by Anielka, Ina
Desire Uncaged: An MMA Romance
By Ina Anielka
Copyright 2014
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 1
Sara stared into the mirror of her bathroom, rivulets of water streaming down the mirror’s center, where her palm had passed moments before. She sighed, pulling her long red hair, dripping wet, behind her head. She was only partially awake, and her face maintained its tired appearance; eyes puffy and half-closed, skin red and irritated. Moments like these--and they seemed to occur with increasing frequency--reminded her that she was more than four years removed from the girl who had walked across the stage at her university commencement. She had been in the real world far longer than she had been in college, even though some days she felt like she had barely changed.
But she had changed. She was almost 50 pounds lighter now than she had been when she donned the cap and gown. All the pictures in magazines and on websites had shown women that lost the weight had become trim; model-beautiful. She was still overweight, at least according the charts in the doctor’s office. But instead of a tight model body, her stomach jiggled with loose skin, her breasts sagged like an old woman’s. Most of all though, the women in the photos beamed confidence, security, satisfaction. They weren’t wondering where their time had gone. Or where their lives were going. They didn’t look in the mirror and see a women who was leaving her best years behind her, one day at a time.
As much as she wanted to wallow in self-pity, she had to get to work. She finished throwing herself together and hurriedly shuffled down the stairs of her apartment complex to her car. The cold Midwestern air froze her breath as it came out of her lungs, even inside the car, her breath cast small clouds as she exhaled, hoping her car would turn over after the frigid night. It did.
The cubicle farm, as Sara called it, was in a nondescript building in an office park. She handled shipping reports for a large publishing company. It was not her dream job—she had studied English in college and dreamed of being a writer—but it paid the bills and kept the lights on. The office was full of catty, middle aged bureaucrats. They loved gossip and cupcakes in the break room and office politics. At first it had bothered Sara. As time went on however, she found herself enjoying it more and more. She was an active participant in the water cooler gossip. Thankfully, however as a single girl she was rarely the subject of any salacious rumors. Her life just wasn’t that interesting, at least not compared to Tina’s divorce, Jay’s sick mom, or Cheryl’s kids’ latest DUI arrest.
Sara typed away at her computer, situated amongst bare grey walls. Despite almost 3 years at the company, she never really had “moved in”, decorating the walls with pictures of memorabilia. Instead she kept her walls bare, citing “professional appearances”.
Sometime around noon, Sara heard the echo of her boss’ voice across the room. She strained to hear what he was saying. It sounded as if he was introducing the people in the office. Moving from cubicle to cubicle. Stating names and some meaningless tidbit of information in a disinterested, monotone voice.
Sara straightened up her papers, striving to appear a clean, organized little worker bee, on the outside chance this was some VP or a rep from corporate. She could hear her boss grow closer. She opened her computer to some technical project she could talk intelligently about. She briefly thought it strange that she was stopping her actual work to create the illusion of work, but this was life in a corporate office. Sometimes, you just had to bring out the smoke and mirrors. Her boss was only a cubicle away as Sara looked at her computer intently.
“…and this is Sara, she handles shipping. I don’t think you’ll have much interaction with her. Or any of shipping, really.”
Sara looked up. The boss was showing around a kid. Well, not a kid, but certainly not the VP or corporate rep she expected. It was some new man. He looked thin, but broad shouldered, with close-cropped hair and dark eyes. He looked at her briefly, apathetically. She was intrigued only in so much as someone else under thirty would be working in the office. Sara gave a disinterested, “Hey” and went back to her computer.
The new employee didn’t even enter Sara’s mind until lunch that day. In the break room, the gossip train was chugging along.
“I heard the new guy got poached from our competing publishing house.”
“I thought he was the guy that got transferred from the warehouse for hitting his boss.”
“He seems quiet. I wonder if he’s all there.”
“I’m sure he’s just shy. We can be a pretty imposing bunch.”
