Dodging Trains

by Sunniva Dee

  “I’ll be fine, Mack,” I assured him as he stopped the car at the curb.

  He glanced over, wariness bright in his gaze. “Would you mind sending me an update here and there?”

  His expression choked me up. He hadn’t been this way when I went to see Keyon in Florida. “No, I don’t mind at all. If calls aren’t too expensive, I’ll give you a buzz, but at the very least I can text you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mack thanking me for an act that wasn’t related to sex. It was bizarre and made it harder to leave without tears.

  “Have a good time, okay? Enjoy yourself. Get some sun. You need it,” he darted out last minute.

  “Oh your yapper, Mack Sonnenhaus. Get a tan yourself.”

  A small smile ghosted his lips at that, of a type he hadn’t offered since I began rejecting his advances.

  “Take a nice girl out on a date,” I said before I slammed the door closed.

  Mack rolled down the window, not taking my departure as an end to our conversation. Car motors and airport doors overpowered his voice, so it wasn’t farfetched when I feigned I didn’t hear him.

  I’m glad Mack never asked me out. I’m glad he didn’t try to “do the right thing,” the way men often do when they’ve spent more than a few nights with a woman. If he had, I wouldn’t have been there when Keyon barged in with such insistence. Even so, what Mack said by the airport curb made me sad. For him, and for years squandered on faceless men.

  “I’d take you out on a date.”

  KEYON

  They keep asking me stuff, but I’m falling.

  I can’t speak right now. I’m Light Heavyweight. That’s what I am. Whenever the weight cut schedule clamps its iron belt around me, I want to hurl out my disgust over everything my life demands.

  Nothing matters when you can’t speak, when you can’t walk without tripping. From the recesses of my brain, conviction keeps me going. When I want to give up—when I’m dying for water, when I hallucinate of desert oases with fountains and palm trees and Paislee emerging from freshwater dives—I focus on my goal.

  I’m going to Vegas. I’ll be there, contracted, ready to do what I love and make a damn good living of it. I’ll become a legend, someone so far from the kid who once trembled in Rigita.

  The fighter who masters cutting weight has the upper hand.

  I faint in the sauna, dehydrating.

  “Three more hours and we’re weighing in.” Dawson’s voice is implacable, like it should be. I’m a fucking baby as he feeds me Pedialyte, but I’m too weak to care. I resurface. Slowly.

  “No matter what, you’ll always be Light Heavyweight,” he repeats my sentiment out loud. “But for an hour, you need to be Middleweight.”

  I nod weakly while he points at the treadmill. Back to running. My eyes do their own thing, focusing, defocusing, while Robbie and Dawson lead me to my next workout.

  Robbie holds out the sauna suit I’d rather not wear again. I flick to his face but don’t find compassion. Of course not. We all fucking chose this.

  I blow air out through my lips, resigned and smirking a little at the same time. He catches me as I fall. “Dude. Dawson? I think he’s had enough.” He says it as my eyes roll back into my head.

  “No!” I manage pretty loudly. “No. This is happening. Half a pound left?”

  “Yeah, man.”

  “It’s happening.”

  The stage is a bit blurry but I get up there okay. Robbie’s there to peel my robe off—red silky thing—boxer-style from the old ages. Makes me want to laugh.

  So close.

  “Ready to carb-load?” Robbie hisses at my ear. Ah no one’s more ready for carbs than I am right now. Once the weighin is done, I get to resurface and put on the ten and a half pounds I’ve lost over the two days we’ve been here.

  I can’t even think of the consequences if I’d been disqualified for not meeting the weight class. Friends of mine have experienced it. Depending on the opponent, I could be sent home without as much as a bloody fist. Sure, renegotiations are common, but I’d hate to rely on it for the biggest fight of my career.

  I can’t see Sanchez properly when he gets on the scale. There’s a faint rumble of hate at the bottom of my stomach, but I feel like a mollusk unable to pull off even the rawest emotion.

  Sanchez steps up first, defender of his kingdom, and his fans roar around us as if he’s already won by weighing in below the limit. I walk up next. Once I’m on the scale, I lift my arms over my head when I see the number on the display, and I break into the biggest grin I’ve achieved in forty-eight hours.

