The commission's preliminary report arrived near the end of autumn. It did not identify a single person as solely responsible for Tomas's death. It found that the session had continued despite multiple indicators of fatigue, that the floor hazard had not been addressed promptly, and that the incident report had omitted information present in contemporaneous notes. It also found that the available evidence could not establish who had altered the schedule annotation or whether the change had directly affected the accident. The report recommended mandatory incident logs, independent review of serious injuries, and protection for athletes who stopped training because they felt unsafe. Mara read it alone, then read it again with Mercer. She felt no rush of triumph. The findings were incomplete, but they were not empty. They named failures without pretending that naming them could bring Tomas back.
A journalist asked Mara whether the report gave her closure. She nearly laughed. Closure was a word people used when they wanted grief to behave like a door that could be shut. “It gives me a clearer record,” she said. “It gives the next club a chance to make a different choice. It doesn't close anything.” The journalist asked whether she was disappointed that no one had been punished. Mara answered that accountability could include sanctions, but it also required systems that made the same failure harder to repeat. She would not declare the process complete while clubs still had no independent way to review injuries. The interview ran under a headline about her “search for justice,” a phrase she disliked but did not bother to correct. She had learned that she could not spend her life chasing every simplification.
The report put pressure on Rusk's remaining business partners. Two withdrew from his next exhibition, and one demanded an audit of his event safety procedures. Rusk called Mara from a number she did not recognize. She let it ring twice before answering, mostly because the sound of the phone made her feel younger and less prepared than she was. He began by saying that he had always respected her talent. She asked what he wanted. He said the review had damaged people who were not involved in Tomas's accident and that she could help calm the situation by acknowledging that the findings were inconclusive. Mara replied that she had already acknowledged exactly that. “You could say it more publicly,” he insisted. “I have said what I know publicly,” she said. “I will not say what you need me to say.” He called her bitter. She told him bitterness was not a legal category and ended the call.
For an hour afterward, anger moved through her like a storm trying every window. She wanted to call him back and say everything she had rehearsed in the shower, on late walks, in the silent minutes before sleep. She wanted to tell him that he had used young fighters as scenery for his ambition and then hidden behind the complexity of the sport. Instead, she called Elaine and described the conversation. Elaine asked whether she had recorded it. She had not. “Then write down what you remember, while it's fresh,” Elaine said. “And don't contact him again unless we agree there's a reason.” Mara followed the advice. The act of writing did not extinguish her anger, but it gave the anger a boundary. She could feel something without letting it decide what she did next.
Brielle learned about the call from Mercer, not from Mara. She wanted to confront Rusk, but she stopped herself before she reached for her keys. She had once mistaken direct retaliation for courage. Now she understood that showing up angry would give Rusk another scene to sell. She asked Elaine whether a formal complaint would be useful. She said she would review the facts and advise her. She thanked her and went for a run. The urge to act did not vanish; it simply had to pass through a question first: would this help the people harmed, or would it mostly make her feel powerful? The question was uncomfortable because the answer was not always the one she wanted. That was precisely why she kept asking it.
The two of them met on a cold Saturday morning to repair the storage room shelves. They had agreed to keep their friendship simple, and manual work made simplicity easier. Brielle held the boards while Mara measured. When she misread the tape, she raised an eyebrow. “World champion,” she said, “defeated by twelve inches.” “Thirteen,” she corrected. “That makes it worse.” They laughed, and the laughter surprised them both. Later, while sweeping sawdust, Brielle told her she had wanted to call Rusk and threaten her. Mara said she had wanted to do the same. “What stopped you?” she asked. “I imagined the headline,” she replied. “Then I imagined Tomas telling me I was being dramatic.” Brielle smiled. “Was she good at that?” “She was unbearable.” Her smile faded, but the memory no longer felt like a blade. It felt like a person returning for a moment, familiar and imperfect.