by JD Hawkins
“In that case,” she calls smugly behind me, “I’ll be waiting.”
When I get out on the main gym floor I sidle up to Matt, who’s in between reps on the weights. He notices me and nods.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my eyes on the sparring bout in the ring.
“Hey dude, feeling good?”
“Sure. Let me ask you something.”
Matt nods. “Go ahead.”
“Did you tell Tara anything about me and Frankie?” I ask, leaning in to avoid anyone hearing.
“Shit, dude!” Matt says, twisting his face up with disbelief. “Do I look like a jerk that much? I’m a ballbreaker and all, but I’m not fucking stupid.”
“Ok,” I say.
“Why?”
“Tara knows somehow. Even knows we fell out. She was just twisting the knife in the locker room.”
“Dude!” Matt says, opening his palms like the answer’s there. “I fucking told you this weeks ago. She’s stalking you like a wanted man.”
“I know, but I’m not exactly writing a blog about the women in my life.”
Matt shrugs and looks around to check that nobody’s close.
“Maybe she really is following you around. Here,” Matt says, digging in his sweatpants pockets and pulling out his phone. He jabs the screen a few times and then holds it out to me.
“‘You ain’t a bad bitch, you just look bad, bitch,’” I read out, then cast a look at Matt. “That supposed to be funny? I prefer cat videos.”
“No, dude,” Matt sighs. “Look who posted it.”
I look again and see Tara’s profile pic.
“So what? She probably posts that kind of shit all the time.”
“But the past few weeks? Since you’ve been hanging with Frankie? She’s gone into overdrive,” Matt says, scrolling the page on the phone. “‘You’re the princess? I’m the queen, bitch,’” Matt says, starting to read like he’s scanning song titles at karaoke. “‘Smile, make the bitch mad.’ ‘Good girls go bad because bad boys don’t treat them good.’ ‘I do very bad things, and I do them very well.’ ‘Sometimes you have to be a bitch to get things done’—that last one’s a Madonna quote.”
I watch Matt and try to remember who hit him this hard on the head.
“Matt, what the fuck you talking about?”
He looks up suddenly, as if I just walked in and interrupted him.
“Read between the lines, dude! She’s pissed about you and Frankie and she wants revenge!”
I groan and start looking for someone else to talk to.
“That’s just the same crap women post everywhere ‘cause it sounds good.”
“Trust me, dude, Tara’s freaking out over you still. You should watch your back.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. Anyway, why the hell you following her on Instagram?”
Matt glances down at his phone and raises an eyebrow.
“I know she’s a bitch and all…and I’ll never forgive what she did to you, dude…but damn she takes one hell of an ass pic.”
* * *
I used to love weigh-ins when I fought in the small organization. The opportunity to strip down to my boxers in front of cheering fans. Some guys dress nice, some guys know how to rock a tailored suit and a nice watch, a slick haircut and a couple of tattoos. Me: I look my best with nothing on. I get dressed every morning and feel like it’s a damn shame to hide it all away.
Then there’s the squaring up, looking dead in the eyes of your opponent, watching for the flinch, the tremble, the blink. One averted gaze and you both know who’s gonna win. A fight before the fight, where pride and confidence matter—perfect for an alpha male.
Except Frankie’s last words to me have been spinning around my head like a Greek chorus, as annoying and unwelcome as screaming kids at a neighbor’s pool party. I try to sweep it out of my mind, but it just comes back even stronger.
The weigh-in is at the same place we held the press conference, only this time it’s going to be an in-and-out affair, at Butch’s demand. Matt and Butch talk to me as we enter the corridors, gathering cameras and journalists like bees to honey, but I don’t hear them. I nod and smile and I think I even crack a few jokes—but I’m not really there, I’m still in my apartment, angry and lost, watching Frankie walk away.