  A whoosh of someone clapping, a tenth of the response Sanchez drew. I’m fine though, because if Sanchez wants a rematch in the States after I’ve defeated him, my fans will give him what he deserves.

  I shut my eyes, a sensation of accomplishment setting in. Bliss. In twenty-four hours, I’ll be finishing this match and closing a chapter. It’ll be good. And I can’t wait to watch. Him. Bleed.

  PAISLEE

  It’s strange to be in this city, this hotel, knowing Keyon is two floors above me. Markeston picked me up from the airport. His elation as he chattered about flights and weight loss made me think he’s a lonely man finding company in something outside of his domain.

  He told me Keyon is fine while he escorted me to my floor. Told me Keyon couldn’t see me tonight. I already knew this and came mentally prepared to hold out until tomorrow.

  Keyon is probably back from the weighin and going to sleep. Me, I’m restless after Markeston leaves me. He withdraws only after ordering room service and double-checking that my minibar is stocked to his liking.

  I have a few bites of a non-American burger, grab my can of Coke, and venture out of the room. I’m not sure what my plan is. The neighborhood isn’t safe I’ve been told. Maybe I’ll just familiarize myself with the hotel.

  The lobby is pretentious in gold laminate, high ceilings, and pink marble. I’m dragging a finger across the wall in the bar, following the intricate pattern of the silk wallpaper as the lobby door swings open and Dawson and Robbie walk in—

  With someone in between them. Someone smaller, thinner, a dilapidated human being. I suck in a breath, because beneath those hollow cheeks, the sunken eyes, I recognize my love, my fighter, the one I haven’t seen in a month, and I fill my lungs with air and burst out, “Keyon!”

  They hold him up by the arms as they walk toward the elevator doors. Robbie sees me. Shakes his head slowly and forms his mouth into a “No.”

  I’m bolted to the ground, some part of me warning me not to proceed according to instinct. I don’t understand what’s going on, why they let him exhaust himself this much. How can he fight in twenty-four hours if he’s this weak?

  Or is he sick?

  Is the fight not happening?

  Dawson notices me. The kindness in his eyes turns steely with resolve as he looks away without greeting me.

  I take a step back. Stand obediently behind a planter as they assemble him against the wall of the elevator. Keyon’s eyes are closed. I force myself to study his face carefully. He doesn’t look sad. Doesn’t seem to be in pain.

  Robbie’s stare bores into me, and I meet it seconds before the elevator doors close. I’ll find you, he enunciates, drawing a connection between us with a wave of his hand. I don’t wait for an elevator. I take the stairs to my room so fast my lungs want to explode.

  “Keyon is eating and drinking,” Robbie soothes me when he arrives. “Taking a few bags of IV. Thanks for not making yourself known to him downstairs. It’s an intricate balance, and right now his mind is perfect—one hundred percent in the game. If he maintains his confidence, he’s going to win.”

  He reaches a hand out and touches my cheek when he notices a tear has slipped out of my eye. I can’t help it. Keyon is such a big, strong guy. The memory of how broken he looked isn’t compatible with how I know him. He reminds me of the little boy in the woods.

  “My girlfriend hate
s it too,” he says.

  “Dawson lets her be with you when you’re like that?” There’s jealousy in my voice, and Robbie smiles.

  “No. It was by accident, like you saw Keyon. My girlfriend learned her lesson though. She doesn’t even come to my fights anymore. I actually lost that fight, and she blames herself for it.”

  “You think she’s right?” I ask.

  “Well, I think she’s onto something.” He pinches his upper lip with two fingers, considering. “I want her to be happy, and she wasn’t after she had seen me like that. There was a lot of fear going on in her face during the whole match the day after—she even squealed when he got me in the temple once. Moira is a terrible fighter wife-to-be,” he adds affectionately. “She might’ve lost me four thousand bucks.”

  I exhale, feeling better knowing that other women suffer through what I am. I’m taking mental notes. No squealing tomorrow at the fight, and I’ll need to be fearless and quiet.

  I’ve been through worse.

  KEYON

  I feel fucking amazing. I’m out of bed, whooping with energy, and I stride to the bathroom for a good look at myself in the mirror. Shit yeah—today’s the day. Sanchez’s fucking going down!

