by JD Hawkins
“You’re kind of a mystery yourself, Connor,” she says, after a while.
I look at her with incredulity.
“Me?”
“Yeah,” she says, holding a crouton in front of her mouth. “Totally.”
“What the hell would you want to know about me that you don’t already?”
“Why do you fight?” she asks, before adding between chews, “Besides that story you told me about being a lonely kid. Most lonely kids play videogames or go online or end up hiding out at the library, so why’d you keep going with the martial arts? And don’t give me some dismissive, smartass comment about being an alpha male.”
I laugh—that’s exactly what I was going to do. With the rug pulled out from under me it’s my turn to look at my food and poke around as I try to think.
“I guess…like I told you, my dad started it off; he was a stuntman in Hollywood, had me doing martial arts as soon as I could stand up. I was really into it from the beginning. And it was something we bonded over, like our special thing we did. He called it my ‘ninja training.’” I smile a little and take a breath, the memories rushing back to me. “But then, after my mom died, it seemed like he could barely stand to be at home anymore. Maybe the house felt too empty without her.” I trail off, wondering if I’m oversharing, but Frankie’s hand just reaches for mine and she gives it an encouraging squeeze.
“That sounds hard,” she says.
I go on, “He started working more, even on the weekends, and it felt like all I had was the fighting. With Dad gone so much, I started taking real lessons at studios, and I guess it became more of an escape for me. Something I could pour myself into. Like I said, my dad wasn’t around a whole lot, but when he was, he really tried to be the best dad he could. I still miss him every day. Maybe I’m still in it because of him. Maybe I like to think I’d make him proud.”
I look off at the sunset, feeling more exposed than I’d intended. Frankie watches me a while.
“You would, Connor. Why fighting, though? Why not be a stuntman like him?”
I smile at the bowl and poke a little more.
“It’s funny…if you asked me that every year since I started, I’d give you a different answer every time. I’ve fought ‘cause I was angry and I needed to get it out, fought because I was poor and needed the money, fought to win a woman over, fought because I hated the other guy…I’ve fought because my ego demanded it, because I loved the glory, the attention.” I turn to look at her. “Now I’m starting to think I fight because it’s the only thing I know how to do.”
Frankie nods gently her understanding.
“I suppose that’s another aspect of being an alpha,” she says. “You can’t be anything else—even if you wanted to.”
Once again I lose myself in those eyes, the feeling that she understands me striking some low note that makes my body hum with desire for her. And in the back of my mind is the dancing thought that I’m too far gone now, that Frankie and I have crossed into new territory—that I’ve actually got something to fight for in my life that has nothing to do with being in a ring.
I smile and draw her lips to mine, and in that moment I know I can’t lose her again.
18
Frankie
I was supposed to meet Connor on the corner. Pick him up in my car and take him to my place where I’ll cook for him—talk over his nutrition and the healthiest way he can cut weight.
But I can’t resist, and I don’t even bother trying to wait. I want to see his gym, want to see where he spends most of his days, want to meet Butch and the other fighters—or maybe I just want to see him in his element, in context.
The gym is tucked away, just a door in redbrick alleyway with a fading laminated sign stuck to it as all the indication needed. I hesitate for a second, wondering if I might be unwelcome, before the urge to see Connor overrides it completely, and the door gives easily under my shove.
After passing through a small passage with a buzzing light above it, I push open another door and find myself in a large room with pictures of fighters and motivational posters surrounding a reception area.
“Tara?” I say, immediately recognizing the slim, tattooed figure even though she’s bent over her phone away from the door.
She spins in her chair to face me, and a flash of surprised irritation passes beneath that dark bob so quickly that when she replaces it with a friendly smile I can almost believe it was just my imagination.
“Frankie!” she says. “What are you doing here?”
I smile back as I step slowly toward the reception, awkwardness filling the small room with the kind of tension you need to wade through.
“Uh…I’m here to pick Connor up for a nutritional evaluation.”
“Oh…” Tara says, a slight hint of betrayal in her voice. “He’s through there.”
“Thanks,” I say, immediately turning for the door she points out like there’s a bad smell in this room.
“Wait,” Tara says, seconds before I reach the door. I spin around, an eyebrow up to show her I’m listening. “You didn’t…tell Connor about what I told you, right?”
“No,” I say honestly, shaking my head vigorously to show how sincere I am. “I promised you, didn’t I?”
Tara smiles. “Thanks.”
Some part of me that doesn’t know when to let something go gets hooked on the sorrow I can hear in her gratitude. “Why do you ask?” I say, immediately regretting the words as they leave my mouth.
Tara’s smile drops into an expression of deep sadness and she scans her desk as if searching for what she wants to say.
“It’s just…I don’t know…something’s kind of up with him.”
“What do you mean?” I say, moving closer to hear her hushed tones.
“I don’t want to stick my nose in where it isn’t wanted,” she says, laughing gently at herself. “It’s just…I was so worried about how Connor would be bad for you that I never considered how you might be bad for him.”
I gaze at her as I wait for more, slightly insulted, but curiosity getting the better of me once again. “I don’t follow.”
