by JD Hawkins
I look down at my taped hands as Butch quietly leaves, and the door closes behind him. My jaw smarts, and I finger the plaster over my eyebrow. I run through the fight over and over again in my head, and each time it’s hard to believe it’s me there, taking those punches, making those mistakes. It almost feels like I’m watching a bad movie.
“Dude,” comes a voice and I look up. Matt springs through the door and closes it behind him, “you took one hell of a beating back there.”
“Which one do you mean? Python? Or Butch?”
Matt laughs as he steps toward me.
“Well I hate to be the bearer of shit news, but you’ve probably got a third coming before the end the day.” I furrow my brow at him. “Tara,” he says, almost wincing at the name.
“I’m not planning on doing anything with Tara right now,” I say, stepping down from the massage table and pulling on a T-shirt.
“She’d definitely disagree with you there.”
“You been talking to her?” I ask, as I tie my sneakers.
“Nah. She’s been talking to me. I guess interrogating is the word. ‘What time is Connor training today?’ ‘Do you know if he’s going drinking with you guys on Friday?’ ‘Where was the last place you saw Connor?’ I’m beginning to think she might have a crush on you.”
“You serious?” I say, standing up and whipping my sports bag onto my shoulder.
Matt chuckles and shakes his head. “You’re really out of it these days, huh? She’s all over your Facebook, your Instagram. Sam even told me she’s been driving by your place.”
“Bullshit.”
“That’s what he says.”
“Even she’s not that crazy.”
“You’d know, dude.”
I look at him and smile.
“Ok. Maybe she is that crazy.”
“Who’s that crazy?” comes the distinctive voice from the doorway. Matt spins around like he’s flipping a punch and my smile drops like a bag of hammers. Speak of the devil.
“Hey,” I say, shuffling toward the door. “I was just gonna take off.”
“Mind giving us a minute alone?” Tara asks Matt, completely ignoring my intent.
Matt shrugs and winks at me too quickly for Tara to notice, then steps past her. She puts a hand on my chest and slowly pushes me back into the locker room, using her other hand to push the door closed behind her. I know that look, too—it’s the look she has when she’s got a whole routine planned out.
“People are talking about you, Connor.”
“People talk too much in general.”
“They’re saying it’s going to your head, that you’re getting all wound up over the UFC thing.”
She keeps pressing my chest, moving closer. I perform the best evade I’ve done all day to slide away from her and put about two feet between us, but she somehow moves between me and the door still. Did I mention how good a fighter her dad was?
“I think they’re right,” she says, her lipstick-wet lips flickering into a porn star smile.
“Why wouldn’t you? You didn’t support me even when we were together.”
Tara gives a look of genuine kindness her best attempt and falls short by a long way.
“Connor, I don’t want to see you lose your big chance. Your only chance.”
“Then stop stalking me, stop bugging Matt, and get out of my way so I can go home and eat.”
“Don’t you see what it is you need, Connor?” she pleads, ignoring what I said exactly the same way I grew used to, and fed up with, long ago. “I know we’re over. I know we both did things to each other that we can’t forgive. Trust me. I get it. I’m not trying to win you back.” She steps a little closer, hands on my chest again, head tilted back to look up at me, lips pouted. The full preparation. “I’m just trying to help you…release a little of that tension.”
I laugh and rub my brow. “You always had a great sense of humor. I’ll give you that.”
“And you always had a big appetite,” Tara purrs, her hands exploring my chest. “Remember how we’d fuck after we argued? Remember how hard you’d fuck me when you lost a fight? Whenever you’d get wound up so tight, you used to let it all out in the bedroom…that’s all you need, Connor…” Tara pushes her fingers past my waistband, down into my boxers. “A little…release…”
Snake-like, her tongue finds its way to my throat, a hot poker against my neck, working up over my jaw and toward my lips. Her face right under my nose, so I can smell her pheromones, as hard and strong as liquor, reminding me of so many long nights. I hear her giggle darkly as she tries to work her tongue past my lips, past all of my resistance. There’s a devil on my shoulder right now, telling me I can go back. Back to nights of headboards smashing and barroom fights. Of fucking like I fight, and fighting like I fuck. Back to the old Connor, the one who didn’t think. The one who was always angry. The one who knew only two things: pain and ecstasy.
“You’re right,” I say, pulling back to look down at her. “I do need a release.”
Tara stops, surprised. Then she smiles keenly.
“And I know where I need to get it, too,” I say, pushing her aside and leaving her behind me as I leave. “But it’s got nothing to do with you.”
4
Frankie
I’m alone in the studio, and it feels like Jaime might be right. I step through the front room, swinging and stretching my arms loosely, slowly taking in all the décor I spent ages trying to get just right. The soft, Japanese brush-style leaves that I painted on the walls. The real Californian redwood used in the window frames and floors. Even down to the locker room’s carefully laid-out plan, and the placement of each cubby and coat hook.
I move into the small reception area and sit at the desk, facing the glass doors which open out onto the dark street. Ever since I had to let Kelly the receptionist go, these moments have been pretty lonely. I gaze from the street up toward the clock. Seven-oh-one.
