The Clinch
Synopsis
Eden Bauer grew up in a rough part of New York with an unsafe home life and took refuge in the neighborhood Taekwondo dojang. When the master of the dojang offered to train Eden as a live-in student, he started her on a journey that would eventually lead her to become the UFC featherweight champion of the world.
Eden loves competing and coaching the underprivileged kids of her community, but just as she’s getting comfortable with her champion title, a new martial artist from a legendary family comes roaring onto the scene with a dynasty on her shoulders. Brooklyn Shaw is a loud, cocky, aggressive Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu genius who’s also unfortunately pretty dreamy.
Brooklyn and Eden’s rivalry attracts worldwide attention, but as they spend time together, Eden sees past Brooklyn’s showmanship to who she really is. They ought to be perfect for one another, but can either really fall in love with the person standing in the way of her dreams?
The Clinch
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The Clinch
© 2021 By Nicole Disney. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-821-0
This Electronic Original Is Published By
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First Edition: January 2021
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Cindy Cresap
Production Design: Susan Ramundo
Cover Design by Tammy Seidick
eBook Design by Toni Whitaker
By the Author
Hers to Protect
Secrets on the Clock
Shadows of a Dream
The Clinch
Acknowledgments
First, I want to thank Bold Strokes Books. I am so honored and happy to be part of this group of incredibly talented and kind people. Thank you to Radclyffe for building this beautiful community and giving our stories a home.
To my awesome editor, Cindy Cresap, thank you so much for all of your work, patience, advice, kindness, and for seeing the things I can’t. You always take me up a level.
And, of course, to the love of my life, Cassandra. Always my first reader, my guidance when I’m stuck, my reassurance when I’m full of doubt, my fellow dreamer, and my best friend no matter what. I love you.
Dedication
For all of the incredible instructors and coaches who brought the beauty of martial arts into my life, especially Kancho Joko Ninomiya, who was of particular influence in life and in this story.
Chapter One
The last few moments in the twilight of class are enchanting. At the start, students are humming with extra energy, blitzing through the warmup and first techniques with haphazard enthusiasm and overextended motions. By the middle, they’re winded and cherry faced. Technique tapers as they become afraid exerting full effort will render them too exhausted to protect themselves. The end creeping into the room gives them permission to use their final reserves. They’re deep in the mental space of the art now. They’re strained, fatigued, but focused. All awareness of cell phones and emails and squabbles drains, and there is only breath, the next movement, the resonance of a roundhouse landing on a body shield.
I circle the room, watching, feeling my weight sink into the red mats that shape a large rectangle, enclosing the blue mats that make up the center and majority of the dojang. The design mimics a large fighting ring, the colors reflecting those of the Korean flag that hangs at the front of class next to an American one and a row of the different color belts. The dojang is relatively small, fitting only fifteen students at a time comfortably, though in my morning classes I often have as few as five.
Today, I have a handful of my most dedicated, a blue belt named Mateo who was only recently promoted to his rank and is still trying to prove he belongs in this much harder and older class; my serious regulars Josh, Mariana, and Cael. And last, Laila. She’s the first student I ever took all the way from white to black belt and will always hold a special place in my heart. She’s also the membership manager, and these days, only jumps in for class when it’s slow enough to allow.
On the far side of the dojang, Josh’s strong and relaxed energy highlights Mateo’s frantic effort to flank him using much longer steps than he ever should. On the closer side, Laila whips a spinning back kick right in front of Cael’s face.
I want to stretch this moment and give them a few more seconds of this peace where all their worldly problems are suspended, but ending class late is a privilege I reserve for only the most extreme circumstances. It’s typically punishment for a heinous lack of respect, a problem I haven’t faced once since winning the UFC featherweight championship. Would-be students flooded in when that happened, but most of them filter right back out in confusion and agitation when they realize I teach traditional Taekwondo, not the modern mixed martial arts of the UFC. What I teach is only a slice of what it takes to compete in the Ultimate Fighting Championship.
“Jonglee.” I project the Korean word in my deep, assertive instructor voice that comes second nature these days. They follow the command to line up, sprinting to their places designated by rank, high to low with equal space in between each of them. I stand at the head of the room facing them and give a slight nod to Laila.
“Cha ryuht,” she commands, calling the students to attention, the position I’ve already assumed. “Recite the tenets.”
The class chants in unison, filling the dojang with just a few voices, “Courtesy, integrity, perseverance, self-control, and indomitable spirit.”
I indicate for them to continue with the student oath, and each of them recites one line starting at Laila and ending with Mateo.
“I shall observe the tenets of Taekwondo. I shall respect the instructors and seniors. I shall never misuse Taekwondo. I shall be a champion of freedom and justice. I shall build a more peaceful world.”