I try to lose myself in the roar, in the love, try to once again feel the surge of power and invincibility I got from the adulation, but it seems to come from far away now. I tell myself to smile and grin, tell myself to throw my hands in the air the way I did before, but my body gets the signal half a second too slow.
I look over at Hendrix, nodding and sneering, surrounded by backpatting sycophants. I try to raise some anger, try to stoke some fire in my gut, but I don’t care. Why would I care what Gregg thinks? Why would I care what anyone in this crowd thinks?
“Dude?” Matt says, leaning into my field of view and nodding down at my tracksuit. I get the message and pull down the zipper of my jacket to a roar most rockstars would be lucky to get. My body takes over, my mind still minutes behind. When the shirt comes off the shouts get loud enough to vibrate the stage. I flex a little and smile. The flexing feels stupid, and the smile is hollow. I yank down my pants and saunter over to the scale, then flex again.
I think I hear a voice that sounds like Frankie, and I immediate drop my arms, my smile, everything. I put a hand over my eyes to block the lights so I can search her out. She’s not there. Even in the hundred-strong crowd I’d spot her. I turn the gesture into a little salute so it looks natural, and the crowd laughs.
“Let’s get the pic,” I hear Danny say among the tangled noises and incessant cheers.
I go through the motions, Gregg already standing at the front, chin up, twitching nose, narrowed eyes. No fists this time, he just wants to intimidate. I step in front of him as casually as a man moving forward in a line.
“You scared right now, dog? You scared?” Gregg barks.
I stare at him blank-faced, unable to snarl and grit my teeth, unable to think of the right thing to say.
“Yeah! You scared!” Gregg says, a second before our people pull both of us away.
* * *
It feels like mere seconds between being up at the weigh-in to being here, alone in my apartment, videos of Gregg’s previous fights on the big screen TV. Tomorrow I enter the ring and fight the biggest rounds of my life. Twelve years of training; the pain and the sweat, the self-discipline and friends, the glories and the failures—all leading up to this.
And all I can think is: Will Frankie be there?
I turn the TV off and pace around the room a little, and then, for the first time in weeks, I start doing the yoga she taught me. Start doing those breathing exercises, the body scan thing. I do it as if pleading with the gods, trying to prove to the universe that I really do give a shit, that I really do care about her helping me.
I take my time, slowing myself down and savoring every movement, every breath, as if each one brings me a little bit closer to her—brings her a little closer to me. After an hour I stand back up and decide to give it one last shot, one last gamble—just in case the universe has a little sympathy.
I take my phone and hit the number I’ve hit more than a dozen times in the past week.
It rings…through to voicemail.
“Hey, Frankie…it’s me. I don’t know if you’re even hearing these, if you’re so far beyond me that you just delete them, or shit, block the number. I wouldn’t blame you. I keep replaying that last conversation we had and I cringe whenever that guy speaks…you’re right…Jesus, you’re right. I am an asshole. I did believe my own hype.
“I don’t really think your breathing and meditation stuff is bullshit—I actually just spent the last hour doing the things you taught me, and I feel…well, a lot better than I have been feeling in days. Good enough to think one more phone call might work, at least. I don’t know why I said those things, I guess I just hate the idea somebody can teach me something, th
at I need anybody. Too proud—same thing your sister says about you, huh? Maybe that’s why we get along—got along, I mean…I don’t know…
“Anyway, I don’t want to make excuses. I just wanna…look, I really want you to be there at the Hendrix fight tomorrow. I’ll tell the guys to leave some tickets out front in your name. You don’t have to come talk to me, and this isn’t some trick or something like that. I just…I figure you let me into your world a bit, so I should at least show you a bit of mine. It would mean a lot. Ok…bye.”
Tyson stretches on his dog bed and then gets up and walks over to me, an expectant look in his eyes.
“At least I tried, right?” I say. Tyson tilts his head, gives his tail a few hesitant wags. He looks about as lost as I feel right now. “Let’s go for a run, boy.”
