Jay is a guy Grey will have to deal with at some point. He's not a happy camper and this little insight may explain it a little from 1/3 of the way into the book:
The bathroom had coral blue walls, but otherwise it was stark in appearance. Nice enough and functional with a porcelain tub, toilet, double sink and a heavy, seamless shower door. The smallest bath in the enormous beach house, but the best accommodations Taylor ever had for personal use. The room and bath were rent free.
He stood in his boxers, motionless in front of the large mirror that spanned the width of the wall above the double sinks. He lifted his left palm and covered his left eye. The same view as before. He lowered his arm, took a deep breath and slowly raised his right hand to his face, covering his right eye. Nothing. No matter how much he willed himself to see the image from moments ago, there was still….nothing. Only the slight pink glow of light that seeped through the imperfect seal his hand made over his good eye.
The ophthalmologist blamed it on a fungus. Something called fungal keratitis. All from a single, stray fingernail that scratched his cornea. Grappling maneuvers are at least one half of the mixed martial arts game and the open fingered gloves are necessary for fighters to grab and throw opponents. The punch thrown by Antwon Silva didn’t faze Taylor at the time. He had been struck much harder by larger men. He didn’t even blame Silva for the inadvertent pinky to the eye as the swing glanced off Taylor’s nose. He had made the same accidental contact countless times. As always, you shook it off, touched gloves and got back to the fight.
No, not Silva’s fault, but the young optometrist was a different story. For days following the fight, Taylor’s eye was swollen and slammed shut, so the optometrist prescribed antibiotics and told him not to worry. Looking back, Taylor realized that the young optometrist was examining his assistant’s legs more than his swollen eye. Things were looking up, so to speak, during the following week, but the blurred vision worsened so he returned for a follow up examination. “Nothing to worry about” said the playboy optometrist as he scribbled a prescription for alternative antibiotics.
Another month passed. More pills and a patch over his eye. Taylor continued to work out and grapple with his trainers. He gave his eye the time to rest as recommended, but on the fourth of July, exactly one month before he was scheduled to compete for a shot at fighting in the real octagon and winning a six figure salary, he woke up with the eye completely and totally blind.
The specialist didn’t offer much hope of recovery. The ophthalmologist was a steady man in his sixties. He was a confident and mature professional who wasn’t distracted by female office assistants. The subconjunctival injections and topical fortified antifungal drops he prescribed were a day late and a dollar short. Taylor continued to hope…and even pray, but his depth perception was gone and so was his chance in the octagon and potential six figure salary.
Instead of psyching himself up for a fight on August 1st, Taylor was in Wal-Mart buying a new pair of dark sunglasses. He walked out of the store and threw his eye patch in the garbage bin as the old door greeter bid him a nice day. He didn’t respond. A maddening rage built in Taylor as he power walked to his car. He had previously exploded on opponents who had threatened his chance at victory, but this was different. This was flagrant incompetence that ruined his future. Taylor slammed the car door with a jerk as he dropped in the driver’s seat and drove straight to the young optometrist’s office.
The bathroom had coral blue walls, but otherwise it was stark in appearance. Nice enough and functional with a porcelain tub, toilet, double sink and a heavy, seamless shower door. The smallest bath in the enormous beach house, but the best accommodations Taylor ever had for personal use. The room and bath were rent free.
He stood in his boxers, motionless in front of the large mirror that spanned the width of the wall above the double sinks. He lifted his left palm and covered his left eye. The same view as before. He lowered his arm, took a deep breath and slowly raised his right hand to his face, covering his right eye. Nothing. No matter how much he willed himself to see the image from moments ago, there was still….nothing. Only the slight pink glow of light that seeped through the imperfect seal his hand made over his good eye.
The ophthalmologist blamed it on a fungus. Something called fungal keratitis. All from a single, stray fingernail that scratched his cornea. Grappling maneuvers are at least one half of the mixed martial arts game and the open fingered gloves are necessary for fighters to grab and throw opponents. The punch thrown by Antwon Silva didn’t faze Taylor at the time. He had been struck much harder by larger men. He didn’t even blame Silva for the inadvertent pinky to the eye as the swing glanced off Taylor’s nose. He had made the same accidental contact countless times. As always, you shook it off, touched gloves and got back to the fight.
No, not Silva’s fault, but the young optometrist was a different story. For days following the fight, Taylor’s eye was swollen and slammed shut, so the optometrist prescribed antibiotics and told him not to worry. Looking back, Taylor realized that the young optometrist was examining his assistant’s legs more than his swollen eye. Things were looking up, so to speak, during the following week, but the blurred vision worsened so he returned for a follow up examination. “Nothing to worry about” said the playboy optometrist as he scribbled a prescription for alternative antibiotics.
Another month passed. More pills and a patch over his eye. Taylor continued to work out and grapple with his trainers. He gave his eye the time to rest as recommended, but on the fourth of July, exactly one month before he was scheduled to compete for a shot at fighting in the real octagon and winning a six figure salary, he woke up with the eye completely and totally blind.
The specialist didn’t offer much hope of recovery. The ophthalmologist was a steady man in his sixties. He was a confident and mature professional who wasn’t distracted by female office assistants. The subconjunctival injections and topical fortified antifungal drops he prescribed were a day late and a dollar short. Taylor continued to hope…and even pray, but his depth perception was gone and so was his chance in the octagon and potential six figure salary.
Instead of psyching himself up for a fight on August 1st, Taylor was in Wal-Mart buying a new pair of dark sunglasses. He walked out of the store and threw his eye patch in the garbage bin as the old door greeter bid him a nice day. He didn’t respond. A maddening rage built in Taylor as he power walked to his car. He had previously exploded on opponents who had threatened his chance at victory, but this was different. This was flagrant incompetence that ruined his future. Taylor slammed the car door with a jerk as he dropped in the driver’s seat and drove straight to the young optometrist’s office.
