It took some minutes for Dr. Feel to finish healing Grape. Something about preventing a hematoma. He became mostly lucid.
I bent down and looked into his eyes. They seemed unable to focus. I said, "I'm sorry about what I said."
"You're— you are a sheer-re-ous contender. And you'tith totally mental. Ow!" He flinched.
"He's got a concussion," the doctor said. "I'm summoning an ambulance.
A little more than a half-hour later, I'd had the cut on my side and my head glued shut. Yes, she used instant-dry glue. Sitting, she'd grabbed my bloody nose with both hooves and jerked it toward her, realigning the sideways part. She pronounced it minor, saying that at my age it would heal within the week. She used her magic and internally pushed for a few minutes against the bruises, pressing out the blood and forcing the capillaries to clot and seal. She told me that the remaining color would be gone in a day or two, remarking that with my fur color I wouldn't notice it anyway.
Looking into a mirror in the showers, I saw crusted blood around my nostrils and over my eyebrow, and noticed blue and red tones that couldn't be mistaken for naught other than what it was. I tapped the glass as if comforting the mare in the reflection and walked on.
That left me alone with Whistlebutt in my little "office" in the showers. A unblinking glare at my brand new fan ponies stopped them in their tracks. Not caring a wooden bit what my coach thought, I stripped and treated myself to that unending supply of hot water.
He sat fidgeting like I had as five year old waiting for dessert after having cleaned my plate. I took my time, letting my subconscious process all that had happened. I knew there were peculiarities, but couldn't entirely put my hoof on it. I kept my eyes closed as I enjoyed digging the lather into my fur combined with the luxury of an uninterrupted shower.
"Coach?"
He stood. "Yes?"
I pointed with a leg dripping suds at the clothing I'd flung to the tile floor. "Could you please cast your cleaning spell on my things?"
"The torn one, too?" he asked, picking up the tank top, sniffing as if it might harbor a dead rat.
"Please. I'll get it repaired, but I'd rather not throw it in my saddlebags with everything else."
That occupied him for the few minutes it took me to rinse off, then use my magic to towel dry. The frisking against my fur seemed to bother him a bit and he looked away.
I whisked my saddlebags over and took out my clam-shaped makeup compact, brushes, stencils, and hair spray. I sat sideways to him so I could both look at my flank and alternately look at him. As I placed the first stencil, I said, "So, Coach, did I pass the test?"
"You definitely took damage, and still KO'd Grape!"
"Punch Drunk. His parents certainly didn't name him that!"
"Nor yours, Gelding."
I sprayed gentle puffs of hair lacquer, then scooched around to keep my sight lines before applying the base powder on the other flank. "Punch Drunk, the pony Secretariat beat to become champion. I looked her up at the library after Shadow Strike mentioned her."
"Shadow Strike," Whistlebutt echoed, looking away.
"Is she all right?" I asked, looking up.
"Probably. For all I know. Coach Reaver snapped her up. Tag team isn't as big a draw as fights, but when I told her I wanted to start training her for the fights, she went to him. He bought out her tag team contract. She's got the same spirit as Mustang, but she actually thinks under pressure. I was thinking next year or the year after for her, but—" He banged his hoof against the tiled wall.
"You keep plenty of brands in the fire?"
He looked sharply at me. "You don't do that, you don't make the bits to survive, let alone thrive."
"Nice apartment," I said, referencing the thrive part.
He took a deep breath as I sprayed lacquer and returned to the second layer on the opposite side. I asked again, "So what's the deal?"
"I train you, beginning today. I think you've got the goods. You're definitely this year, like I thought. Grape was undefeated* after Secretariat. Do you understand what you achieved?"
"Pure and utter luck," I demurred. A puff of spray. I set the stencil and brushed the other side.
"Don't sell yourself short. Most ponies fold under pressure—but you perform incrementally better! The only downside is you have an unhealthy lack of fear."
"I've just forgotten how to show it. His counterattack when I first attacked? You were lucky there weren't projectile horse apples when he twisted around like a spaghetti monster and sent hooves at my head."
"He's got that drunken-fighting technique down perfectly. A kirin master from across the western sea taught him; he grew up there. Trust me, in the future, you'll get ample opportunity to scout your opponents, or I'll work with you about what we know to counter their attack and defense profiles. Frankly, I thought he'd land that left-right jab and land you in the hospital. I knew he was tightly wound. He's incredibly disciplined and his daily practice regimens are grueling. But your sharp tongue actually made him mad. I didn't pay him to ensure he'd scare you away from fighting. I'm sorry about that."
I shook my head and snorted. "On the contrary. I said I wanted to learn something, and I did! Shield has flummoxed me for years. Happy happy joy joy filly now," I said, bobbing my head, swaying my shoulders and wriggling my flank, dancing in place and smiling. "My fault for prodding his stupid stallion ego?" I sounded a raspberry and lifted the last stencil and inspected the results, fanning my flank to help the lacquer set faster. I snapped closed the clam shell and simultaneously packed away the brushes and makeup.
"Most fillies your age are having fun playing with makeup."
I could tell it wasn't a jab. "I was made-up for specific formal occasions, and it wasn't for play, nor was it particularly fun." I stood as I pulled out a second set of clothes, also pink, from the saddlebags and stuffed the cleaned one in after my supplies.
"You had extras?"
"I've learned the benefits of frugality, including buying in quantity in order to demand discounts."
"I see."
"The deal. What's our deal? I thought talk of discounts and frugality would bring you back on track." I pulled on my top, then stepped into the trunks, then placed the saddlebags over my back.