I take him to our usual spot on the beach, let him chase sticks down by the water’s edge, but when we’re both tired and resting on our bench, I can’t help wishing Frankie was there too.
14
Frankie
“…figure you let me into your world a bit, so I should at least show you a bit of mine. It would mean a lot. Ok…bye.”
This time I don’t hit delete after the first ‘Hey Frankie.’ This time I don’t let the swelling memory of Connor’s insults bring out all that frustration and pride. This time I actually give him a chance. And this time I start feeling a little soft toward him.
Maybe it was the press conference I watched, against all of my self-promises that I was done with Connor, against all the instincts telling me that getting involved with him was always going to end up bad for me. I bypassed all of them by telling the angel on my shoulder that I just wanted to remind myself of why I was cutting him out. Except two minutes into the video, it didn’t turn out like that.
Connor was lost; had lost something. The riotous crowd hadn’t noticed it, they were satisfied enough with the sight of his photogenic abs, by the signature raise of the hands—but I noticed. I’ve spent too much time staring into those eyes, seen that face express too many different emotions, not to notice when something is missing. And something is definitely missing. Because Connor’s just going through the motions now, a half second slower than someone would if they had enthusiasm, the fire gone from his eyes.
I keep the phone to my ear, spoon another bite of cereal into my mouth, and press repeat.
“…really want you to be there… tickets out front in your name… it would mean a lot…”
I hang up, put the phone down, and take the cereal bowl from the kitchen to the couch, where I open my laptop. With one hand still absently on the spoon, I search for details on the fight.
Connor’s face comes up immediately, and I feel guilty for the way I smile. Why not? He’s got the kind of face you’d want to show off, that you could use to advertise anything—even bloodsports. Before the heavy kick of pride can stop me, I check the times, convincing myself it’s just curiosity, that there’s no way I’d go and see him fight after the way he spoke to me.
But I know that I’m going to go when I see that the card starts at midday and instantly feel a twang of panic—it’s past twelve already—then quickly relax again when I read a little further and see that Connor’s fight is scheduled for ten tonight, as the second to main event. That leaves plenty of time to wrestle with myself over whether I should go, plenty of time to feel guilty for going, for not going, for being too proud, for giving in too easily, before the idea of being within eyesight of Connor’s aerodynamic jawline steamrolls all my objections and compels me there in pilgrimage to his beauty.
Ten o’clock. I have a yoga class at seven. I check the venue and calculate that it’ll take me about forty minutes to get there from the studio—less, probably, if I get lucky with the lights and traffic and parking. And then who-knows-what at the fight itself. I’ve never even watched a UFC fight on TV, so the prospect of going to see one live feels like going to a heavy metal concert after a lifetime of listening to the Carpenters.
My mind immediately runs wild with imagined scenes of riots, violent fans, screaming, beer-gutted bikers throwing bottles at each other, wannabe fighters getting riled up at violence like Vikings at the sight of land, young blondes in skimpy underwear the only other women around. I think about all of that and start getting anxious, the reality of ‘seeing Connor’s world’ finally getting a little uncomfortable.
The scariest thing of all, though, is that even all that isn’t enough to stop me.
* * *
After a day of running with Lucy, using it as an opportunity to drop advertising leaflets for the studio at local apartment blocks, health food stores, and anywhere else that’ll let me, I make a quick stop at home to drop off my dog and grab a light dinner before giving my evening yoga class. Somehow I manage to teach the principles of patience and calm while I’m prickling with tense excitement at the idea of watching Connor fight, my inner pre-teen groupie that I never knew I had coming alive.
As soon as the class is over, I keep on a mask of restrained calm as I say goodbye to each of the students before marching briskly from the studio to the ladies’ locker room, taking a fast shower and then checking my watch with the fierce concentration of a soldier before a raid. Eight-forty-three—time enough to give my minimal makeup a quick touch-up in the office, and then make the drive to the venue.
