions are highly inappropriate and have no relation to what conspired here tonight. If you have a question to ask about the way that Vivian fought tonight, please ask. If not, I ask that you sit down," Sam spoke calmly.
He always was the mediator in the foster homes and would bail me out of juvie with his way of talking people down. He was too good at it.
The cameras continued to flash in my face, and it was disorienting my brain. I couldn't focus on anything but the amount of rage I felt from having to deal with this shit over and over again.
Natasha grabbed her mic again and looked at me. "Alright, may I ask a question?"
I bounced my knee on top of my converse, trying to get some of the adrenaline out of my body as I listened to Romanoff.
"Go right ahead, Widow," I smiled the fakest smirk I could direct at her.
She brushes her pixie cut out of her eyes, glaring over at me. "Do you think that you growing up with meth-head parents had anything to do with the fact that you lost this fight like an antelope to a lion-"
I can't fucking take this shit anymore. I'm sorry, Sam.
I jumped up from the squeaky seat, and Sam grabbed onto me before I could rush toward her. Sam was strong, had a large muscular frame, and could no doubt keep me at Bay. Natasha chuckles as she watches me squirm beneath him, unable to do a fucking thing about it.
"YOU'RE A SELF-ENTITLED SLUT, ROMANOFF! GO FUCK YOURSELF-" I roared with a gravelly tone. My voice was nearly lost as Sam pulled me away from the platform. The cameras probably took 500 photos in those ten seconds. This is what she wanted, for me to look bad, and she knew my temper.
I am a ticking time bomb.
As soon as I was pulled off the stage and out of the room, a few of my security guards pushed the reporters that tried to follow me away. Sam dragged me into the hallway as my chest heaved, and my hands were trembling like I was in freezing weather.
"What the fuck!?" He hissed as I kicked and screamed like a toddler in his arms. Sam finally let go of me and pushed me away. "You told me you would keep it cool in front of the press. Last I checked, screaming 'Fuck you!' to the person who beat your ass isn't the answer!"
"I'M DONE! I QUIT!" My voice broke as I spoke those words.
He buttons his lips with a curt nod, brows furrowing in anger. "Fine. Go home and give up! But listen to me, Vivian, and I'm only gonna say this once," he inched closer to me until he got really close, and in my face, I stared up at him, nostrils flaring.
"You are responsible for your own life and how you are going to live it. I am not your babysitter anymore. Call me if you want to grow up and act like an adult."
My head jolted back, and Sam for the first time in my life, turned away. His words shocked me, and I knew that he was giving me that tough love he always tried to do. It was my fault, and I fucked this fight up.
And not to mention my career.