Laila issues the command for them to return to their previous position, “Bah ro.” Then sit. “Ahnjoe.” When they’ve settled, I nod at Laila, and she says, “Mukyum.” Meditate. It used to feel strange to meditate for such a short duration and on sudden command, but I find the miniature reprieves comforting now. After just thirty seconds or so, Laila claps twice to end meditation. I rise, and Laila tells the class to face me and bow. “Sah bum nim keh. Kyung nae.”
Cael, as the second ranked student, instructs the class to bow to Laila for guiding them through the beginning and end of class. “Sun bae nim keh. Kyung nae.”
“Hai sahn,” Cael says to officially end the lesson. The entire class thanks him and bows. Mateo’s posture slumps the moment he’s relieved of the command to stand at attention, and he heads for his gym bag at a crawl. I catch up to him easily before he can bow off the mat and put my hand on his shoulder.
“Hey, that’s not how you usually look after class. What’s the matter?”
Mateo is easily one of my favorite students. He listens with all of his energy, always tries his hardest, and is just plain sweet. He looks at the floor and shrugs. I kneel, which makes me shorter than he is but improves my chances of real eye contact.
“Y
ou know Josh has been training a lot longer than you, right? It’s okay if he got the best of you sparring today. You’ll be just as good before you know it.”
He nods, but somehow, he looks even more upset. Before I can ask again, he covers it with a smile that almost looks genuine.
“I’m okay, Master Bauer, but I have to go.”
My first instinct is to press more, but the way he’s already backing away tells me not to, so I let him join the others, hoping he’ll tell them whatever he can’t tell me.
It takes a few minutes for all of them to change their clothes and wrap up their chitchat. It always fills me with affection when I see students become friends. Living in Highbridge isn’t easy, and before the influx of students my career in the UFC brought, the kids who showed up at the dojang were ones who grew up just like I did, broke and equally terrified of home and the streets. Learning to fight certainly helped me walk the neighborhood with more confidence, but what really changed everything was having a community, people who waved at you when you passed by, people who would help if you were being mugged or harassed.
The room falls to silence abruptly with the clang of a bell as they leave. I jump a little when I turn and see Mariana right next to me.
“Sorry,” she says with a slight jolt of her own.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I thought you all went out at once. Wasn’t expecting you to be there.”
“I know, sorry. I’m such a creep.” Mariana rakes her sweaty black bangs out of her eyes.
“Not at all. What’s up?” I’ve been teaching Mariana for three years now. She was a fifteen-year-old kid walking around Highbridge on the fast track to become a problem the first time I saw her stalling in front of the dojang. I invited her to a class, much like the way Jin, the founder of the dojang, scooped me out of the jaws of the street years before that. She’s changed so much since then.
“Nothing, never mind,” she says.
“Are you sure? We could go to the office—”
“No.” She backs away. “Nothing, there’s no thing.”
“Mariana.”
“See you next class, Master Bauer.” She backs out the door before I can stop her. Damn, strike two. I churn over the interaction as I inch over to where Laila is typing away at the computer. She’s still flushed from class and wearing uniform pants and a tank top now.
“Is it just me or was that kind of—”
“Awkward as a chicken on ice?” she says without looking up. “Yep.”
“You think she’s okay?”
Laila makes eye contact for a long second. “You’re adorable.”
“What?”
She smiles, mostly to herself. “She’s enamored with you, UFC goddess. Duh.”
“Oh, stop.” The thought is mortifying in one way and a relief in another. I thought she was in trouble. Enamored is a word that wouldn’t have come to me in a million years.
Laila plucks a paper out of the stack in front of her and looks it over. “Yes, long live your denial bubble. What I need to know is, does the end of class really need to have eight thousand steps? Attention, bow, attention, down, up, meditate, bow to the person who told you to bow to the other person, thank that person for thanking the other one, do the macarena. For fuck’s sake.”
I shake my head and smile. “That’s how Taekwondo classes work, Laila. Don’t let the students hear you crying about it, either.”
She cracks a wry smile and tries to spike up her Halle Berry hairstyle again, reviving it from its sweaty, flattened condition. “Please, I would never. I just like harassing you. You know part of you wants to lose the uniform, blast some Metallica, and just punch people in the face.”
“That’s what I have you for.”
“Mateo didn’t pay his dues again.”
I sigh. “So that’s why he was upset.”
She hands me the paper she’s been studying, his membership agreement. I take it because it feels rude not to, but there’s not much I don’t already know about Mateo. He’s only twelve and trying to pay for his own membership on a dishwashing job while also putting food on the table for two siblings and his father, who seems to be equal parts addict and dealer.
“Just charge it to my card.”
Laila cocks her head. “You can’t do that for all of them, Eden.”
“Of course I can. If you ask him about it he’ll either quit or find an illegal way to come up with it. I don’t want either of those things.”
