Chapter Twenty
It’s been three weeks since we flew back in from New Mexico. The onslaught of media attention has been overwhelming. Every time I step outside there’s someone trying to run me down and ask about my training techniques, how I’m handling the transition to coaching, and what it’s like working with the infamous Shaws.
New clients pour in, eager for a taste of whatever turned Brooklyn’s striking around so fast. I tell them Brooklyn is an exceptional athlete, and that has a lot to do with it. It’s not the best sales pitch, but I’m not sure I want Emerald Tiger flooded so soon. The Shaws pay big money for Brooklyn to have the kind of hyper focused training she’s had, and let’s face it, I like spending all my time alone with her.
Théo still comes to most of her sessions, but at least once per week, he can’t, and at least once more he leaves early enough we can reasonably pretend we want to put in more work and spend a couple of hours goofing around or sneaking off to my room.
It seems the night she was with me in the hotel and left at dawn is about as close as she’s ever going to get to spending the night. She has an endless supply of ways she thinks we’ll be discovered that she’s always compensating for. If someone sees her car here in the middle of the night, busted, but if she gets a ride and someone sees her here without her car, they’ll know she’s sneaking around.
Her apartment is an incredible modern loft in a high-rise in Brooklyn, but her family drops in on her so often we spend even less time there. She never relaxes when we’re at her place. At least at the gym we have a built-in excuse to be together. If Théo did show up and we had to come out of my room, we’d be able to say we went back to watch video or get training tape or something. As it stands, the mind-blowing sex is always followed shortly by speed dressing and bolting.
It’s constant waiting. Waiting for her to call, to text, to come over, waiting for Théo to leave, waiting for her phone calls to end so I can make noise again. But God, does she make it worth it when she finally does show. We talk for hours, laugh until we can’t breathe, train until every demon we’ve ever carried is sweated out, and make love until we can’t move.
The weeks after her fight are so free. She hasn’t committed to a new fight yet, which means she’s relaxed and loose. It’s not all a fight to the death. It’s just the love of the sport, and she teaches me as much as I teach her. We do Jiu-Jitsu for hours, and it’s clicking into place in a way it never has. It’s making me stronger. Being curled up on my back defending all the time has given me a core of steel, but it’s also strengthened my neck. You wouldn’t think it, but just holding my head off the mat all the time is a low intensity workout that’s changed the game, and not being in constant pain is like a shadow lifting.
Mateo is in Taekwondo today. Having him around regularly is a relief, but I’m under no illusion his life has magically become wonderful. Brooklyn does a private lesson with him every other Thursday, more when she can. I sneak hundreds into his gym bag every so often, wishing I could just buy the kid a new life.
Laila closes class, and I bow them out. It’s difficult not to run straight to check my phone, but I worked hard for my independence, and I don’t want to abandon that completely, no matter how crazy I am about Brooklyn. When I do check it, I can’t deny my heart leaps like it always does when I do, in fact, have a message from her.
Morning, sexy. Want to come to a BBQ with me tonight?
She never invites me on social calls, nothing that could in any world look like a date. I accept the invitation and ask for details.
“What’re you smiling about over there?” Laila asks, looking amused. “Someone’s smitten.”
“Just a funny meme,” I lie and put my phone away.
“So, not smitten?”
“Just with cute puppies.”
Laila finishes shoving her dobok in her bag, then straightens up and comes over. It feels like an eternity of eye contact, but whatever she was going to say, she doesn’t. She just pulls me into a hug.
“’Kay. See you tomorrow.”
I check my phone again, and Brooklyn sent over an address with a header of “Shaw House.”
Shaw House? I send back.
Family BBQ. And friends. People from the neighborhood. Casual.
My heart pounds as I try to picture it. I usually think Brooklyn is overcautious, but this feels risky. Then she texts again, and it falls into place.
Dad wants to meet you.