Maybe someone’s late? Maybe they forgot the clocks went back last week? Maybe they’re struggling to find the place? Parking can get rough right around this time, too.
I let out a sigh and slump over the desk. Who am I kidding? I haven’t had a walk-in for over a month. Despite my bluffing to Jaime earlier, I have to pull out all the stops to keep my regular classes big enough to justify a studio and not just the front room of my cramped apartment. The whole place is starting to reek of failure, the pretty décor feeling like hubris.
Just as I’m contemplating the prospect of another night spent reading that business advice book my sister forced on me, I hear the heightened sound of traffic outside which indicates the door was opened. I spring up in the reception chair like a burst balloon.
It’s him. The meathead from Woodland’s. I immediately dismiss the idea that he’s just here to hit on me again and assume the best.
“Hey,” I say, giving him a big and bright ‘at your service’ smile.
“Hey,” he says, edging forward a little slowly as he notices the imposing emptiness and silence of the studio. “Are you doing the yoga thing now? Am I early or something?”
I laugh a little and beckon him forward.
“No, actually you’re late—but you’re also the only one to turn up, so I guess it doesn’t matter. My morning classes tend to be the busiest, but after work…not so much.”
“Right,” he says, and I suddenly notice that he has pretty cute dimples for a guy who looks like he runs through walls for a living. “Well, maybe we could arrange another time? I could come back tomorrow. Though I might be going to a movie premiere around nine.”
I study his face a little, smiling.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re trying to impress me?”
He leans over the counter, smiling from one side of his mouth.
“If I really wanted to impress you I’d tell you about my Dostoyevsky first editions,” he winks.
I laugh a little, then stand up to walk around the reception desk. His polite, friendly de
meanor changes the second he notices my yoga pants and sports bra, that casual aggression of a guy who sees something he likes coming over his face like a drawn curtain. I choose to ignore it—the last thing I feel like doing right now is flirting.
“It’s cool, we can do a lesson right now. I have some time free,” I say, moving toward the studio. “This way, Connor.”
“Wait,” he says, not following. I turn back to look at him. He grins like he just found something. “How did you know my name?”
I laugh and hang my head in mock-embarrassment. “Jim was watching a clip of some radio show you did on the laptop. I thought I recognized the voice and peeked over his shoulder,” I say, before tilting my head and grinning at him. “Turns out you’re a pretty cocky guy.”
“That’s just a persona. The lion that roars loudest doesn’t even need to fight.”
I lift a brow and Connor shrugs.
“Evolutionary psychology,” he explains.
I can’t help smiling. “I figured.”
“How so?”
“If you were really that cocky, you wouldn’t be here,” I reply, turning and continuing on into the studio.
“So this Jim guy…boyfriend?” he says, as he follows me.
I stop and turn in the middle of the studio where I’ve already laid out a couple of yoga mats.
“No. He’s a colleague. Gives self-defense classes here.”
“I see,” Connor says, nodding knowingly.
“Use this mat,” I say, pointing at it, then standing in front of him. “So have you done yoga before? Meditated? Anything?”
“No. But I’m fit. I mean, I pound weights and train ten hours a day. Run long distance. I’m in good shape.”
“That’s good,” I say, laughing a little at the way he says it. “But you know, there’s more to health than just strength and cardio.”
“Like what?”
I tilt my head to search for a clue in his chiseled face, but I can’t find it.
“Why are you here? If you think you’re in great shape, then why come?”
Connor starts to shuffle, starts looking around and clasping and unclasping his hands.
“I…you know…I need something that helps me…you got anything that’s gonna help me…I dunno…chill out? Unwind a bit?”
“You’re stressed?”
“No…maybe. It’s more like…” Connor grimaces a little, as if he’s about to reveal something almost shameful. He starts pacing, hands making gestures likes he’s trying to grab at his own thoughts. “It’s like this: I’m on all the time, you know? I train all day and I got people pushing me to be harder, faster, better—shit, I push myself more than anyone. Then I got to do interviews and be ‘Connor the Alpha Male,’ Connor with the smart mouth, Connor the money fight. I got the two biggest fights of my life coming up; fights that most people think I’m not ready for, fights that most other fighters hate me for getting. And on top of it all I have to drink the insides of a lawn mower every morning, which makes me take more bathroom breaks than a Superbowl game and my stomach sound like a thunderstorm’s going on in it every ten minutes. I got a psycho ex-girlfriend who’s stalking my best friend and trying to suck my dick whenever she lays eyes on me, and…” Connor stops and looks at me again, his jaw grinding from the intensity of letting it all out.
“And…?” I prompt gently, though I can plainly see how much he needs someone like me to help him get out of his own head and find some balance.
“And I can handle it all—it’s what I do. I’ve always done it. But I just wanna have a moment where I can stop, you know? To just be able to take a second and forget it all. I mean, even now, here, all I can think about is how hot your hips are in those yoga pants. About what a fucking ridiculous body you have, and…” He stops, and shakes his head, covering his eyes with his hand, the flex of a gigantic bicep stretching his T-shirt. “Shit. I’m sorry. Forget I said that last thing. I respect you and the work you do, I just—I’m so on edge, I can’t control where my brain goes sometimes.”