Obnoxious laugher. Even more than usual today. Sara was disgusted by their haughty gossip. She knew what it was like being the young kid in an office of older men and women. She had worried that they gossiped and judged her behind her back. If their attitude toward this poor guy was any indicator, they probably talked about her in whispers when she had first shown up too. He hadn’t even had time to do anything. It seemed ridiculous. This was a publishing company-why did they have to turn everything into some petty rumor or gossip? What on earth were these catty middle-aged office drones trying to prove? Sara thought to herself.
Sara dug her lunch out of her bag, tossed the Tupperware in the microwave, and sat down to eat.
* * *
Ethan Ewing felt defeated. Not the kind of on-your-knees, crying-in-the-locker room defeated. No, this was something different. Like finally giving up fighting an undertow; drifting peacefully out to sea. It was a relaxing, cold tranquility. A surrender that came so easy, it felt it was always supposed to be this way. He was twenty seven. Not remotely close to a kid anymore. Five years of using his college degree as a placemat--working odd jobs, part time gigs—were finally starting to catch up to him. Living in a run-down house with five other guys was getting tedious. He wasn’t a frat boy, and it was long since time he start embracing adulthood.
Ethan, by his own account, was a fighter. He had starting fighting in college. As a 19 year old kid, bored and looking for something to do, he wandered into Spirit MMA—a small gym behind an ethnic grocery store in a neighborhood generously described as “working class”. The trainer--a former kickboxer covered in tattoos—took an instant liking to the young kid who wasn’t put off by the endless repetition it took to master even the basics of the complex sport of mixed martial arts.
Something about the sport spoke to Ethan. In most ways, Ethan was the opposite of most people’s image of a mixed martial arts fighter. He was quiet, soft spoken, and studious. The only trait he shared with the average person’s conception of a fighter was absolute, wrought-iron toughness. The kind of toughness that most people never even bother finding whether they have it or not. It was running sprints until your legs were numb—then going to practice three hours later. It was sparring round after round, every hit feeling like the life was draining out of you- and still going one round more. It was waking up so sore your roommates needed help you out bed, and still somehow dragging yourself to practice.
And then there was the cutting weight. This meant strict dieting meant to ensure a fighter was as lean as possible during weigh-ins. The week of the fight, it also meant any number of strange practices to lower the actual weight of the body. Sweating in a saun
a for hours, manipulating electrolytes, living off a few spoonfuls of food a day. It meant perfection every second of every day. For weeks and weeks- no room for error, a constant hunger that ate at you, haunted your dreams. If a person has never done it there is almost no description. The longing for food fills the mind, consumes you. It turns you into an animal—to eat and to fight are all you want. For Ethan it was test, a sort of trial to prove he truly was a fighter, that he was penitent enough to even set foot in the cage.
Eight years after setting foot in the gym, he had transformed from a young kid with too much time and energy, into a respected professional. Amassing a dozen amateur fights, he turned professional when he graduated from college. Five wins against overmatched opponents made him largely regarded as one of the region’s top rising stars. But 27 was old—for a prospect. And he certainly felt it. The kid who could bounce back workout after workout—four hours a day, six days a week—that kid was gone. Ethan needed his sleep, needed a rest day in the middle of the week. The young kids at the gym seemed faster, slicker than they had two years ago. Some of it was that they were getting better, and learning his style; learning how to beat him in the gym. But maybe, he was getting slower too. Ethan worried, in his quiet moments, how much longer his body would let him do this.
The sad reality of a professional fighter in the local circuit is that money doesn’t really exist. A few hundred bucks to show up, a few hundred more if you win. It seems nice to see all at once, but three months of gym dues, sparring equipment, health food, missed shifts at work—taking a professional MMA fight was always a net loss. The only fighters making real money were the big show fighters; guys fighting for national organizations on televised shows. It was what every fighter dreamed off—getting “the call”. A call from a big-time promoter to come up from the small time and prove you have what it takes to hang with the best fighters in the nation. For Ethan, it would mean the dream of a lifetime made real.
