by L. G. Kelso
"I'll be honest. I don't really picture you with that guy. Twenty-five more seconds. Go, go!"
I wasn't sure if I could. My arms felt as if they were going to fall off any second.
"Go! Go!" Mick's voice came from somewhere. He appeared in front of me and kneeled down. "You got it! Almost there."
Arms tired. Chest burning.
"Come on, Tori," Mick said. "Keep breathing. You're alive and that sucks right now, but just keep breathing and it'll be over."
My laughter threw my breathing off, but the round ended shortly after. Mick gave me a fist-bump and then continued his walk to the locker room, his gym bag enormous against his short stature.
"You're turn!" I stood and grinned, and hoped it looked as wicked as it felt. Max took the mitts off and I slipped my hands into them, tightening the Velcro straps with my teeth. As Max grabbed his gloves, our conversation played in my head.
I should have known Trevor and I wouldn't last. I had been a lost cause for him to work on. I actually did need help at first, I guess. Then what? I became less of a mental hot mess and the need was gone? An image of myself, from an old picture after a match, tried to merge itself with Trevor. No. It didn't work. Maybe if I stripped away the workout bra, the boxing shorts, the gloves, the wraps. Picturing myself naked didn't exactly help. I painted a dress on, one of those summery, flowing ones and some makeup. Now that kind of worked. It also made me cringe.
Max stopped in front of me. "Hey." Max's voice lowered but his tone firmed, an urgency underlying his words. "Hey, look at me."
I blinked away the image and looked at Max. Long, dark lashes fanned out around his narrowed eyes, and his lips rested tightly together. "I wasn't insinuating anything bad about you. I meant that I just didn't picture you wanting that guy. That guy isn't good enough for you."
"All right, Mr. Psychoanalyst. On the floor."
He sat down, and I stood behind him. My workout shorts ended just above his shoulders. His warm skin touched mine, and my legs pressed tighter against his back. The timer started and Max began hitting my mitts.
"So, what kind of person do you picture me with?" I asked.
For some crazy second or so, an urge for him to point to himself became painstakingly horrifying.
He wasn't what I needed.
Max chuckled before regaining his breathing.
"Fine. I'll wait till the round is over."
He made it the entire round without stopping, unlike me. Once the timer went off, I said, "Well?"
"Somebody with as much determination and motivation as you have. Someone who is secure with himself, and someone who likes boxing. Of course, you also need someone who, while utterly terrified, also finds it strangely hot that you tried to take down a bunch of gang bangers by yourself."
I dropped my arm and the mitt smashed Max in the head.
Did he mean what it sounded like he meant?
"Time for the next round," Max said, abruptly. His used his toe again and pressed the button the handheld timer. I held the mitts out again but this time my enthusiasm to torture him had dwindled away.
With each hit, his breath exhaled, a combination of a grunt and shhh through his teeth.
Max couldn't have meant how that sounded.
I closed my eyes, listened to his breathing, and felt his hand in time to meet it with the mitt.
Someday, this limbo would have to end one way or the other. It was a tease at what I could have, at what I wanted. Fighting would break my heart again. I had no doubt. I would fail and it would be over.
And if I got any closer to Max, walking away from him would shatter whatever shards remained.
Chapter Sixteen
"Holy shit, dude, did you see that kick?"
The noise came from Jeff's office. The rest of the gym was empty, save for the bags that littered the floor. Where was everyone?
"She just KO'd her. With a kick."
"Here's her fight after that."
I followed the voices toward Jeff's office.
"Hey, I know that chick. She's ferocious."
I raised my arm over my head as I walked, stretching my shoulders.
"The fight after this one is with a boxer named Lana. She trained at the gym I started at. She's nuts. We all called her Loco Lana."
I stopped walking and stretching.
Loco Lana?
Oh no.
"Oh, man. I don't know who that was, but Tori just creamed her."
I ran, full speed, into the small office and collided with a set of knees.
The lights were off in the room stuffed with four boys. Light and an occasional strip of static from Jeff's old TV glowed over their faces. I didn't bother to be polite. I shoved the knee out of my way and turned to the television.
One of my fights played on the TV, and Jeff's VCR clicked. Jeff had moved ahead in the world of MMA, but he had stuck to his old technology ways by videotaping my fights.
The recording made me stop in my tracks. It wasn't the fight with Lana, not yet.
I envied my old speed. My old lightness on my toes. I envied the way I slipped a fast combination thrown by my opponent, the way I found her mistake and slid my uppercut through her elbows. How the moment felt when I knew I had her, had the fight.
That moment when everything I had worked for came together, when it all paid off.
"Tori, you gotta get back in the ring," Mick's voice came from the darkest corner.
The fight ended, the screen blared white, and then the next one Jeff videotaped came on.
"And in this corner, we have Tori The Amazon Rhoads." The announcer's voice was muffled, either from the old TV speakers or from the tape itself. The camera went to me as I came out.
Oh no. No, no, no.
My face already had bruises on it, and I hadn't even been in the fight yet.
No, no, no.
I jumped over Shane's stretched out legs, and turned off the TV, just about breaking it in the process.