Tara shrugs and looks down at her desk again.
“It’s really not my place to say these kinda things…but ever since you and Connor have…well, you know…he’s been falling behind on his training.” She looks around quickly and leans in to say the next words even more quietly. “Some people are even saying you’re the reason he fought so bad during the bout with Hendrix.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I say indignantly. “I’m helping him. And besides, he came to me.”
“I know!” Tara says. “That’s what I keep telling everyone! But…I guess ‘cause he was the favorite, and people think he really should have fought a hell of a lot better, they’re looking for why he didn’t. And the only thing that’s really changed is…well…you.”
I nod a little and scratch the back of my head, looking for some way to process this.
“Anyway, forget I said anything,” Tara adds, just as a lanky, red-faced guy slams open the reception door and huffs in her direction.
“Tara!” he says, panting. “Sean’s screaming like a motherfucker in the parking lot—says you blocked his car in again.”
“Oh shit,” Tara says, stepping around the reception desk. She turns back to me quickly. “Really, Frankie, don’t think about anything I said. It’s just the typical schoolyard bullshit,” she adds, before rushing through the exit door with the lanky guy.
I stand there, watching the door slowly close, feeling like I’ve just been handed a riddle to solve. The last time Tara talked to me about Connor it set me on edge. Even though Connor told me she was a liar, and even though I didn’t want to believe her, it left my mind in knots. Not least because she wasn’t completely wrong.
She told me Connor was impulsive, petulant, too arrogant to be truly intimate with anybody, and too aggressive to trust anybody. She told me that he had wildly different sides to him. The Connor I’d k
nown up until then was nothing like that—but the Connor who screamed at me as I walked out of his apartment was almost exactly how she described him.
Now she tells me that I’m a bad influence on Connor. I don’t want to believe it, I want to write it off as the jealous sniping of a wounded ex-girlfriend, the catty backstabbing of the bitch Connor hates too much to tell me about. Whatever connection me and Connor have right now means enough that anything Tara says won’t change my mind, won’t hold me back from wherever he and I are going. But there’s still a nagging truth there.
Because Connor did mess up that fight, barely even won it at all, in fact, and however much he might deny it, I can’t help feeling like I contributed in some indirect way.
I take a few breaths and push the oncoming swirl of emotions away, to be dealt with another time, then enter the main floor of the gym.
The place is old school, straight out of a sixties boxing documentary. Haphazardly arranged, there’s a giant ring in the center, modern weight machines on the near side, and plenty of ropes, punching bags, and mats dotted around. The squeak of sneakers on hardwood floor, rhythmic grunts, and impacted punching bags fill my ears. The musk of testosterone mixing with the rubbery smells of new sports equipment in my nose.
I can’t stop the smile that comes to my face when I notice Connor sparring in the ring, his shoulders glistening with sweat, his bare torso looking good enough to eat. A short, stocky old guy with tufts of wiry grey hair above his ears and deep furrows in his brow watches intently from the side.
I walk forward, and notice the way the sounds of clanging metal weights and slapped mats seem to stop as I walk past them, their occupants pausing in order to check me out. The old guy notices and shoots a quick, menacing scowl at my admirers, causing them to go back to their activities like scolded schoolchildren. He nods at me graciously, as if welcoming my presence, then turns back to Connor.
Connor fills my attention as I draw close, something magnificent about the way he moves around the ring, something incredibly captivating about the narrow focus in his eyes. His naked torso is beautiful enough, but now I’m seeing it in action, animalistic and powerful. It’s all I can do to try and keep my knees from collapsing as I get closer, goosebumps trickling from my neck to my ass, mouth wet and throat dry all at the same time. I’ve paid a lot of money to see shows half as good as this.
I draw close to the old guy, still transfixed by Connor, until the old guy barks suddenly in a rough Irish brogue.
“For Mary’s sake, Connor! You’re overcommitting again! Recovery! Recovery!”
“He shifts his center of gravity too far forward,” I say.
“I know,” the old man says, his eyes still glued to the fight, “and he’s useless at getting it back.”
I watch for another moment and add, “He needs to use more lateral movement, balance the left side with the right a little more—he overcommits on both.”
“Try telling him that, it’s a wonder that boy can tie his shoelaces,” the old man says, before turning to me. “Sorry. I’m not sure we’ve met. Are you a fighter?”
“No,” I say, laughing a little. “I’m Frankie.”
The old guy smiles, his face of world-weary cynicism instantly transforming into something more like a benevolent old grandfather. “Ah!” he says, offering his hand. “Connor’s told me a bit about you. I’m Butch.”
“He’s told me a lot about you, too,” I say, taking his hand and finding myself blushing a little at just how delicately he shakes it. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, Frankie,” he says, glancing back at the fight. “Ok lads, that’s enough.”
The two fighters pull apart, and then Connor notices me and throws a wink in my direction. “Connor, go get changed—you don’t want to keep the young lady waiting.”
Connor obliges and Butch turns his attention completely onto me, putting up that deeply charming smile again, though this time with a little judgment in his eyes.
