by Nikki Bella
“You should honor that contract,” I said again, getting annoyed for real now. “It’s got a signature on it and everything. If people don’t think they have to fulfill their side of a contract, society spirals into chaos.” So there I thought, rolling my eyes at myself internally. I sounded like a freshman political science major trying on a new identity.
“I don’t have time for this schoolgirl shit,” he said. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m on a bit of a tear. Can’t let myself get sidetracked by someone working the junior beat for...what TV show are you from?”
“It’s not—” I began.
“Right. No school girl shit. And no time for schoolgirls,” he said, getting to his feet and looking down at me. God, he was tall. And broad. And obnoxious. And a total dick. But these thoughts were all wiped away as if a tsunami had hit the locker room when he started undoing the drawstrings of his shorts. Just like that, he dropped them to his ankles, stepped out of them, and then pulled off his protective cup and underwear. Braden Dean, naked as a jaybird of war, daring me to say something, or react, or run from the room screaming. Or, as he was probably used to, to drop to my knees in gratitude and praise him.
Well, not this one. Not me. However much part of me might have wanted to. He was so well hung that he would have made a Greek God jealous.
Before I could get any more worked up in any fashion, Braden took the decision out of my hands. Whistling something tuneless, he strode from the room. I heard the blast of the shower coming on. “Room for one more!” he said. His laugh echoed off the tile walls. “But we’re going to have to squeeze in tight! You can quote me on that!”
The heat in my face told me I would have made a great stand in for a bright red tomato at that point. And honestly, I couldn’t tell which was making me flush more—the frustration of the interaction, or my raging desire to rush into the shower, slap his face, and then jump his bones.
I hurried out of the locker room into the hall. A wide-eyed Chantelle was waiting. “That didn’t take too long,” she said. “How did it go? What did you see? You’re so red! Wait...you didn’t!”
“It went like crap,” I said. “He’s a total dick. And I saw plenty, believe me.”
And not enough I thought as she took my arm and we made our way down the corridor and out to our cars.
Chapter 2
Mason was waiting for me when I got out of the shower, which pissed me off. A lot of fighters play into the coach-as-father-surrogate routine, but I had never been one of them. I needed a coach, not a dad. It usually took me days to unwind after a fight, but the shower had done its work and I was feeling better than ever. Even the bruises and the aches were like old friends, reminding me that I was good at what I did.
But I was good at it as I was largely because of Mason, and I owed my coach an ear, even though I knew what he was going to say: some variation about how I needed to treat people better, be more humble, give respect to earn it, etc.
It occurred to me that he might be there because he had heard that I had blown his daughter of and tried to talk her into a post-fight shower. Now there was a conversation I never wanted to have. Not that it had stopped me from flexing at her.
“You’re a hell of a fighter,” said Mason as I toweled off. Mason wasn’t into giving undue praise. Honestly, he wasn’t into saying much of anything, which was part of his mystique. When he talked, people listened. You never knew when he would open his mouth again, which was another reason why it always felt good to get a compliment from him.
Tell me something I don’t know.
“Now it’s time to get Vlad,” I said. It had sounded bombastic, but I had meant every word I said in that post-fight interview. I could not wait to get my hands on him and get that title belt. I was currently the interim champion of my division. Vlad had gotten injured and had been out of action for so long that they made up a fake belt—the interim belt—and given it to me to ensure that I would get the next crack at him. I wanted the real thing. Nobody took an interim belt seriously. It wasn’t Vlad’s fault that he was injured, either. I knew that. You can’t play at fighting, and training to fight means fighting in practice. But it gnawed at me, being on his body’s timetable. And it wasn’t just the injury. In Vlad’s country military service was compulsory. A year into his career the state had commanded him to enlist for two years, which he did without complaining. Honorable, sure, but it put the division on hold. Actually, you know what? Is it really honorable if your government says you have to do it? It’s not like he made a choice.
“But as a person? You leave a little to be desired, Braden.” Mason folded his arms across his chest and sighed. He looked me up and down, appraising and judging like I was on an auction block. Another honorable man, looking at me like I was an unwashed dish. “But there’s a big difference between having heart in the octagon and having a heart.” As always, I thought of his military service. Mason had been a legendary and highly decorated leader in Vietnam. He was not the man you wanted lecturing you about your integrity, because you always suspected that he was right about everything.
I had never told anyone this, but one of my biggest fears was that Mason would end up hating me, because that, in my view, would mean that I was worth hating. It bugged me that I took him so seriously, but there was no turning it off.
I had said it before and I would probably say it again: it’s a terrible thing to be strong and weak. I wasn’t weak, but I had some weakish tendencies I couldn’t seem to train out of myself.
“Not sure there’s a big distinction for me, boss.” I was all about the results. But maybe Mason should have asked the guy who I just about decapitated out there if I needed to soften up a little. Or the women who were lining the halls, praying to go home with me. No, I think I had it all figured out. If my personality was lacking to some people, it sure wasn’t stopping me from getting anything I wanted. Why change if I wasn’t getting in my own way?
