The Ninja

2

Rod felt hands on his shoulders, but he didn't quite know who owned them. The hands urged Rod toward the locker room. He heard a murmur well up from the crowd. Victoria Simms, the radiant blonde beauty that Brick dated,shed tears over his body.

His dead body.

What had Rod done?

Rod next became aware of the flash of cameras, and reflexively hid his face. This was not a moment he wanted to remember.

"Mr. Taylor, what are you going to do now?" someone asked.

"Mr. Taylor, will you make amends to the family?" another asked.

"Mr. Taylor, how does it feel to be a murderer?" Rod stopped moving, glancing back. A handsome, African American reporter had asked the question, one that Rod recognized as Lamont Lane, a decorated journalist with two Pulitzer Prizes sitting on his mantle. Lane was renown for ambush reporting, asking unanswerable questions to trap his quarry.

"Don't answer," Rod's trainer whispered. The trainer, an elderly Japanese gentleman named Hideyoshi Mitzusaka, shot Lane a withering glare. "He has no comment," Hideyoshi said.

With that, Hideyoshi escorted Rod into the locker room and slammed the door. The drone of reporters and the incessant camera clicks were silenced, and Rod could again hear his thoughts.

"Oh my God, what happened?" a woman's voice asked. It was half-accusatory, and half-sympathetic.

"I— I don't know,"Rod said after a long, uncomfortable pause.

The locker room wasn't private and was designated for men only, but it didn't shock Rod that Cheyenne was here. All the commotion surrounding Brick's death meant they would have uninterrupted privacy. The locker room was divided into sections, this one being a twenty square foot humid room with the pungent odor of sweat that made the room feel even smaller. Behind Rod was a iron door that led to the arena. In front, twenty red cage lockers lined both sides of the room, ten on each side. Two wooden benches ran between the lockers, leaving an open space in the middle of the room.

In that open space stood a woman, dark haired and elegant, demanding answers. "Rod, you killed him," the woman said. She was Rod's girlfriend, Cheyenne Andrews. Cheyenne had a narrow, elliptical face and eyes that seemed too large. Her chin tapered sharply, but never came to a point and her lips were still wide and juicy.

Rod didn't need the reminder of his misdeed, so he turned away from Cheyenne. How could he look at anyone right now?

Rod stalked over to his locker and absently twisted the dial of the combination lock.

"Rod?" Cheyenne demanded.

Rod opened the locker withforce, and a resounding clang echoed through the chamber. "I don't know, all right? I don't know what happened."

Cheyenne softened. Rod sneered unseen, his back still to his girlfriend. He guessed she realized that he was suffering too. He felt her hand on his shoulder, but he swatted it away.

She had, after all, been accusatory just moments ago.

He sensed Cheyenne was still behind him.

Hideyoshi, who had moved from the door to the opposite side of the locker room, broke the silence. "Taylor-san, I trained you since you were a small boy. I hope that something of what I said about sportsmanship got through to you."

Rod slammed the locker door shut, and faced his girlfriend and his trainer. Cheyenne's eyes were wet with tears and her face wore horrible burdens. She was normally beautiful, but right now the burdens obscured that beauty and turned it into something else. Her face punched Rod in the gut.

Hideyoshi was a wall,impossible to read. His face was hard, like granite. His posture was straight, arms folded, eyes narrow and harsh. His whole demeanor urged Rod to make the right choice, the choice that no athletes ever made.

Rod squared his shoulders and walked back to the doors to the arena. He opened them, and strode out with purpose.

"What?" Cheyenne asked.

Hideyoshi smiled, slowly. "I think I know."

Rod ignored the reporters who had hovered by the door. He stiff-armed Lamont Lane, just enoughto knock the reporter out of the way. He walked toward the arena.

The arena was a flurry of activities, paramedics and gawkers and family members. And Victoria Simms, still ravishing in smeared makeup and a raw, red nose. Rod stayed back a few feet, and then called her name.

Victoria looked up, she saw him, and her grief turned to anger. "You son of a bitch, I'll see you in hell!"

A man restrained her from charging Rod. She almost slipped out of his grip, and another woman stood between Victoria and Rod, whispering softly to Victoria that Rod wasn't worth it. Be the bigger person.

A second man, behind Victoria but not actively restraining her, looked at Rod with scorn and hatred. "You've caused us enough pain. I would have liked her to take you apart, you're lucky other people restrained her."

"I deserve—" Rod began.

"That and more. Just go. No one wants you here."

"No," Rod said firmly. "I'm here because I'm sorry that this happened."

Victoria stopped struggling.

"I wanted to say that I never meant for this to happen, and I'm sorry. I have caused more harm than I can possibly imagine, but I want to help."

"He's posturing," the hard-eyed man said.

"Let him talk,"Victoria snapped.

"Whatever funeral expenses, whatever counseling you need, send me the bill. I know that I can't take the pain away, but I hope that will help."