"Out. Everyone out," I barked.
"Hey, we were enjoying watching you kick some butt."
Was that Manny? Manny rarely spoke to me, and I hadn't worked with him. He stood from the couch, his hands gesturing to the TV.
"Out!"
Someone moaned but both Max—crap, I hadn't realized he stood in the corner—and Shane said, "Come on. Out." Shane shoved Manny and Mick out of the room, and Max followed, emerging out of the corner. He stopped in the doorway, looked at me, and then walked out.
I stared at the black screen. I could still see myself in it. Moving, slipping, rolling, throwing, kicking. I closed my eyes, but still it stayed. I could almost feel it. Almost taste it. The wet layer of sweat starting on my arms. The firm mat under my toes, only touching the ball of my foot. Light. Floating. Contact.
The sparring I had done had been light and not in the cage, but it had gone well. No freezing. The nightmares had come back full force, but every nightmare just pissed me off more.
I couldn't use the sparring as a guess for what I would do in the cage. I could freeze, and I didn't know that I'd be repairable if that happened again. And if I were, no fighting agency would contract me if they knew my fighting history.
Worse, I could end up with another surgery and another year of physical therapy.
But I would never know if I stayed in this limbo.
Something snapped. Almost as tangible as the ligament snapping in my leg. There was even pain afterward, a physical rush of gnawing heat burning from my center out, but as it flushed my skin, my shoulders eased.
Resolve.
Something else I hadn't felt in years.
Opening my eyes, I straightened my shoulders and walked out of the room. I stopped at the edge of the mat.
"I want to fight," I said.
Max paused, mid-push-up, wrapped fists on the ground. "I'll spar with you. I'm almost done." He lowered himself to the ground, and pushed up again.
"No. That's not what I meant. Though, yes, that too. I mean, I want t
o fight. Fight fight. Again. In a match."
Max jumped up, his feet underneath him and between his hands in one swift motion. Another quick second later, and his arms were around me.
Three things entered my mind:
One, how do you hug someone instead of hit them? Two, Max smelled good. Way good. And I definitely didn't have an endorphin intoxication going on to blame it on. And three, I needed to get laid. Like, yesterday.
His hand pressed into my back and his fingers intertwined with my hair. For him being a big guy, the hand tangled in my hair was gentle.
Then he did something no one ever did. He lifted me up. Only a few inches, but my feet came off the ground. For those few moments, I felt like an Amazon princess in a Disney movie.
"This doesn't look like any MMA that I've seen," Jeff's voice erupted from somewhere.
My feet planted back to the ground, the hand untangled from my hair, and Max took an unbalanced—yes, unbalanced—step to the side. A flare of pink spread up his back, right between his shoulder blades, up his neck, and to the tips of his ears. I could only imagine the color of his face.
He didn't say anything. Instead, he glanced over his shoulder at me. I understood. He wasn't going to say anything about me fighting again. That was mine to share.
"I want to fight again."
Jeff blinked, rubbed his scruffy chin, and opened his mouth and closed it again. Finally, he asked, "You ready for that?"
"I'm tired of not being ready."
"Give me a few minutes, and I'll see when the next match is. Let me contact STRIKERS. I may be able to get you in one of their fights again." Jeff smiled, and his dark eyes reflected it.
"I'll need a coach. I know I bailed on you before so..."
"Don't be ridiculous. Like I would let anyone else be your coach. You can't do school and work here and train. At least not for this first fight. We have a lot of work to do."
I groaned. Between the desk job and the help I got from my parents, I had been able to make my bills. Take out the job, and, obviously, that wouldn't happen.
That, and if my parents found out I planned to fight again, that would end the deal between us too. I'd really end up in debt.
But still, I nodded.
"All right. I'll be back. I have calls to make."
Jeff strode off to his office, the pride in his shoulders making my breath catch.
I couldn't let him down again.
Above all, I couldn't let myself down again.
Chapter Seventeen
Are you on campus?
The text from Max flashed across my screen. I glanced at the professor, who stared at the PowerPoint.
I replied, yes, what's up?
Can you save me? Please?
I still had five minutes of class left.
I can in five minutes.
His reply came instantly. Oh, sure, five minutes. I'll just ask my muggers to give me five minutes. A second later, another text came. Five minutes is fine. BTW. Don't rush.
Muggers?
Not the kind with guns or knives or anything.
Where are you?
The field.
K.
I jotted down a note in my planner to remind me about the homework due in a few days, replied to a text from Leah, and headed to Johnson Field.
I got to the edge of the field before I froze.
Where was Max?
I scanned the area. No Max.
Wait. A group of girls huddled not too far ahead, and a head with dark hair stood out over them.
Seriously? You texted me for this? Muggers with boobs, eh? I sent to him.
You're here? Thank God. Help a brotha out, would ya?
How so?
I don't know.
I could come over and start talking about the STD you have.
What STD?
The one I just made up.
God, no. Please just tell them you need me or something.
Why can't you tell them?
I've tried. I don't want to be rude.
So, you want me to be rude?
Yup, pretty much. Please :D
Fine.
You're my hero.