“We had a rough year last year. I know you’ve got your sights on Vlad, but nobody’s forgotten about how you performed in the past twelve months.”
“I think most people have forgotten. Those people cheering out there weren’t thinking about that year. They were thinking about the guy I just destroyed, and about how I was going to do the same thing to Vlad.”
Biting my tongue has never come naturally to me, but I did it for Mason more often than anyone else. He wasn’t wrong, though. The year before I had been an aggressive mass of unrealized potential. A couple of years before that I’d jumped into the regional fighting circuit right out of my high school wrestling career. To say that it I took to MMA like a fish takes to water didn’t even do it justice. I was born for this shit. After a few fights, which I won on pure strength and fury, Mason found me and told me I needed some real coaching. I didn’t know who he was, that’s how green I had been.
He took me to his gym, gave me a tour, gave me a key, and for a while, the rest was history. Mason was as hardass as they came. Even though I fought for a living, Mason had been to war. Men who had literally had to fight for their lives were beyond intimidation. In some ways, Mason seemed like he was beyond fear, and that’s what I wanted, even more than his technical prowess. Oh, what do I know? You probably could have dug up a sports psychologist to say that what I really wanted was an authority figure who would wrangle me while letting me still feel like I was calling the shots, but he helped me get bigger. That was all that mattered.
I still fought it at first: the need to surrender to a coach’s will. I thought I was better than I was. It’s part of being young, but it’s even worse when you’re a young tough guy. You feel bulletproof and fearless, and who’s going to tell you otherwise? A good coach, that’s who.
As soon as I took a jump up into a bigger regional show, I nearly got murdered by a guy who’d go pro a month later. The big problem was that I was trying to do college at the same time. I dropped out immediately and didn’t regret it until I told Mason. Now, a couple of years later...<
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“If you’d just have stayed in college, I think things would have gone better, sooner,” he said. “It’s not just about books. It’s when you learn to learn. It’s how you improve the rate at which you can improve.”
At the time there had been no chance of me going back. Mason had wanted me to stop partying. He wanted me to stop womanizing and chasing after big sponsorships and more money. College wasn’t the place to help me focus, particularly when everyone learned that I was a fighter. Guess who got to be the king of every party? Yours truly. Break this board, show me a kick, take me home, drag me into your bed, and so on. Night after night forever.
But not forever. There is no sport where time is as unforgiving as in fighting. Father Time is still undefeated and always will be.
“College wasn’t for me, Mason. You know that.”
“You ever thought about setting down with a nice girl? They say that a good woman can calm a man’s soul.”
I laughed inside. When he said nice girl, he was thinking of someone like his daughter, I knew it. But if I told him I was with his precious little Alyssa, he would blow a gasket. Oh man, though, her body...I don’t think she had any idea how good she looked, and that was a rarity in the women who approached me. I don’t like hypocrisy, but I’m one of the few people brave enough to admit that I can be a hypocrite. In that way, I think I might have been ahead of Mason.
“Who says that? Who’s they?”
He touched his nose and smiled, a sensation that he didn’t look comfortable with, like he had read an article about smiling and decided to test it out. “You just trust me. You lost your touch before. Don’t think it can’t happen again. You and me want the same thing, don’t you forget that.” He stepped forward and poked me in the chest. “For you to be happy and get that belt.”
I believed him. He really wanted those things for us both. “You got the order wrong, boss. And I am happy.” Even as I said it, I wondered it if was true. What was happiness anyway? I had moments of contentment now and then, but I knew that I would never know what it actually felt like to be satisfied. Maybe that’s what happiness was. Deep, pressureless satisfaction, with no further expectations from anyone, including yourself.
“No I didn’t, and no, no you’re not. It’s time to focus. No more bullshit for now, you got it? Enjoy tonight. Tomorrow we’re back at it.” With that, Mason went outside. I knew he’d be waiting for me until I came out. The man was like a father to me, no matter what I said, wanted, thought, or thought I wanted.
I was lucky to have him. No matter what.
I finished cleaning up. I would focus, all right. Mason wasn’t wrong about me and that year, but I had never felt as untouchable as I did in that moment. Or infuriated. There was no reason for me to be angry at Mason about, but I was still mad. That’s what I didn’t like about myself. It worked wonders in the octagon, but damn there were times when I just wanted to be able to relax. There were periods of agitation that I couldn’t outpace, outwork, outthink, or outspend.
Losing my touch.
I’d show him. I’d show them all. I went into the hall where Mason was talking to the schoolgirl with the podcast. Alyssa with the green dress, the long legs, the incredible hair, and the annoying questions and expectations. Maybe my agent had actually scheduled the interview, but who schedules something like that around a fight? You’re always out of your mind after a fight, whether it goes your way or not. Good Lord, the drama never ended. Still, she was Mason’s daughter. Maybe I could do something nice for her. Give her a few answers. A few more listeners for her show. Or...maybe I could do something fun for myself. Yeah, that sounded way better.
Mason nodded at me and then left, guiding her down the hall. She didn’t see me. Daddy’s little girl.