My stomach rolls. Samson Shaw wants to meet me? According to Brooklyn, he was the one who sent her to train with me, but my only experience with him in person was watching him tell an excited fan his daughter isn’t a dyke. That’s a dichotomy I haven’t made sense of. She must feel my apprehension even though not much time passes.
It’ll be fun. I promise. If not, I’ll get you out early.
It’s weird being asked to meet the parents when they won’t know who you are to their daughter. It’s weirder still when you know they’d hate you if they did. Play nice with someone who’s doing the same. A futile exercise, but I text her back that I’ll be there.
✥ ✥ ✥
I’m tempted to dress up. It feels weird not to, but then, a barbecue does scream casual, so I just go with jeans and a nice button-down. I break out the Acura and make the drive to Brooklyn. When I pull up, a jolt of nerves makes me want to bolt and make up some reason I can’t come, but that’s a chickenshit move.
I hear a riot of fun inside, so much so I’m not sure they’ll hear the door, but seconds after I knock, it swings open and a beautiful woman with deep brown eyes, long silky black hair, and a gorgeous smile answers in a rose red dress. I thought Brooklyn looked a lot like her father, but seeing her mother completes her. She’s a blend of the best of them, Samson’s athletic, strong body, his angled cheekbones that make him look like an eagle, his assertive, confident demeanor, and her mother’s endlessly warm brown eyes, wide set and entrancing, her smile that hits you like a hug, her magnetism. What a genetic jackpot. People say that about athletes all the time, but being the product of a literal crack whore and a random myself, I lost faith in the idea.
“Eden,” she says with a bright smile. “I’m so glad you’re here. Come in. I’m Zaira, Brooklyn’s mom.”
It’s not a mystery all the ways she could recognize me, but it still surprises me. “It’s so good to meet you,” I say. I step inside and take in the home. It’s sleek but homey with grand open space, sharp furniture, lots of lush green plants, and music. It sounds like there are a lot more people here than there are. It looks like just fifteen or so, but they’re a lively bunch.
Brooklyn and I spot each other at the same time. She’s standing in the open area in the kitchen holding what I assume is a mixed drink, smiling that brilliant smile as she talks to Théo without taking her eyes off of me. She breaks away from him and comes over, pulling me into a hug.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she says into my ear.
“Me too.”
She guides me farther inside, introducing me to everyone as we go. She’s so warm and comfortable. The persona she pulls out for the media is completely gone and she’s the sweet, fun, much adored young woman of the family.
She takes me to relative after relative, Uncle Silas, Cousin Luan, Grandfather Ernesto. It’s an overwhelmingly male family, but Brooklyn and her mother are shining elegant stars among them. It’s also an overwhelmingly Latin family, clearly Brooklyn’s mother’s side even though Brooklyn has indicated most of them are still in Brazil. Samson is a black man who grew up right here in Brooklyn. I expected the guest list to be much more heavily comprised of his side of the family. I wonder if he doesn’t have any. It’s not an uncommon theme among fighters.
Théo appears at my side and slips a drink into my hand with a wink as Ernesto talks about his first apartment in an accent that’s completely charming but requires all of my attention. When he pauses, Brooklyn says something back to him in Portuguese. I could listen to that all day,
but she must excuse us, because soon she’s leading me out to the backyard. There’s a grill smoking at the far edge of the patio. Samson is wielding the spatula with a glass of amber liquor in his hand.
“Théo.” Brooklyn indicates for him to come too. Samson looks surprised when he sees me, but his handsome face lights up.
“Eden Bauer, good to finally meet you, Champ.”
“You too, Mr. Shaw. It’s an honor.”
He waves it away, but it’s clearly a comment he’s used to hearing. “Let me get these burgers handed off and we’ll go have a talk.”
“Sure,” I say. I’m lucky it comes out casual. Inside I’m scrambling for why we’d need to do that. What does he want to talk about?
“Why do I feel like I’m in trouble?” I whisper to Brooklyn as we walk off and Leandro drifts over to join us.
