“You’ve already beaten them all, Eden.”
“Brooklyn hasn’t. It shouldn’t work like that. You know the publicity and money she’ll make from this fight. Other people have earned that. This is a stunt.”
Taylor sighs. “Hey, I hear you, okay? I do, but the way they see it is she’s not just any new fighter. She’s a Shaw. She had a buzz long before she signed with the UFC, and she wins in spectacular fashion. They’re convinced this is the right move. It’s the fight people want to see.”
I force myself to take a breath before I answer. They’re right, really. I don’t want to see bullying and disrespect rewarded, but I can’t name another match that would make more sense. I’ll have to put her in her place myself.
“If they want it so bad, I assume we’re talking about a big ass check?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m all over them about that,” he says with a smile in his voice. That’ll be good for the dojang at least. “You want to do it in New York?” he asks.
“Absolutely.”
“You got it. That’s home turf for her, too, in case you didn’t know.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah, she lives in Brooklyn.”
“Of course, she does.”
“But I’ve heard if it were up to her the fight would be in São Paulo, so you’re still winning there.”
“Brazil?”
“The roots go deep. They’re die-hard fans.”
“New York it is,” I say.
“In four months?”
“Two.”
He pauses. “Two?”
“That’s eight weeks for fight camp, and as far as I know she didn’t get hurt against Corelle. If she’s so hungry she can skip her post fight vacation and come get some.”
“I’m on it.”
Chapter Four
My body feels heavy in my twin bed, like a force is pulling me deep into the mattress. After spending the whole afternoon bouncing a fight contract back and forth with the UFC, we finally reached an agreement. I could refuse entirely, but Brooklyn is twenty-two years old, which means if she wins this fight, she’ll break my record for youngest champion. Maybe that’s why she’s making such a fuss. I suppose I can understand that.
With everything set in stone, I spent the evening on a ten-mile run. Sometimes it’s the only way to wrestle my mind back into a quiet place. I’m not doing my inner peace any favors now by letting YouTube run a stream of suggested videos, but I try to digest them in a state of semi-meditation, letting them pass through my mind without granting them any emotional response.
Most of them are MMA “experts” talking over a video of Brooklyn’s and my fight highlights, but there’s a shortage of footage on Brooklyn. It validates my argument, but it also means I don’t have much to study, and the little that does exist isn’t very helpful. She’s a Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu goddess, yet all of her wins have come through striking, so God knows what her takedowns or ground game look like. I scrounged up a few clips from the depths of the internet that are supposedly her early days in Brazil, but they’re so low quality I can’t even be sure it’s really her.
My phone pings with a text message. Due to the crazy fast schedule of the fight, the match was announced immediately, and I’ve been receiving a stream of people reaching out since. It’s a nice surprise to see Laila’s name instead of some unknown.
Did you see what Brooklyn just tweeted?
“Fuck.” I sit up. “You try to be one with the universe.”
I punch Twitter into the browser and go to Brooklyn’s page. At the top, already garnering hundreds of likes after just fifteen minutes is the post Laila must’ve seen.
It’s official. May 22 is the day I smash Eden Bauer and show you all what an overrated martial artist she is. No more weak champions. I’m coming for my belt.
I text Laila back. I have now.
Fuck her.
I laugh out loud at her response and scroll through more of Brooklyn’s posts. This wasn’t her first dig at me by a long shot. She’s been calling me overrated for months, poking fun at everything about me from my fighting style to my interviews to my team and Emerald Tiger, calling us a band of ghetto karate kids. That sends a flash of anger through me, but Laila texts again and pulls me out of it.
Tweet back at her. Tell her you’re going to break her dumbass face.
Break her dumbass face. Sounds fun, but no.
She texts back a second later. You need to let a little of that Highbridge out on this one.
In the octagon.
You’re tense. Let’s go get a beer.
I hover my thumb over the keyboard. Laila and I are friends, but I’ve always kept her at a certain distance because she’s also a student and an employee. It feels out of bounds, but maybe that’s silly. Jin didn’t hold me at a professional arm’s length forever. And when was the last time I was invited for a beer? I take too long to answer, and she texts again.
You’re about to be in training for two months. It’s your last chance.
Can’t argue with her there. You’re on. The Lounge?
Be there in fifteen.
I change clothes and walk the five minutes to the bar, weirdly nervous along the way. Taking her to the UFC event was different, damn near a work project, and we had something to watch. This is actual socializing, and I’ve never been much of a social person. When I connect with someone, they have a place in my heart forever, but it doesn’t happen often.
When I walk up, Laila is waiting by the door in jeans and a skin-tight black tank top that shows off her toned shoulders and a bit of cleavage. Her short dark hair is styled and spikey.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey. So, is this where you usually hang out with friends?”
I laugh. “I don’t go out much. Or have many friends. Or much of a life in general outside of the dojang, which is why we’re at a place less than a mile from it.”
“Sad, Eden. I’m getting you a shot.”
“Have mercy.”
“I’ll go easy on you.” She winks and disappears to the bar while I hunt us down a table. I find one in the back fit for two, and soon she’s back handing me a shot and a beer.