"I'll give you a stipend for living expenses while you train—"
"As in, what do I pay for? Gym membership, what?"
"I pay your expenses and manage public relations while you train until you're ready for your first bouts. Going forward, you pay expenses out of the prizes you earn. They call it prize fighting for a reason."
"I keep the prize and I pay you?"
"No. I manage that."
"Are you saying we split the bits?"
"That goes without saying."
"Not a sports pony, Coach. Keep with the program. Explain stuff to me." I stepped closer until we were practically nose to nose, though I had to look up.
"The industry split is "20/80."
"80% for you?"
"That goes—"
"'Accounts are very important,' MiLord!" I parroted Mr. Waddles Worth and the phrase that warmed his bit-grubbing heart. "You expect me to fight to within a hoof-length of my life and receive no real bits?"
"I didn't say that."
"I need accountings, then. On paper. Out of my 20% comes what expenses? Do I incur debt for my training, fees, PR?"
"You— Um, well..."
I pulled out my hoodie and put it on despite the moist warmth in the shower room. Walking past him and up to the gate of my little (probably expensive) office, I added, "I want at least 50/50."
"What? Are you out of your mind?"
"I may be a little crazy," I said as I walked through—and slammed—the gate behind me with a swift kick, causing the whole canvas-covered scaffold to rattle. "But you knew that, right?"
The gate squeaked as he followed me. "Where are you going?"
"I need to think about all this. What I'm willing to put up with."
I got stares in the mirror from a couple ponies I passed. Even a pony that had improperly closed the door to the toilet cubical let his mouth drop open. He slammed it.
The door, not his mouth.
"Gelding! I can make you a champion!"
"Do you even listen to me?" I shot back, loud enough that anypony in the showers or outside would hear. "I'm not interested in notoriety or fame. The opposite really. I've made my offer. I'm no foal."
I trotted by dozens of ponies on the weights and running the track that stared in silence. I galloped up the stairs, then turned downhill and kept on the sidewalk. I heard Whistlebutt's voice as he charged up the stairs.
That made me mad. I did not want to be harangued. Due to the shower, or maybe the physical shock of being injured wearing off, my head and shoulder really started to ache. I heard his hoofs on the sidewalk.
"Ugh!" The sound came from deep in my belly and made my chest rumble.
Though it was ridiculous, I tried spinning up Don't Look, Don't See, Don't Hear. If there was really a time when I really wanted to shut everypony out of my existence, now was the time. Downhill was too easy for him and he could sprint. I wasn't going to flip him the way I had the golden Clydesdale. I wasn't stupid. I might still need him. He represented a unique opportunity.
I made myself aware of every store sign, every open glass door, every window, every crack in the pavement, every wagon pulled uphill and the pony cart with barrels behind me. As he came closer, I broke into a gallop and quickly rounded a corner. Nopony looked my way, but I saw a small crowd of chatting work ponies in blue overalls, carrying metal lunch boxes that looked like mailboxes with handles. I took in everything because I had this overwhelming need to hide fueled by my aches, anger, and annoyance.
I cast the impossible spell simply because if I didn't I might explode. Maintaining the hyper-awareness my spell notes repeatedly reiterated I needed to keep, I noticed when Whistlebutt stopped on the corner, huffing. He scanned the street.
He turned down hill behind me.
"Celestia on Roller-skates!" I cried. I was already headed away from my hostel. I didn't know where I wanted to go, but I knew that on my right lay a hill. I dashed diagonally across the street and nearly got run over by an obstinate delivery pony pulling a van loaded with boxes and jugs of cider.
I turned the corner and dashed further, maintaining my awareness as best I could, cataloging the new scenery, expending splendors of my magic like putting bits in a juke box.
At the next corner, I dashed down a narrow cobbled alleyway converted into a walking street of small shops and restaurants.
I spotted a tea shop quaintly named Spot of Tea with Lemon and leapt inside, causing the door to knock against the wall. The tinkle bell chimed as if abused.
As I turned to peer out the doorway, I heard a "Welcome to— Uh. Hello?"
The seconds ticked by and Whistlebutt didn't show.
The proprietress of the tiny tea shop bumped into me. We both shrieked. I lost the spell, not that it had done me any good beyond practice.
The minty green pegasus matron said, "Oh, dear. There you are." She adjusted her eyeglasses. They made her amber eyes look huge. I recognized her Trottingham accent.
Trottingham ponies knew their tea. This might be good!
It was! I enjoyed a black tea with cream and honey, and a peel of lemon served on a rose-pattern porcelain tea set. The scones she served did not take the prize for fluffiness, but with clotted cream melted in and topped with lemon curd, they went a long way toward allowing me to regain my perspective and dignity. I relaxed and took off the hoodie.
Mrs. Smithe—there was a definitive e in the name the way she pronounced it—paused as she poured me a second cup from a teapot that had been wrapped in a rose-patterned hoof-towel. She asked, "Are you all right, dearie? It looks like you might have run into a door."
Run into a door was a universally known euphemism shared by mares. I lifted a mirror-polished spoon and looked at my nose and eyebrow. Dr. Feel might have been over-confident in her assessment.
I used it to stir more cream into my cup and chuckled. "You should see the other guy."
"Oh, my."
I had plenty of time to think and sufficient bits to pay for my extended tea time. Leaving, I asked a question and Mrs. Smithe gave me directions.
"Research," I told her.
______________
*Undefeated, but Punch Drunk had had a record number of undecideds for the last few years. You have to win matches to win a championship.