For years after college, he lived in a house with four other fighters, struggling to make it in the brutal fight game. He worked part time bouncing in bars and doing concert security. He taught the beginners class at the gym—enough to make rent and pay his bill every month, and not much else.
One day, he looked in the mirror and realized he couldn’t do it forever. The day would come when he had to walk away. And he needed a fallback career. So, he caved and took an entry level position with the small publishing house, tracking sales. It paid better than bouncing, and it had health insurance—no small perk for a professional athlete. Still, taking the job meant that he had to admit he might never be a famous fighter. He used the word maturity, be in his heart it just felt like selling out.
He was offered a fight two weeks ago. Against a true veteran of the sport. His prospective opponent had three times as many fights as Ethan. This guy had been on the big show, under the lights, but a losing streak saw him cut from the promotion. Now he was looking to cut through contenders like Ethan at small shows, and fight his way back to the top. Ethan believed in his heart, if he could beat this guy—prove he had the skills to hang with the best in the world—he would get the call.
* * *
Sara stuck the plastic container into the microwave. Leftover eggplant parmesan from this weekend. Being a vegetarian had been a surprising change for her. She had switched two years ago, more out of curiosity than anything else. She had never been much of a fan of meat, so the transition came easy to her. She felt better, had more energy. It was earth shattering to see that such a simple change—what she ate—could have ripple effects through her life. She started walking, since she finally could get through her day without feeling like a zombie. Between 30 minute walks every day and her newfound diet regimen, she began to lose weight, slowly, only a few pounds a month, but two years later she was nearly 50lbs lighter. Her coworkers regularly chastised her, bringing in her leftovers. “Cat food” they teased her. A steady diet of microwave meals, fast food, and Chinese takeout had left them with little room to criticize her. Sara never fired back about their weight, she remembered the self-loathing she used to have over her own weight. She just ate her cat food in relative peace.
The microwave dinged, signally it had turned her food from cold to spottily lukewarm. She rose and withdrew the steaming plastic container from the device. As she did, she heard another person enter the break room, Sara turned to see Ethan, the new employee enter toting a small container himself.
“You done with the microwave?” He asked nonchalantly. Sara affirmed that she was. He put his own lunch in, and turned to her.
“What’s that?” he gestured to her eggplant, “Smells good.”
“Eggplant Parm.”
The microwave dinged, breaking the awkward moment. Ethan withdrew his food.
“Mind if I…” He gestured to the empty chair at the small break room table, across from Sara. She nodded an affirmative. He sat.
“What’s that?” Sara asked, looking at the mash of food in Ethan’s container.
“Chicken and vegetable stir fry. It’s nice to see someone here eat actual food. I figured this whole office lived off of fast food and donuts.”
Sara couldn’t help but smirk. “They tell me everything I eat is cat food”
“If anyone’s eating cat food, it’s them. Ever read the ingredients on those cupcakes they eat?”
“I haven’t”
“They read like a chemistry set. It would be funny, if people weren’t, you know, living off it.”
There was something different about this guy. He didn’t really want to be here, sure. But that was hardly unique. He seemed like he didn’t even belong here. Most people, by their twenties, get an ease of comfort about being in office, in class, in front of a computer. A sort of strange institutionalization. Ethan seemed to lack that.
Sara looked at him, his lips pursed in smile. The light blue dress shirt and maroon tie seemed to hang off his lean body oddly. She could see lean muscle beneath his frame, His piercing dark eyes held a strange spark. A cheetah in a zoo. A depth of capacity beyond his appearance in the moment. The tie, the dress shirt, the food, the cubicle farm-boy act was all some kind of façade. Sara didn’t know who the real Ethan was, but she was certain it was more than the office drone. She wanted to find out. Maybe she wasn’t above the office gossip after all.
Sara finished her lunch. Giving Ethan a brief, “See ya”, she went back to her cubicle. Shortly thereafter Ethan did the same.
