I do not own "Warrior." It belongs to director Gavin O'Connor. Sorry this is a little bit of a filler chapter, but this does set up for the next part of the story.

Also, I showed "Warrior" to my older sister, who was far more taken with Brendan, describing him as—and I quote—"om nom nom nom."

Chapter Eleven: The Calm Before the Storm

"Hey, Dionne, have you heard of MMA?"

"Rings a bell. Does it stand for mixed martial arts?"

Jane sits back on her couch. "Am I the only one who's never heard of it? Until, like, an hour ago, anyway." She sits back up, leans forward, picturing Dionne sitting across from her as she says into her cell phone. "So guess what Tommy used to do before he dislocated his shoulder? I'll give you a hint: it has to do with the real reason he dislocated it in the first place."

The silence on the other end keeps her anxious. "He was in MMA?"

"Yeah. Praise the internet for keeping nothing secret. His fights are on YouTube. They get pretty nasty."

"Seems you're not the only one who has a past they'd rather not talk about."

"Yeah." She exhales. "He came over and we talked about it. He said he'd avoided telling me because I made him feel like a normal person, not seeing a cage-fighter or a war hero—I guess he didn't want to talk about the things he did in the military because he was worried it would make him sound conceited, he most likely went through some trauma while overseas—but someone beyond that. And I do. I mean, both parts of it influence who he is. He's protective—military, he's tough—both, and he's definitely primal. But I liked him before and I like him now.

"And I guess it goes without saying I thought it would be too much for both of us to spill the beans at once."

"You put off telling him again."

"Last time, I swear."

Dionne scoffs. "If I had a nickel for every time I heard that…"

"No, I'll tell him next time we go out."

"So you're still going out?"

Jane nods into the cell phone—has no idea why, it's not like Dionne can see it—and says, "Yeah. I know what he meant when he said he liked that I treated him like a normal person. I understand that. I think it's the same reason I haven't wanted to tell him…you know. I don't want him to think I'm weird or damaged somehow."

"You're not damaged. You've just been through things many people have not, like him. Just entirely different things from what he's experienced."

"I know," Jane says quickly. "I know, yeah, this isn't something I chose; the addiction, the depression, all of it. I know that. But I just…I want to be a normal, healthy girl in her twenties who can go out to a party and not worry about a relapse, who can hook up with someone they don't know well after a couple of drinks, and enjoy it."

"Well, you can't," Dionne tells her, sounding almost amused.
"I know that, too." She just can't get her to see it, can she? "That's not all, though. Thing that's really bothering me is, he was in the apartment and he looked at the bed for a minute, and didn't say anything about it, and I remember thinking, 'Shit, I don't know how to get that intimate with someone while I'm sober. It's terrifying.' Then again, this is the first time I've been attracted, really attracted to someone, in years. I don't know. Normal people in a normal relationship have usually started having sex by this point, right?"

She hears a faint laugh. "Jane, you are far from normal. Someone who wasn't sexually abused during her teen years might be open to sex early on. Given what you've been through, no one could blame you for not being able to invite someone into your bed on short notice. If he hasn't pressured you, hey, more power to him, but you shouldn't try to pressure yourself, either. I told you a year is a much shorter period of time than you might think to get into a relationship."

"I still want to. I just don't know how to. I'm scared to." She runs her hands through short-cropped hair, turns back and looks at the bed that's so obviously not designed for two people. A bed belonging to someone who hasn't had sex in over eighteen months, has never had sex with her full consent and all her senses working, and until this past month hadn't even vaguely considered doing so for at least another eighteen, if ever. "It's almost as—no, it feels more embarrassing than the alcoholism. More personal." She exhales and tilts her head back. "I guess you think I should warn him about this, too?"

"Yes, I do. But first things first."

"Right." After she presses the end button, she repeats it to herself. "First things first."

F

The first cycle of physical therapy is drawing to a close. He lost a good ten, fifteen pounds of muscle and is slowly getting it back, doing modified versions of some of the routines he did while training, thinking that even if he's not fighting, he still wants to push his body to the maximum of what it can do. David knows this, tells him to take it slow. He set himself back a little throwing one measly punch with his bad arm close to a month ago. He doesn't regret it.

"I'm starting to think you can scale back PT to once a month, as sort of a check-up," David tells him. "You've made a lot of progress. Then again, you wanted it badly enough to make it happen. At least it was your non-dominant arm."

"Yeah?" he says, taking satisfaction in the allover soreness from the increasingly rigorous workouts, running sessions, core work, slowly building upper-body work; it's starting to overpower the soreness in his left shoulder, the ache that reminds him on a daily basis of things he doesn't want to remember.

"Yeah. You've made a lot of progress in three and a half months, impromptu sparring session aside. What happened with that girl, anyway? You take her up on that offer?"

"Yeah." That must have been ages ago. But it was just under a month. He doesn't feel like adding "And then some". David seems to get the message, and after the session sits him down.

"I'm thinking this coming Sunday would be the last of the biweekly sessions," he says. "As long as you continue doing the exercises and increase the weights you lift no more at a time than what we agreed, I think you're good to go. You have my number, so feel free to call if you have any questions.

"If you start fighting again in the next two months, though, I'm gonna have to kick your ass. My duty as a physical therapist."