“Neither do I, but this isn’t sustainable. You’re paying full or partial tuition for almost half of our students. Does the grandmaster know that?”
“No, and don’t you tell him. I’m fine with it. Really.”
“I know you are, Mother Teresa, but it doesn’t change the fact that the dojang isn’t profitable. Hasn’t been for a long time.”
“Yes, it is. Everyone’s dues are paid, just by me.”
The corner of Laila’s mouth tugs into a half smile, and she shakes her head. “You know what I mean. If it weren’t for you, Emerald Tiger would go under in less than a year. What happens when you don’t have this kind of cash to burn? No one fights forever.”
“I’m smart with my money.”
“Anyone watching you do this would beg to differ.”
“Yikes.” I chuckle. “Really going in on me today, huh?”
“No.” She sighs. “People who are always watching out for others just tend to forget themselves. This place is your post competition plan, which means at some point it needs to give you money. And besides that, what about Grandmaster Suhmoon? It would kill him to have the dojang go out of business.”
Just the thought of letting Jin down is unbearable. “Is it that bad?”
“We’re ignoring a failing business model because you’re stable enough to keep it afloat, and yes, that’s risky. But no, it’s not that bad. We both know how you could fix it.”
“I’m not turning it into an MMA gym.”
“Do you have any idea what up-and-coming fighters would pay a world champion to coach them?”
“No, and it doesn’t matter. That’s the same as losing the dojang. Grandmaster Suhmoon wouldn’t let us do it anyway. You act like it’s my place.”
“He would too, if you asked,” she says. “He trusts you.”
“That’s because I would never ask him something like that. He’s a Taekwondo grandmaster, Laila. To tell him his dojang is failing and ask him if I can take over, strip it of all its tradition, and turn it into a sport fighting gym?” It’s uncomfortable to even picture it. “It would be so profoundly disrespectful.”
“Do you think he would’ve helped you train for MMA fights if he thought it was so awful? You’re representing his teachings in the biggest, most challenging competition in the world.”
“Not if this becomes like every other MMA gym.” I hand back Mateo’s membership agreement. “Look, I promise to take the problem seriously, but there has to be another way. In the meantime, I don’t care if I have to spend every penny to my name. The dojang stays open, and the membership for every single Highbridge kid stays current.”
“You’re the boss.” Laila tosses the paper into the extra space of the filing cabinet, not bothering to file it correctly. “All right, are we done with dojang business?”
“You tell me.”
“Girl, I am done, and I am switching hats to your so-excited-I-might-pee MMA friend. Let’s hit the road and go see these fights!”
“You know Atlantic City is only two and a half hours away and the main card isn’t until ten, right?”
Laila cocks her head and shoots an incredulous scowl at me. “Please don’t tell me you think I’m only interested in the main card. Eden, I know this is business as usual for you, but I thought you understood that I’m going to need you to use your champion superpowers to get me into the main card, the prelims, the early prelims, the locker rooms, the octagon, preferably introduce me to all the martial artists, Dana White, Joe Rogan. I want to meet the ref. I want t
o meet people I don’t even know exist yet. And I’m going to need pictures of all of this. Not to mention we have recon to do.”
“Recon?”
“Reconnaissance…” She pauses. “On Brooklyn Shaw. Isn’t that why we’re going to this?” She pauses again. “Because everyone’s saying she’s going to take your belt?”
“They’re what?” I hear my own voice go up an octave and wish it wouldn’t do that. “Wha…Who said…She’s been competing for two seconds! We’re going to this because it’s close and you’ve been begging me to take you to an event for months.”
“Okay.” Laila holds up her hands innocently.
I want to pretend the talk is too far beneath me to worry about, but I’ve already blown that. “No one’s told me anything like that.”
“Of course not,” Laila says. “Who the hell would say that to you? I just thought you probably saw it in Combat Zone.”
“They’re talking about it in Combat Zone?” There goes my voice again. I have that stupid newsletter sitting in my email but haven’t gotten to it yet.
“Okay, I’m not talking anymore,” Laila says.
I try to shake off the jolt. “Forget it. I would have seen it in a day or two anyway. It’s no big deal. That’s what they do, right?”
“Right,” she says in a peppy voice that doesn’t quite balance out her slightly scared expression.
“Seriously, don’t worry about it,” I say. “Just caught me off guard. I’ll go change, and we’ll head out. I’ll take a video of you doing a walkout to the octagon and we’ll put some music to it later.”
The rest of her apprehension melts, and she flexes and grins. I let myself through a locked door that leads to a hallway that then splits off to four tiny live-in student rooms, one of which is home.
I play around with Laila like her obsession with the UFC is obnoxious, but being able to make someone as happy as she is now is new to me. It’s my favorite thing about the fame that still fits like I’m wearing someone else’s coat even after four years as the champion.
The Clinch Page 1