She laughs. “He has that effect, but there’s no one my dad respects like a champion. Don’t worry.”
Brooklyn, Théo, Leandro, and I settle into a table in the back corner of the yard next to the fire pit. I get the urge to touch Brooklyn’s leg under the table but don’t. That’s the exact kind of shit I wouldn’t have thought twice about with the girls before her that is not a cute game with her.
“Your mom is lovely,” I say, and all three of the Shaw siblings light up with affection.
“Yes, she is,” Brooklyn says.
“Takes a tamer to deal with our dad,” Théo says.
“Make no mistake, little brother, she’ll fuck somebody up if she has to,” Leandro says.
I can’t help but laugh. I don’t doubt it, but it’s hard to picture. “She’s an expert too?”
“Oh yeah.” They all echo.
Brooklyn turns to face me. “My grandfather you just met, Ernesto, he’s the Jiu-Jitsu genius. Without him, none of us would be anything. My dad moved from Brooklyn to Brazil to learn from him. That’s how he met my mom.”
“The Shaw legacy is really the Ramalho legacy,” Leandro says.
“You’re about to get your ass beat if you don’t quiet down,” Théo says and smiles as he looks over his shoulder.
“Why do you think none of us have been able to make it happen even though we’re the best?” Leandro says. “We’re cursed because Dad brought us back to the U.S. and started acting like it was all him.”
“Yeah, had nothing to do with you taking enough steroids to kill a horse,” Théo says.
Leandro punches him in the shoulder loud enough to make a resonant thwap, but the much smaller Théo seems unaffected and flashes his bright family smile.
“At least I won my title fight without breaking my back,” Leandro says.
“At least I didn’t cheat in mine,” Théo snaps back, but they’re still smiling.
“Don’t act like you don’t believe in the curse,” Leandro says. “Dad was some brother from New York, swoops in and learns all the secrets, grabs the Professor’s daughter, and makes out like a bandit. That’s how you get cursed.”
“Oh, knock it off,” Brooklyn says. “She’s going to think you’re serious.”
“I am serious. You have it too.”
“Dad loves Ernesto, and he spent all his time in the gym busting his ass to help out. Of course he met and fell in love with Mom. And he did not make out like a bandit. He stayed out there and opened a school. It took them years to come back to the States, and he credits Grandpa Ramalho all the time.”
“You’ve awakened daddy’s girl,” Théo says.
“Oh, shut the fuck up.”
Théo turns to me now with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. “She’s Dad’s favorite, hands down. You’d think a macho man like him would be all about his sons, but she had his heart from day one.”
“You were the favorite before her, you know?” Leandro says to Théo.
“Nah, not like her. Why do you think she’s the only one with a name like Brooklyn?”
“Oh, fuck off,” Brooklyn says.
“What? It’s true! Nicolau? Leandro? Théo? Mom’s kids. Brooklyn? You’re Dad’s.”
“You don’t even make sense. Mom likes me better than you too.”
All three of them burst out laughing so hard we don’t notice Samson has snuck up until he slides into the seat next to Leandro.
“Scoot down, boy.”
Leandro jumps to make more room for him. “Sorry, sir.”
Samson settles in with his forearms on the table and his fingers interlaced. “Eden, I want to thank you for taking Brooklyn on. A lesser person wouldn’t do it. We’re happy with the Mendez fight.”
“Brooklyn’s an incredible martial artist.”
“I hope that means you intend to continue coaching her?”
“Of course,” I say. “I intend to coach careers, not fights.”
“When do you see her getting another title shot?”
“Maybe a year.” I figure that’s about as ambitious an answer as he could hope for, but he looks disappointed.
“That long?”
“Hard to say. Depends how some other fights go. A year is aggressive, but reasonable.”
“A match offer came in today,” he says.
“What?” Brooklyn leans forward. “You didn’t tell me?”
“I wanted to discuss it together.”
“Who is it?” Brooklyn looks like she’s going to come unglued.
“Karinov.”