“Thanks.” The shot is sweet and easy to drink, whatever it is.
“So, you got a game plan for Brooklyn yet?” she asks.
“Not really. I have thoughts, but I haven’t talked to Jin about it yet.”
“Go on,” she says. “Let’s hear it.”
“Pretty much what you’d think. Lots of takedown defense, keep her on her feet and exploit the striking difference. Get some extra survival Jiu-Jitsu training just in case. I’m not taking it as lightly as it sounds. I’m just a little exhausted with the subject.”
“We don’t have to talk about it.” She props her elbows on the table. “What else is going on with you?”
I look away at the dimly lit bar speckled with people in the various stages of flirtation. I picture what it would look like to tell her something about my crazy childhood or my addict mom, but that’s way too personal.
“Eden?”
“Huh? Sorry.” I reach for a safe topic. “I’m worried about Mateo. He hasn’t been back to class.”
“It hasn’t been long,” Laila says. I can see she thinks I’m a little crazy to notice, but it doesn’t come through her voice.
“I know, but he usually comes every day. He hates being at home. And if he couldn’t pay dues, what else is he going without?”
“I’m sure he’s fine. Maybe he’s embarrassed. I can give him a call to make sure he knows he’s still welcome if you want.”
I nod. I’ve paid his dues before, so he should already know that, but it’s better than nothing. “Thanks.”
“Great, now you can stop thinking about the dojang and answer my question about what else is going on with you.” She smiles a little mischievously, somewhere in that gray area between joking and flirting.
“There’s nothing else going on with me,” I say. “What about
you?”
“You can tell me what’s bothering you. I’m not going to run my mouth to the other students or anything. I hope you know that.”
She has sincere eyes that pull me off guard, but I veer to the side of caution again and keep the conversation on the fight.
“Brooklyn’s getting under my skin,” I say. “I don’t want to admit it, but it’s true.”
She reaches out and grabs my hand. “Eden, that stuff she said about you being overrated and weak is absolute garbage. Even she knows that. I promise.”
“Thanks.”
She leans back in her chair again, releasing my hand. “So, what’re you going to do about her mouth?”
“What do you mean?”
“She obviously intends to talk shit every second of the day until the fight.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
“She posted another one already just in the time it took me to get here.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” She pulls her phone out and opens Twitter. “And I quote, ‘Eden Bauer, your time is up. Run away, little girl, before I break your little bird neck.’”
“Jesus.” I shake my head. “What the fuck is her problem?”
“She’s playing mind games. And you better start doing it back, none of this high road shit.”
“You can’t get in someone like that’s head. She’s too arrogant.”
“Please, it’s a front.”
“You think?”
“Girl, she’s just a brawler talkin’ shit,” Laila says. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”
“I don’t know if that’s what this is. She has real skills, and being from that family, I think she honestly can’t fathom losing.”
“At the very least you can piss her off, and aren’t you always saying an angry fighter is the easiest to beat?”
I can’t help but smile. “Hey, you actually listen to me.”
“Of course, I listen to you. You’re Eden fucking Bauer. Please quit acting like you’ve forgotten that.”
The comment pierces me, and I instinctively grab it and put it in a cubby in my mind to look at later.
“You’re good at this,” I say.
“That’s why I’m on your fight team.” She beams a dazzling smile and takes a sip of her beer.
“Speaking of that, we start tomorrow morning. Game plan meeting with Jin to get the schedule together, then eight weeks of hell. I want this camp to be insane.”
“Oh, I’ll give you insane,” Laila says. “Brooklyn Shaw is going to regret the day she forgot who the motherfucking champ is!”
“That’s right!” I say. “Don’t forget you can’t cuss like that at the dojang, though.” I smile and clink her glass with mine, then down the last beer I’ll have until I’ve beaten Brooklyn Shaw.
Chapter Five
It’s so liberating to be in the middle of a fight camp. There’s no time or energy for my mind to get tangled in any kind of drama. I’m training twenty-four seven. Even my sleep is regimented for optimum recovery from the brutal exercises Jin puts me through. Having so many people volunteer for my camp soothes the fear that everyone wants to see Brooklyn crush me. It’s just not true. Jin and Laila put their lives on hold to spend hour upon hour with me making sure I’m ready, studying Brooklyn’s videos with me, holding pads, sparring, drilling, even running with me just to be there. There’s just one face missing.
“Any word from Mateo?” I ask Laila for the hundredth time. He hasn’t been back or reachable since the day his dues went unpaid. I had Laila invite him to my fight camp, a prospect that’s so exciting to a kid I’ve never been turned down, but still no Mateo. Laila shakes her head. She manages a sad expression because she knows how worried I am, but she’s still not taking it seriously. People quit all the time, and some of them find it hard to tell you they’re quitting to your face. She thinks that’s what this is, but I remember what it’s like to have a scary home and just how much you look forward to class. I find it incredibly hard to believe he just quit, but I have no idea what I can do about it. I have nothing solid to take to the cops or social services.