I went back out into the arena where legions of fans were waiting for me to tell them where we were going to party that night. Bright lights, big city, me, me, me. The options were limitless. It felt like the world was mine. Was that really so bad? Was it really my fault? Should I have tried harder to resist? When people treat you like a God, can they really blame you when you start to believe it?
People swarmed around me. Women draped themselves all over any part of me that they could reach. And I knew that this crowd was also full of sponsors who would, this very night, offer me money to endorse whatever it was they were selling. What was I supposed to do? Tell them all no? Send them all away because I had to do the honorable thing and go sit in a room alone and ponder the mysteries of the universe instead of cashing in on a huge victory?
We’ll see who’s losing his touch.
Chapter 3
Dad walked me out to the car and held the door open for me. Always the gentleman, a stark contrast to my experience with Braden. Dad always had a hard time watching his guys fight. It was kind of cute. Sometimes he wouldn’t even make it into the arena. He would walk up to the door, fully intending to go in, then freeze up and sit in his car listening to it in an earpiece. He was like a relic in a museum. Behold the man who cares too much! His job was to prepare them, and the fighters understood when he said sometimes he loved them too much to go in and watch.
The thought of him spending so much time with Braden was interesting. I wondered what they talked about, or if they discussed anything besides fighting.
“How’d we do?” he said after he got in. I thought he was talking to me. Then I saw that one of the cut men had appeared on the driver’s side and dad had rolled down the window.
“Good Mason, real good. Kid’s a damn hothead, though.”
My dad nodded. “Let’s get you home, honey.” He reached over and patted my cheek, a gesture I had come to love. Dad was always affectionate with me in his words, but touch was not something he did well. I knew the effort it took for him and always appreciated the effort.
I leaned my seat back. Even though I hadn’t been in the octagon, I always crashed after the events. The adrenaline rush was something that couldn’t really be described, it just had to be experienced. I hadn’t been the only one on the edge of my seat, and the thought that a few thousand people were now recovering from a fight they hadn’t even been in made me smile. The things that we do to entertain ourselves.
“I’ve booked a couple more interviews for you next week,” he said. “Think you’ll like these ones, and they should come with less drama than others have.”
I put my seat up. “That’s great, who?”
Dad checked his rearview mirror and switched lanes. “Up and comer in the Paralympics. Hand cycler. She’s got a really wild story and will come off very well in the interview. I have to tell you, I wish my arms looked as good as hers do. Other one’s an American wrestler.” He stopped and smiled.
I liked to see dad smile more than just about anything. It was tough to get one out of him, and even tougher to make him laugh. “What are you smiling about? We’ve done wrestlers before.” This was going to be something odd, which sent a thrill up my spine. Occupational hazards and irritations aside, I really loved doing the show and I knew it had the potential to grow into something much bigger than it was. The ad revenue alone would be enough to pay a mortgage down the road, if I ever left home.
“Not like this,” said dad. “He’s an aspiring American sumo wrestler.” He laughed, and it was music to my ears. “I’m just picturing the two of you together. I think you’d fit in one of his legs. He made me feel tiny, and that doesn’t happen often.”
It certainly didn’t. Dad projected larger than his average size. The thought of him next to a sumo wrestler tickled me every bit as much as what he had been thinking about the same guy and me. “Whoa! Thanks dad! Is he going to be in one of those diapers?”
My knowledge of sumo wrestling was as desolate and patchy as you might have guessed. It didn’t extend beyond the diaper. Wait, surely it wasn’t called a diaper. I was going to have to do some research.
“You got it, baby. If you do these two well, you’re going to be set. And no, I doubt he’ll be dres
sed for competition. Now remember, I’ve been setting them up for you, but if you keep getting better, and you will, then every interview is going to lead to more requests for interviews, and then my work will be done. I’m just the foot in the door. You’re still closing them and making your way.”
I kissed my palm and pressed it against his cheek. “You’re the best. I won’t let you down.” I was often struck by how lucky I was to have such a father. Lots of people didn’t. And lots of people had fathers who weren’t there, weren’t as invested in their success. Chantell would occasionally suggest that maybe my dad could be less involved in my life, or I could be a little more independent, but I ignored her. She was just jealous.
“You never have,” he said. “I know you never will.”
Well, that made one of us. I was grateful, but I was also relieved. After Braden, I didn’t have any more interviews lined up that were worth crowing about. A few prospects, but nothing with any obvious potential to be huge hits. At my age—not that I was old, but even at twenty-three years old I knew that I could be more independent—a small part of me was wondering if I shouldn’t have more of a grip on my career, if I was too much of a daddy’s girl, but then dad would give me the next offer and my career would take an upswing that I couldn’t have found without him. And of course, Chantelle always said it sounded like a dream: a good father and a manager and agent combined. But that’s what she would say: Chantelle was as lazy as she was loyal, bless her heart.
What she didn’t add was that he was also my landlord. Twenty-three and still living at home, my dad paying for my home. I would leave someday. I would. Seriously, I would. It was the same old tedious thought loop that kept me awake many nights, and this wasn’t the time for it.