“That’s awesome,” Brooklyn says. “That’ll be a huge win.”
“If you win,” Samson says.
“Of course, I will.” I know her personality well enough to know she’s offended even at the suggestion, but she doesn’t show it.
“You’re not undefeated anymore,” he says.
“So?”
“So, you’re not always right when you say that. I want to hear what your coach thinks.”
I can’t even look at her. I don’t want to see the pain I know is there.
“It’s not a great matchup for you,” I say quietly.
“What? Eden!” She shoots to her feet.
“Coach,” Samson snaps.
Brooklyn seems startled to realize she’s exposed how close we are with her willingness to yell at me. She dials it back, but she’s still seething. “Coach.”
“Sit down,” Samson says.
“With respect,” Théo says. “I think Brooklyn can win that fight, and it would be huge for her.”
“You’re not any better equipped to know that,” Samson says. “You destroyed your career taking fights before you were ready, and you started Brooklyn down the same path. When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.” He glares at Théo for a long second as if to make sure he doesn’t try to speak again before he turns back to me. “I’m sorry, my children don’t seem to understand when it’s time to shut their mouths. Please, go ahead.”
I don’t feel like I can handle looking at Brooklyn, but I make myself. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think this is the best fight for you. It’s a nightmare of a matchup. That’s why they want it. Karinov is a big featherweight and she’s a Jiu-Jitsu black belt. Everything you’re about she has an answer for. She knows what she’s doing on the ground, she’s never been knocked out, and you won’t be able to throw her around like you can with most people.”
“You beat her,” Brooklyn says.
“I had the same reach she does. You won’t. And it took me five rounds of technical kickboxing and went to the judges. Nothing about that is your style.”
“You don’t think I can beat her?” She sounds more wounded than angry.
“That’s not what I’m saying. I do think you can beat her, but I don’t think it’s the right move for you, especially if what you care about most is getting back to a title shot as fast as possible. I’d want to train you for four or five months, and even if you won, there’s a good chance you’d get hurt and have to take time to recover. If you want this fight, I’ll get you ready, but expect it to eat up your whole year.”
“I’m not trying to dodge the hard fig
hts.”
“I know you’re not, but these decisions shape your career one way or the other. I think you’re better off building up your record right now. Take a fight like this when it’s for the belt. Stay healthy as long as possible.”
“Sounds like a pussy move to me.”
Samson slams the table and gives her a glare I think may kill her. “Fifty, right now.”
“You can’t be—”
“Now.”
Brooklyn’s jaw clenches. I’m confused about what’s happening until she drops to the ground and starts doing pushups. Even though his glare could kill, I swear I see pride mixed in. You can see she’s his beloved just like they said. It feels like forever waiting for her to finish. I’m sure she hates me, which hurts, but it’s too important a decision to just say what she wants to hear. When she finishes and sits back down, there’s a sheen of sweat on her forehead, but she seems calmer.
I take a deep breath. “Théo’s right. It would be a huge win. And yes, I think you could do it.” I already said it once, but she can stand to hear it again. “But I think something better is going to come along. You’re coming off a big win. You’re going to get other offers. The title shot comes back around to you faster if you crank out four wins this year rather than one or two.”
She stares at me for a long time before she finally sighs. “You really think something better is going to come fast?”
“I promise it will.” Almost anything is better.
“Okay,” she says it like she’s been defeated.
My phone rings, and I smash the sides to silence it. I put my hand on Brooklyn’s shoulder. “Start thinking of it as a privilege to compete with you. You don’t have to just say yes to anyone.”
She nods. “Okay, Coach.”
Théo slaps the table to break the tension. “Refills anyone? Eden?”
“Sure, thank you.” My phone buzzes with a voice mail, then immediately rings again. I glance at the screen and see it’s Laila calling. She usually favors texting and almost never calls more than once. It wouldn’t be unheard of for a student to be hurt, and it’s the only thing I can imagine could be wrong.
The Clinch Page 16