“It’s ok,” I say softly. “You’ve obviously got a lot pent up.”
Connor nods a little before removing the hand so I can see his intense brown eyes again. “Something like that.”
“Let’s start with some breathing then. Everything comes out of that. You want to focus on your breathing, pay attention to each inhale and exhale, and start to slow it down—your thoughts and feelings will follow. Sound workable?”
Connor nods obligingly. “What do I do first?”
I gesture at the mats and we each sit on one, facing each other with our legs crossed. “Ok, so a good way to start is to curl your tongue back to touch the roof of your mouth, like this,” I say, demonstrating. Connor shoots me a skeptical look only for a second, then does it. “Now look at me. You want to breathe in slowly through your nose for four beats, hold it for four beats, and then release it over four more. Let’s try it. In…two…three…four…good. Then hold…two…three…four…great. Now out…two…three…four…very good. And again. Keep looking forward. Find something on the wall to look at as you focus on your breath—this focal point is called your drishti. Got it? Great. And just breathe.”
I move to his side and put a hand against the middle of his back.
“You’re directing all of your tension forward—you’re not fighting anybody now. Straighten your back a little, make yourself as tall as possible in a relaxed way. Great. With your eyes still on your drishti, keep your chin parallel to the floor and imagine a golden thread running from the crown of your head up to the ceiling. Good. Keep the breathing slow…two…three…four…”
“Shouldn’t there be some whale music or something?” he murmurs between breaths.
I chuckle lightly. “Listen to your own breathing if you have to hear something. Now instead of puffing your chest up, try to breathe from your abdomen. Breathe so that your tummy sticks out, and then in again.”
“Like a fat guy?”
“I prefer to think of it as being like the Buddha. But go with whatever you want.”
I place my hand softly on his abdomen and almost feel like I get a static shock from it, something about the hard ridge of his six-pack making me go a little weak in the knees.
“Ok,” I go on, trying to keep the tremble out of my voice. “And out…”
Suddenly I’m the one feeling pent up. I keep my hand against his abs, partly because it feels so good, and partly because if I try to move it I might just give in to the temptation of sliding it up toward those broad, hard pecs.
“This good?” Connor says, the low growl of his voice sending a rush of heat between my thighs.
“It’s good,” I whisper, my voice strained. I clear my throat and try to snap out of this unexpected haze of lust. “Slow it down. Clear your head and focus on the breathing,” I say, mechanically, my own thoughts still bucking wildly out of control as I take in the powerful repose of his arms. Imagining what it would be like to push my tongue against the taut, rope-like strands of muscle in his neck…
Suddenly he jolts back, as if something surprised him, and I drop my hand at the quick movement.
“Fuck!” he says, widening his eyes. “Sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”
“It’s the tension leaving your body,” I smile, coming back down to earth myself. “It means it’s working.”
“Shit,” Connor says, pushing a hand through his hair. “I didn’t know breathing could be so exhausting.”
“Feels good though, right? You look more relaxed already.”
“Feels like I just had a stiff drink,” he says, looking at me in bemusement.
“I get it.” I laugh. “Bit better for you than drinking, though. You’re oxygenating your brain, your blood, when you’re doing that. It can be a bit of a head rush if you’re not used to it. Do you want to try again?”
Connor shakes his head as if dazed and then smiles more warmly at me than I’ve ever seen him do. It’s like this is a whole new Connor, one
who’s put his swagger down long enough for me to see the genuinely nice guy underneath.
“Yeah, absolutely. Let’s go again.”
* * *
After about forty minutes of more breathing, a cycle of stretching poses and a few recovery poses, I walk Connor back to the reception area.
“Thanks,” he says as we stand in the hallway. “I don’t know why exactly, but I feel pretty fucking good.”
“I’m glad.”
“I almost forgot I had a pretty shitty day.”
“Me too, actually.” We look at each other, on the verge of awkward, but somehow pretty comfortable.
“Oh,” he says, reaching for the pocket of his gym bag, “how much do I owe you?”
“Nothing,” I say, pushing his hand away from his wallet, “‘first lesson’s free,’ remember?”
“I can’t walk out of here feeling as good as this for free,” he says, taking a hundred dollar bill and putting it on the desk beside us.
“Uh…even if it wasn’t free, do you really think I’d charge a hundred bucks for a single yoga lesson?”
“Make me a tab or something,” Connor smiles, heading for the door.
“That mean you’re coming back?”
He stops and looks back at me with a grin. “Of course,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
I watch him take a few more steps.
“Hey wait,” I call out. He stops and turns again. “I wanted to ask you something.”
He nods. “Go ahead.”
I bite my lip for a second, on the brink of telling him to forget it, but something about the connection I’ve felt with him the whole evening makes me grab the moment.
“That interview, where they talked about your nickname, ‘Alpha Male’…why did you end up with a nickname like that? I mean, I get it…you’re tough, good-looking, cocky…but so are a ton of other fighters. So why you?”
Connor smiles, his hand already holding the door half-open, ready to leave.