They both snort a laugh. "Not gonna happen," Tommy says. Not for a while, anyway. He starts to head out, and after a moment gets a thought. He owes Jane a real date, something, as he said, to make up for…all that. Some kind of date that he's pretty sure is mandatory, like going out to dinner. He turns back to David.

"You know any good restaurants in Pittsburgh? Like, real restaurants?"

"Depends on your style. Something low-key?"

"Not this time." And, because it's David and he doubts he'll have the topic come up again, "As in, somewhere you'd want to take a girl out. Something nice."

David nods; a small smile on his face. "Girasole. It's closer downtown. Romantic, Italian, perfect."

"Right. Thanks. I'll see you next Sunday."

Something normal. Something that doesn't remind her of the guy in the cage who beat the shit out of people, who couldn't stop fighting no matter how much pain he was in. She deserves that much.

E

Tommy decides four days should be long enough for Jane to let it all sink in.

"Hey," he says when he calls her up.

"Hey."

"You, uh, you have enough time for it to sink in?" he's just glad he's alone in the gym's office right now. The other guys at the gym, Colt, Fenroy, think it's weird that he doesn't go bar-hopping after work to pick up girls who would love to fuck a "war hero" and cage-fighter; girls who lean in over their beers to show off as much tit as possible and whisper, "You can tap me anytime, Tommy."

"Yeah, it sank in."

"So what do you think?"

"Hey, I told you I had no intention of breaking up with you over this. And I stand by that statement."

A faint smile works its way across his face. "So you wouldn't mind if I took you out Saturday."

"Take me where?" she asks, sounding playful.

He grins wider. "I was thinking a legit date, like at a restaurant. Do you like Italian?"

"I…sure." She sounds so surprised over the phone he can't help but feel a little annoyed. He's not that cheap. Not with her, anyway.

"I was thinking of a place downtown called 'Girasole.'" The door opens and he wants to say, "Get the hell out" over his shoulder. Probably would, if it weren't Colt Boyd coming in. "Would Saturday at seven work for you?"

"It would," she says, sounds eager, sounds interested.

"I'll see you then."

"See you."

After he hangs up, he looks up and sees Colt standing nearby, trying to hide the fact that he's grinning. But it seems like the man can't help but go, "So that's the reason you're not interested in picking up chicks. You already got one."

Tommy doesn't bother saying anything back.

"How's your shoulder doing?" Colt continues. "You look good. Looks almost like your training again."

Tommy sighs. "Nah. I'm not training. I just finished the main healing process."

"The main healing process?"

"The one after being in a sling. After the main healing you can pretty much expect full recovery."

Colt turns and looks at him, and Tommy can tell the grin on his face means, 'There might be a slot for you in UFC this year after all.' "That's great!" he says. "How about the gym throw you a party or something?"

"No thanks. I don't like parties." And it's true. He fucking hates parties. People mingling, making crappy small talk, maybe awkwardly trying to dance. The only decent part is the drinking, which is so much better when it's cold, cheap beer shared with a few good friends who aren't trying to impress anyone.

"We'll throw one in your honor."

Tommy raises an eyebrow as he glances down at paperwork he should probably get to today.

"Come on. A party at my place, it's right nearby the gym."

"Hey, as long as you don't expect me to be there."

A

A restaurant. It's a perfect place to talk to him, to tell him things a little too serious to mention casually.

Granted, she's noticed Tommy's in a better mood when he gets to move around, but still, at a restaurant there's certain decorum, certain manners you must follow.

Speaking of which, she realizes later, looking up the place online, she'll certainly have to dress better than usual, judging by the look of the photos and the prices listed. This is a really nice place. Pretty expensive, too, unfortunately. It doesn't seem at all like Tommy's kind of thing, nor hers, for that matter. Not for someone on a shoestring budget. She'll probably need a dress, seeing as the only one she has is the one she wears to work, which means she'll have to go out and buy one. Much as she likes the idea of going out to a nice Italian restaurant, she really hopes he won't feel the need after this to arrange dates that will burn holes through both their pockets.

R

She's not the kind of person in recovery who goes into lengthy detail about her history of addiction when offered a drink or the opportunity to drink. In her opinion, to do so is a gratuitous way to induce shame in others for not having already made that assumption. She says, "No, thank you" and, if the offers persist, explains it in three simple words: "I don't drink." From there the person or persons will usually make the deduction on his or her own. Still, with Tommy she wants to tell him a little more than "I don't drink." That she hasn't gone farther than a kiss with him not because she's not attracted to him—far from it—but because the only sexual encounters she's had were nonconsensual, induced by some guy who felt like getting off and used her to achieve that end when she was either really, really plastered or, on a couple of occasions, passed out. A simple kiss for anyone else is for her major progress in overcoming a strong fear of intimacy, her fear of disappointing him or not being able to stand touch.

One thing at a time, she reminds herself, getting dressed for that night, rehearsing what she wants to say in front of her bathroom mirror as she applies her make-up.

"I really like you, Tommy, and I think it's only fair that I be honest with you, and you have the right to know. I'm a recovering alcoholic. I've been sober for about thirteen months now."

Sounds all right. She does a check in the mirror. She looks all right, too. Times like this she could almost swear she was pretty.