I slipped my phone into my back pocket and walked over to the group. The girls entirely circled Max, and there was a lot of "awe's" and "you're so awesome" going around. One girl even asked him to sign her boobs.
It was sickening.
I pushed through them with ease. One girl spun around, ready to give me attitude, until she came eyelevel with my chest.
"Oh, hell no," I said, looking at his bare chest and running shorts. "You brought this on yourself." I turned, but his hand shot out and grabbed my arm.
"Tori! Wait, what are you talking about?"
His earphones hung over his shoulder, and pink blushed his skin, but I couldn't tell if it was from the attention or the running.
"Fine. Sorry, ladies, I need my friend here."
He let go, I grabbed his arm, and yanked him as I pushed through the girls. "Excuse us."
"What exactly were you doing?" I asked once we were a decent distance from the fan club.
"I was trying to run. I'm on my break at the library."
"Uh-huh. Yeah. Running at a college campus on a beautiful, sunny day. I have no idea why you got accosted. You may need to start carrying a squirt gun or something. Just spray 'em when they get close."
"But I need to run." He looked at me, and batted his eyelashes.
"No. I'm not running with you. I have class soon. I'll sit right here and do work. In case you need a bodyguard."
"Can I hire you as my permanent bodyguard?"
I laughed and sat down. Max popped his earphones back in, saluted, and then started running. I watched him run along the perimeter of the field for a few minutes until I realized how creepy I was being.
I pulled out my books and started reviewing notes for my next class.
Marketing Economics.
As fun as it sounded.
My phone buzzed.
Sender: Trevor
Tori, can we talk? I really need to apologize for how I acted. Let me take you out to dinner.
I tossed my phone to the side, but it rang a second later.
"Hello?"
"Hey, kiddo."
"Hi, Jeff."
"I heard back from STRIKERS. They have a spot for a fight in six weeks. The fighter they had planned had to pull out."
Six weeks.
Fight.
"Why would they let me? I lost the contract with them."
"Yeah, but you were still considered pro. Honestly, they need the spot filled for the fight. It's not a contract. They'll consider contracting you depending how the fight goes. Think of this as an audition."
I had no doubt in my mind that STRIKERS would use my last fight to help promote this one. I could practically see the headline: Tori Rhoads returns. Will she freeze again?
"Okay. Six weeks. Wait, that's Max's fight too."
"Yes. He's fighting that night."
"Does he know who yet?"
"No. The matchmakers are taking their sweet ass time. Apparently, it'll depend if Johnson retires or not."
"Oh."
"So, okay?"
I took a deep breath.
I knew what my body wanted. I knew what my gut wanted, but I almost couldn't recognize it at first. Maybe, I had gone too long just using my head and focusing on my plan.
The fear of freezing was still there, but it didn’t weigh me down as heavily as before. If I did freeze, I wasn't sure that I would be able to get myself together afterward. I could be the biggest baby, say fuck it again, run away, and go through another round of culture shock while I integrated myself in the "normal" world.
I could lose myself for good. I would never be able to put myself back together. Losing my confidence, pride, and self-esteem was still fresh and I didn't have to think on it much for the feelings I had back then to return with their nasty claws.
I would have to make a new lif
e for myself all over again. Walk away again. Leave everyone behind. Go back to my safe, failure-free plan.
I could relive that night all over again while my opponent kicked my ass. I could end up in debt up to my eyeballs and poorer and crazier than the guy who lived in a box on campus and ran around in a speedo.
Or, maybe, I could keep myself together. So far, things had been good.
Maybe, and here was the kicker—maybe I wouldn't freeze again.
My eyes flickered to Max, across the field, still running.
My answer was there, in my heart. And as soon as the words were out, a mixture of relief and resolution like I had never felt washed through me, as did a new wave of anxiety.
"Yeah. Yes. Okay. Fight. Six weeks."
"All right. I'll see you for training later today?"
"Yes."
I hung up and tossed the phone to my side.
I tried to keep reading. Really. I needed to, especially since my grades on my most recent projects had taken a not so pleasant downturn, and I knew it because of the time I spent at the gym. If there was any way I could convince my mother that it would all work out, I had to keep my grades up.
But thinking about fighting again in six weeks made my brain turn to mush.
I slid my book off my lap and flopped to my back. Grass tickled my neck and dew seeped through the material of my shirt. I stared at the sky for a minute before closing my eyes.
His soft, regulated breathing gave him away.
"Are you napping?"
"No."
"Trying to find your Zen?"
"I only find that when I'm moving."
He didn't touch me, but I could feel his arm only inches away. I opened my eyes and sat up. "I got the fight."
"When?" Max's eyes widened and he smiled.
"Six weeks."
His smile fell.
"Exactly." I yanked out a handful of grass, a mixture of fresh, green sprouts and brown, dry pieces.
"You can do it. I just didn't expect it to be so soon. You've practically been training already."
"It's still no time."
"True." He stretched his legs in front of him and grabbed his toes.
"If I hadn't been out of it for so long, maybe, but..."
"Wait, is it with STRIKERS? In six weeks?" His back straightened , and he looked at me.