The bell on the door rings, and Arlo Ruiz drops his gym bag just inside and holds his arms in the air with a huge smile across his face. Today is the first day of a four-week stint he’s agreed to spend here in New York for the second half of my fight camp teaching me the finer points of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. I’ve already been in the dojang for an hour with Laila going through an insane workout Jin had the audacity to call a warmup.
“What’s up, Sniper!” he yells with a beaming smile. “You ready to get up close and personal?”
I shake off my solemn thoughts of Mateo and smile back. “I am your humble student. I’m so sorry we didn’t catch your fight in Jersey. I saw the replay. It was a beautiful win.”
Arlo has gorgeous light brown skin and jet-black hair. Combined with his insane body, he looks like a movie star, something the fans haven’t missed.
“Hey, that’s okay. A troublemaker has to do what she has to do. I loved the power stance.” He mimics the way I held my arms out to my sides at Brooklyn. Seeing him do it helps me see what everyone else did. I can only take myself so seriously, but it does look like a power move when he does it. “And the entourage around you when you bailed out. So cool. I hear the projections for sales on your pay-per-view are already through the roof. I’m taking notes, for sure.”
“They’re lessons from Brooklyn’s book, but as long as it helps you.”
“All right, killer, let’s get it. Show me what you got.”
Arlo follows me out onto the mats, and we start on the ground. We begin with him in my guard, a position in which I’m on my back, and he’s on his knees with my legs wrapped around him. It looks like a disadvantaged position for me, but in the Jiu-Jitsu world, it’s actually better, with many submissions available to me. In MMA, however, since strikes are allowed and he can punch from where he is, it’s closer to even.
Arlo sets the tone early for a flowing practice in which we’re constantly moving from position to position, attempting submissions but letting them go easily and early to move on to the next. Arlo moves fluidly, applying pressure, then backing off, then exploding the moment I relax. He easily has fifty pounds on me, which means my technique has to be perfect for anything to work, but if I get used to him, Brooklyn should feel much easier to deal with.
Though Jiu-Jitsu is designed to reward technique more than size, it still feels far from good when his hard shin digs deep into my thigh and drags across me with all his weight pressing down. He makes it to mount, a position that is exactly what it sounds like. He passed my legs and is straddling my stomach, creeping his way up toward my chest.
I try to sneak my elbows to the inside of his knees and inch my way back up, but he yanks my elbows up and slides his knees into my armpits. This would be the beginning of the end of a real fight. He’s too high on me now for bridging my hips to be of any use. I could turn onto my stomach, but that would be worse. It’s hard to breathe with his weight sinking down. I force myself to stop wasting energy on explosive movements that will never work and think, but before I come up with anything, he pats my side and jumps off.
“That’s good, I get where you are,” he says.
“Completely screwed?”
“I’m not going to lie to you, I can’t make you as good as Brooklyn in four weeks. She’s had a lifetime of training with the best of the best and it shows, but you’re not as bad as people think.”
“Thanks?”
“What are you in Jiu-Jitsu, a brown belt?”
“Purple.”
“That works in your favor. They’re underestimating you. You’re not likely to tap her out, but I can teach you how to survive her for a round if she gets you down. And we’ll work the shit out of takedown defense and getting back up to make sure you don’t spend much time there.”
“None if I can help it.”
“I have some ideas. Y
ou ready to be sore in muscles you didn’t know you had?”
“Please.” I laugh. “If there’s one thing I’m not worried about, it’s conditioning.”
“Believe me, I know all about your legendary cardio, but you strikers don’t use the same muscles we do. It’s going to get weird.”
“Let’s do it.”
Chapter Six
“Eden, you’ve been quiet in the leadup to this fight. Brooklyn has commented on your previous fights, your reign as champion, your Jiu-Jitsu, your team. Do you have any kind of response?”
It’s not like me to zone out in the middle of a press conference, but the questions are just so predictable and mundane. It’s like they’re begging me to make a circus of this, and it strikes me as gross more than anything. The simple black table I’m sitting at houses my name tag and my belt. That says more than Brooklyn ever could. To my left is a podium where the UFC president, Dana White, is moderating. On the other side of him is another black table where Brooklyn is fielding questions. She’s not getting as many as I am, which I’m sure is driving her nuts. I slowly pick up the microphone.
“Everyone gets ready for a fight in their own way. If she wants to concern herself with me and my team, that’s her choice, but I’m not going to spend my time on Twitter. You’ll see my response in the octagon.”
“Jesus, what a boring answer,” Brooklyn says on the mic, and a ripple of laughter makes its way through the crowd. “You’re boring, Bauer. Your fighting is boring, and you’re boring.”
I just shake my head as the crowd oohs, annoyed they’re buying into her grab for attention. When I don’t answer, she cranes forward to see around Dana’s podium.
“You’re really going to let me talk about your people?” she asks. “What am I supposed to call that except weak? If you said half of what I’ve said about my brothers, I’d have knocked your fucking head off by now, but you know you can’t, so you just shut up and sit down like a good little girl.”
“My team is world class,” I say. “They’re not any more concerned over the opinion of a newbie who hasn’t even earned this fight than I am.”
The Clinch Page 4