  I want an insane breakfast even though I ate until I fell asleep with a mouth full of smuggled-in biscuits and gravy. Dawson knows what I like, and Markeston made sure it happened. Dude’s become my fairy godfather.

  There’s a VIP restaurant on our floor, and that’s where we’re headed next. I throw on a pair of sweatpants, pull an Alliance Cage Warriors shirt over my head, and rock my hips on the way to the door.

  “Feeling good?” Robbie says, clamping down on my neck, bear-style. He slaps me once and lets go.

  I bob my head. “Like a million bucks.” There’s some sort of upbeat song I don’t recall the name of in my head. It’s on repeat, reminding me that I need my pre-fight playlist in my ear. I scan the front lounge of the suite, and Robbie, guessing my thoughts, points.

  I pop my earbuds in on the way to breakfast, scroll through “Welcome to Jamrock,” “Justice,” DMX’s “Ain’t No Sunshine,” and land on “Ratamahatta,” for my first tune of the morning.

  In the car to the arena, all I do is flip through songs, turn the volume up, and allow my knees to jump freely with pent-up energy. Al Kapone’s “You Ain’t Stoppin’ Me” has me growling with impatience by the time we’re dropped off at the back entrance.

  The last hour before showtime is grueling. We’ve got sparring gear in the back and a few heavy bags to take the brunt off my pent-up energy and let me warm up.

  We’re given the heads-up. Ten minutes.

  I plug “Onward to Victory” into my ears and bounce on my feet. Slam my hands together, waiting, and that’s all I can do right now.

  “It’s Dark and Hell is Hot,” thunders through my earbuds when I’m given the go-ahead. I rip them out, throw my phone down, and stalk out to “Hail to the King” by Avenged Sevenfold booming from the speakers—roaring, dominating—for me!

  I’m fierce to claim it all.

  Kneel to the Crown.

  I can taste victory already, and I haven’t even seen him yet. Hell yeah, I’ve never been in better shape, and I’m mentally so together nothing can rock me.

  Until Sanchez does a half circle, turns from his audience, and presents me with his beady eyes, twisted grin, and… a fucking ponytail in the back.

  The walls of the cage lose their wired mesh, take on the solidity of walls—train walls. Sanchez’s corner grows into a dirty restroom, complete with a steel toilet.

  The cage door slams shut. It’s louder than it should be. The rhythm in the air isn’t “Hail to the King” anymore, no, it’s train tracks rolling under my feet and offering their monotonous thu-thud, thu-thud, thu-thud.

  The music fades off. Faintly, I catch the audience booing my entry. The referee nods us toward the center of the cage. I’m still in control, but I’m angry—angrier than I should be.

  Sanchez peers at me, black mouth guard reminding me of rotten teeth on trains. He grins wide, but I grin wider. I grin like a lunatic, and the stare-down I give him is so murderous he knows he’s losing.

  I huff a kiss at him. The train creep tries for a blow to my head even before the fight starts. Ha, fat chance. I’m sending him to sleep ASAP.

  We both get warnings. I think I bob my head that I’ve understood. I glare at him. Remind myself: it’s Sanchez. From what I know, this man doesn’t even speak English—he’d never fucking say, “You’re so pretty.”

  I can’t hinder the transformation of his dark skin to the pale one of the train creep. That ponytail. I thought Sanchez had short hair. How old are the videos I’ve been watching? His hair is black though. It’s not a woolen shock of red that reaches his shoulder blades. It’s in my head. Just in my head.

  He’s not the train creep.

  I rush him. Rain punches at his head in a vicious fast-forward. I shouldn’t be pure instinct. This fight is too important for that, but I can’t stop. It feels too damn good.

  For every time he’s too slow to block, every time my fists dig into his face, the blood throbs faster through my veins, and the red dots clouding my vision grow bigger.

  Fuck. Yeah. Take. That.

  He’s slow, strong, greedy—he doesn’t want to share his kingdom, but I’m greedy too. I’m the conqueror, and I’m taking it all.

  I need his head in a lock. I want my standing fucking submission. The bell for the first round rings, but I can’t drop him now that I’ve got him squeezed under me on the ground. I want to break. His. Bones.