* * *
The alarm buzzed chirped and chimed obnoxiously. Ethan groaned and reached out from his bed, groping for the unseen phone in the darkness. He felt its smooth face and pulled it to him. He looked at the time—5:30am. Desperately, he racked his tired brain for an excuse to stay in bed. What if he didn’t shower? Didn’t eat breakfast? But he ultimately realized he had already cut his morning routine down to the minimum. His muscles screaming in protest, he rolled out of bed and hobbled to the shower, hoping vainly that soaking himself in cold water for 5 minutes would wake him up.
It proved hardly effective, however. He entered the shower tired and sore. The cold water cascaded over his body. Now he was tired sore and cold. Already, today was moving in the wrong direction. Lazily, he threw on a pair of shorts, T-shirt and a pullover. Ethan grabbed his gym bag and keys and walked out the door to his car. He drove to the local park, where he found three other fighters from the gym standing around, also looking exhausted. He parked his car and got out.
“You guys already warmed up?” He called out. A chorus of yes’ responded.
“Gimmie five minutes and we’ll get started.”
Ethan began to gingerly roll out his joints one by one. Taking them through their range of motion. As he did, he stared up at the daunting hill that formed the center of the park. It was easily 100 meters of elevation change over about a quarter mile. Sprinting up it would be brutal. It was going to a long hour.
* * *
As he reached the bottom after his last sprint, Et
han struggled to catch his breath. His lungs burned, each breath exhaled turned to vapor in the cool morning air. Even the sweat from his forehead steamed from him, vanishing like a ghost into nothingness.
Between gasps, his friend teased, “That new job is making you lazy, E. You’re getting soft.”
“Bullshit.” Ethan replied, “I still smoked all your asses.”
“But we’re not the ones fighting LC Roberts.”
Lawrence Carter Roberts, Ethan’s upcoming opponent. Once considered the hottest prospect coming out of the state, now was slated to face Ethan. Roberts was open about his desire to use Ethan as a stepping stone back to the big show. It was hard to fight someone you came up in the sport watching. LC was the first pro fight Ethan had ever seen live. The speed, power, and explosiveness of LC had seemed incredible, almost surreal. Ethan now was many times the fighter he had been when he had first seen LC, but still, it was difficult to prepare to fight the idealized version of LC that Ethan had in his mind. Ethan didn’t like the fear of facing LC, but he appreciated it. Every workout he tried to imagine how LC was training, and Ethan always tried to match it, and exceed it. Ethan would work a little harder than his opponent; be a little more ready come fight day.
Ethan returned to his car. He saw his cellphone had a new text. It was from Emily, his girlfriend.
“Heyy. how was ur workout? : )” it read.
She was sometimes an airhead, but she supported his lifestyle, and didn’t seem to mind the weight cutting and dieting and constant training.
He responded and drove back home to dive in the shower, change clothes and go to work. Emily had been unsupportive of his decision to take full time work. She was 23, and more prone to a “chase your dreams”. At 27, Ethan could appreciate the difference between chasing dreams and never having a plan B.
* * *
Ethan and Sara surreptitiously glanced at the table on the other side of the break room. They were side by side, pretending to have some sort of work conversation. In reality they were observing the lunch of one of their particularly slovenly coworkers. He had two large burritos, likely purchased from a gas station convenience store. He was stuffing--forcing them--really, into his mouth. It was as if he were racing against some unknown deadline to finish his lunch as quickly as possible. But it seemed the harder he stuffed, the more material—an odd, orange colored mash of dried meat product, chemical cheese, and god knows what else—fell out the back of the burrito. In one final gorging bite, he tried to cram the last of the burrito into his mouth. He was unsuccessful, as a final spurt of mash dripped into his tie. Sara bit her lip, she wanted to laugh so badly, but she suppressed her desire. She glanced as Ethan, he too, had seen the spill and was alternating his gaze between Sara and his own food. Anywhere but at the tie. Sara too, was struggling not to laugh at the comical sight. The only person who didn’t notice the orange stain on the tie was their coworker himself. He, having nearly finished his burrito, rose and left; throwing his trash out as he did, still oblivious to his burrito-stained tie.