My carefully laid-out and tightly-timed plan explodes into pieces as soon as I open my office door, however. My landlord David is there. His lumpen frame not so much sitting as engulfing my office chair. Short, stumpy legs crossed in a mystery of physics. The contented grin of someone waiting for dessert.
“David,” I exclaim, almost skidding to a halt in the center of the room as I notice him.
“Frankie,” he says, a lot slower, as if relishing the taste of my name. He eyes my wet hair, the way my fresh clothes hug my still-damp body, and suddenly I feel dirty all over again. “Nice shower?”
I clear my throat, ignoring the question and the perverted implications behind it. “Can I help you?”
He shrugs. Then he taps his fingers on the stack of paperwork he’s laid out on the desk. “We need to talk.”
I glance from him to the paperwork, feeling like I’m being ganged up on, and laugh innocently.
“We do,” I say, with as much earnestness as I can muster, “we really do. But I’m afraid I can’t right now.” I check my watch again, a little for show, a little out of genuine concern. “I’ve really got to be somewhere pretty soon.”
David rolls his eyes and purses lips in a way that makes them look like squeezed stress balls.
“Of course,” he says, his sarcastic tone streaked with nastiness and condescension. “What is it this time? Dental appointment? Family emergency?”
“A friend really needs me,” I say, an instinctual lie that I’m not sure is entirely untrue. “I’m really sorry.”
“How many times have you told me you’re sorry, Frankie?” he says, still slowing at my name in a way that makes me cringe, as if part of me is being abused by the bum notes in his voice.
“I really—”
“Don’t answer that,” he says, holding a palm up as if I’m the one seeking his attention, “I’m not sure I trust your ability with numbers at this point anyway.”
I breathe deeply, soothing the tiny flickers of indignation rising inside of me.
“What is this?” David says, pointing at one of the sheets on the table. I take a step toward him with difficulty, as if struggling against his repellent qualities. I lean my neck forward.
“It’s the electricity bill.”
“This,” he emphasizes, a chubby finger pressed hard against one part of it.
I lean in a little more this time, sigh as I notice the due date printed in bold letters, and stand back.
“I know. I’m a little late.”
“Not just the electricity, Frankie,” David says, sliding the bills toward me. “The maintenance bill. The phone bill. Even the vending machine lease.�
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“I’m covering the past due amounts.”
“You’re on the threshold.”
“I’m just a month behind on each,” I say, my voice getting a little taut, wondering if him striding into my office and looking through my paperwork is legal, wondering if he’s allowed to make a point of it, wondering how much shit landlords get away with the world over because people like me don’t know their rights, and are too on-the-wire to use them anyway.
“And you’re behind on the rent still.”
“I paid you last week!”
“You paid last month’s rent. You should have paid this month’s yesterday. But you don’t have it, do you?”
I want to say ‘how do you know I don’t have the money,’ I want to be able to hold out a wad of bills or a pre-signed check and wipe the assumption off his face. But I can’t, because I don’t have it, and the fact that he can assume that so easily is a three-pointer for him. One he’s sure to celebrate.
“This is not the way business is done, Frankie,” he says, like every cruel teacher and sadistic official I ever met rolled into one doughy mass.
I check my watch. Eight forty-seven.
“I agree, it’s not,” I say, hoping an ego like David’s will be happy to see me self-flagellate enough to feel the victory, “and if you’re willing to come by tomorrow I’d like us to talk about it and figure out what—”
“How much do you get away with because you’re so pretty, Frankie?”
David smiles at my grimace, smugness only barely concealing his strain as he pushes himself out of the chair.
“I’m sorry? That’s not really an appropriate thing to say to—”
“Oh come on,” he says, breathing a little heavily as he rebalances on his feet, the smug smile the only thing not showing his exertion. “We’re long past the point of what’s appropriate. So tell me, how easy is life when the whole world smiles at you?”