  “Stop!” the referee yells. He’s in my face, and I do. I do.

  “That’s it!”

  I haven’t let go of the train creep. I’m—shit. I’ve got him in an anaconda on the ground, and he can’t move. How can I let him go when he doesn’t even tap out? Fuck, I—

  “Arias! You’ve got two seconds or I’m deducting points.”

  My body trembles with the effort of giving him up. I rise. I don’t look at the creep scrambling to his feet. Instead I lumber into my corner.

  An icepack goes to my eye. Robbie holds it there. Adrenaline is a loud rush in my head.

  Pep talk from Dawson. He tells me to not allow rage to take over, because—

  “You have one enemy, Arias: yourself. If you can’t rule you, everything we’ve worked for is gonna shatter just like that.” He snaps his fingers in front of my eyes.

  I meet his stare. Nod.

  Then I’m up, out, we’re at it again. Sanchez’s face deforms in front of me. He’s a bloodied mess but still standing, still fierce, evil, the embodiment of my childhood’s worst memory.

  It’s time I end it.

  My uppercut rocks his head on his shoulders before he sinks against the cage wall. I follow him, slamming him against it before I lock him in a standing kimura.

  It’s too slow—I want this over and done with. I’m tired of holding shit back and not murdering specters from trains. I don’t know how much longer I can hold back, so I let it rain over him. Blow after blow after blow after blow, until he’s on the floor, until I’ve got him in a full anaconda vise, head locked in my arm, neck ready to snap.

  My mind struggles—I want to finish him hard, bad, now, but it’s not enough to see him like this. I don’t want him to tap out before I get dirty, so I drop my hold on him, making the audience gasp.

  I give him a two-second break before I ground and pound him full force, unleashing a flurry of elbows and punches. He doesn’t retaliate, never strikes back.

  “Fifteen unanswered!” an American voice screams from front row as the ref jumps in, hauling me off him. The creep is a red puddle heaving for air on the mat. It’s over. The fight is over, but I can’t enjoy my victory. My heart rate is out of control, and I want to fucking kill the bastard.

  “Shake his hand,” Dawson says in my ear. I won’t, because it’s not right that the fucker is still breathing.

  Hyper
sensitive, I feel eyes on me. I look up, and through the wire of the cage, deep green irises dissect me.

  I sigh, anchoring into that gaze. I inhale and exhale in deep lungfuls. She watched the fight—I knew she would, but her eyes are knowing, like she saw more than the others. Does she know whom I really fought?

  She’s serious. Fearless. So fucking beautiful. I feel a corner of my lip twitching upward. I crook my finger to her, nodding, and she lets go of her lock on the wire to shimmy carefully up the steps to the cage. My breath calms as Sanchez’s team hoists him to his feet. He’s swaying.

  Now we’re done. Now the red film of murder has retreated from my eyes. I go and grab his hand, Sanchez’s hand.

  “Good job,” he says in broken English. “Impresionante.”

  “Thanks, man,” I say. “And thanks for having me—your fans love you.” He pats my back, grinning a blood-smeared grin and agreeing with me.

  When I turn, my girl is there. Small, clean, still so serious as she watches me. I open my arms for her, and she’s not afraid of anything. I fold her in against sweat and blood. Robbie’s got an icepack lifted for my eye again, but I need to kiss her first, suck sugar in through salt and copper.

  “It’s over,” she whispers. “You did it. And it looked like you beat more than one guy tonight.”

  I huff out an overwhelmed laugh that she does understand. Tuck her under my arm while we wait for the referee to declare the winner.

  During the official announcement and the photos, she remains out of the spotlight with Dawson. When I grab my girl again, I finally get to see her smile.

  No moments can be better than this one. I just won the biggest match of my career, and my girl was there to watch it.

  She’s right. I did fight two men tonight, and I won over them both. Perhaps I’ll never have to dodge trains again.

  PAISLEE

  “Vicious.” That’s the only way to describe Keyon in that ring. His eyes turned black with undiluted violence as he rammed into the Mexican, special-delivering him to Death’s door. That’s what it looked like to me, anyway. I can’t believe he’s standing now, discussing his loss with his coaches.