“Connor says you’ve been working with him a little.”
I brush some hair behind my ear, suddenly nervous as Tara’s last words echo in my mind. “Only a little. We’ve not covered very much.”
“You’re a yoga teacher, correct?”
“Yes, I have my own studio in West L.A.”
Butch nods, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“Are you good?”
I let out a small chuckle.
“Well, yoga’s not really competitive in that sense—but I’ve studied with some great teachers for more than half my life. I’m experienced, sure.”
Butch nods again, as if he can only process the information by shaking his head slightly.
“Would you feel comfortable giving a class to a bunch of fighters?”
“Sure, I can do that,” I say, with the fast enthusiasm with which I always reply to requests for work. “What are you looking to achieve?”
Butch nods again, this time as if appreciating the question.
“We’ve got a lot of boxers in this gym—lads who can match anyone when they’re on their toes, but who turn into beetles the second they’re on their backs. I’m trying a few things, and I spoke to a wrestling coach up in Oregon who swears by yoga for that sort of thing.”
“I can definitely help with that,” I say, fishing furiously around in my bag for a flyer. I pull out a couple and hand a few to him. “Just call me to arrange a time.”
“Wonderful,” Butch says, through the Father Christmas smile.
“This guy is already married, you know?” Connor whispers in my ear suddenly, causing me to spin around and notice that he’s crept up beside me. “Plus he’s a little old for you.”
“Ah, get away with you!” Butch says, grabbing Connor’s shoulder and shoving him in the direction of the exit, before turning to me to offer a Japanese-style nod. “It was lovely to meet you, Frankie.”
“And you. I look forward to working with you,” I say, before turning to join Connor as we leave the gym.
Connor leads me to a different door than the one I came in through—and I immediately think of Tara and what she said once again.
“What was that all about?” he says, holding the door open as I step outside into the sunlight.
“Butch just asked me to give a yoga lesson to some of the fighters.”
“No shit,” Connor says.
I look up at him and put an arm through his.
“Pretending to be surprised? I’m sure you told him to do that.”
Connor looks at me as if I said something ridiculous. “I don’t tell Butch to do anything unless I want to hear him swear at me for the next hour and a half.”
I laugh and pull on Connor’s arm to guide him in the direction of my car.
“What’s that?” he says, nodding at the flyers still in my hand.
“The flyers for the studio.”
“Oh. How’s the great advertising push going?”
“It’s a little early to tell just yet. I’ve got a meeting with the manager of Woodland Shakes tomorrow.”
“Tell him you know what the secret ingredient is—then watch if he flinches.”
“Very funny,” I groan, as we near my car and I pull out my keys. Connor snatches a flyer from my hand and gazes at it. I wait for him to say something. “Well? What do you think?”
“It’s…um…” Connor trails off, staring at the small flyer as if it’s a magic eye picture. “Functional.”
“‘Functional’?” I say, over the car roof. “Is that it?”
Connor sighs and purses his lips, as if reluctant to release his thoughts. “It’s just…it’s got the name, the number, the street…and not much else.”
“There’s the logo, and the prices are listed at the bottom.”
“The logo, sure,” Connor says, using the most unconvinced tone I’ve ever heard anyone say anything in. “It’s a nice little leaf, with the thing…look, it just needs a little pizazz.”
“Pizazz.�
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“A little showmanship. Some balls. Where’s the slogan? The message? ‘We’re the best fucking yoga studio in the northern hemisphere.’ Or ‘Experience true yoga – ‘cause only assholes go to Fine Fitness.’”
“Is that another page from the ‘alpha male playbook’?” I say, rolling my eyes as I open the car door and get inside.
“Yes it is,” Connor says, dropping his heavy frame into the passenger seat. “But it applies to everyone.”
I put the car in first and get us moving, Connor’s eyes still glaring at me almost accusingly.
“There’s value in modesty, you know,” I say.
“Sure,” Connor replies, “but this isn’t modest—this is lack of confidence.”
I turn to Connor as I stop the car at the corner.
“It doesn’t say here that you’re a better yoga teacher than anyone at Fine Fitness,” Connor says. “It doesn’t mention the love you have for your work, for your studio. It doesn’t say anything about the fact that you’re cheaper than them, do more for the community, that you’re not some giant chain who only cares about renewed membership—it doesn’t even mention the fact that you’ve worked with both UFC fighters and renowned yoga gurus.”
I sigh deeply and take the flyer he’s holding up like a piece of evidence, looking it over again, as if seeing it with new eyes.
“Frankie,” Connor says, his palm against my jaw, lifting my eyes to his, “you’re amazing—so stop pretending you’re not. I promise, things are going to start happening for you the second you start to own how amazing you are. You have to trust me.”
And as he stares into my soul, his gaze radiating warmth and reassuring calm, I realize that I do.
19
Connor
This time Butch doesn’t reach over and offer a last word of advice, a last word of warning before I leave the car—he doesn’t have to. This time the swarm of reporters are a little more aggressive with their questions, less desperate, more provocative. This time I let Butch lead the way, shoving them aside like an old guy with a bus to catch.