by Naomi Niles
I kept thinking about this statement later that evening as we watched grown men in tiny shirts clobber each other with their fists.
As soon as I reached my room that night, I tore off my sweaty shirt and called Rennie.
“Hey, girl.” Rennie had a mysterious ability to write while she was talking, and even now I could hear her clicking away. “Are you alone?”
“Yes, I am sitting alone in my room, on my bed, and there is no one else in the room.”
“Shame. Well, give him a few hours, and he may come knocking. Men do tend to get lonely when they go on vacation.”
“I’m not counting on it. Anyway, I think we’re both too exhausted.”
“Yeah? What did you do today?”
I told her about our trip to the Magic Kingdom, and how Randy had insisted on interviewing three of the 150 full-time gardeners who worked there, and how we had missed our chance to ride Pirates of the Caribbean because he kept walking down Main Street trying to remember the name of the song that was playing and couldn’t find anyone to ask. “He’s actually kind of adorable,” I said. “Like a demented grandpa or a weird uncle.”
“Sorry you didn’t get to ride any of the rides,” said Rennie. “If we ever go to Disney World, I’ll make sure you see the pirates.”
“It’s okay,” I said in a sarcastic tone. “Because you know what I did see? MMA fighters—and a lot of them.”
“Sounds thrilling,” she said in a voice that conveyed the opposite. “Did you find any ‘fresh talent’?”
I shook my head, although Rennie couldn’t see me. “No, the whole meeting was a bust. I got the sense Randy wasn’t too impressed, either. As we were getting back to the hotel, he told me we’ll have to look elsewhere because none of those guys was substantially better than what we’ve got.”
“Well, I hope you at least enjoyed the fights.”
“I did not.”
“I hope you at least enjoyed the Magic Kingdom.”
“I enjoyed Randy,” I said with a laugh. “He’s the most eccentric tour guide you could have asked for. They ought to hire him to lead the Jungle Cruise and make terrible dad jokes.”
“That would be the perfect job for him,” said Rennie, “but then he wouldn’t be your boss anymore!”
“I’d survive,” I replied in an uncertain tone. “Probably.”
Chapter Five
Braxton
On Monday morning, I awoke before dawn. Feeling restless and hungry and knowing the gym wasn’t going to open for another hour, I put on a light jacket and headed out the door.
The only thing open at this hour was a mini-mart a few blocks from my house. I walked through the darkness of a chilly spring morning past empty food trucks, boarded-up furniture warehouses, and hairdressers with large glossy pictures hanging in their windows. The whole town seemed to be sleeping.
For a few minutes, there was no noise but the steady patter of my own running shoes on the broken asphalt. And then I heard it: a loud scream, a woman’s scream, coming from a block of single-story apartments about a hundred yards behind me. It chilled me. It was the kind of scream a woman makes when her life is in danger, and she doesn’t care who knows it.
I stood there frozen, wondering if I should run toward the source of the noise, wondering if it would do any good. But she didn’t scream again, and gradually the sun began to rise over the still and empty streets.
I reached the gym a few minutes later, still feeling shaken and unsettled, to find that the doors had just opened. Coach Aardman was seated at the front desk groggily reading the morning paper, the stereo tuned to a local classical station.
“Will you look at this?” he said angrily. “The state’s decided to cut the education budget by another forty million.”
“That’s awful,” I managed to say. I didn’t particularly care about the state education budget, but he didn’t have to know that.
“It is. These clowns in the state senate have no sense of what’s important. Anytime there’s a deficit, they immediately decide to gut education spending. And then they wonder why our kids don’t know how to spell their own names.”
He slammed the paper down on the desk and motioned to a photograph of the governor. “I sometimes think the future of our nation is too important to be left in the hands of politicians. We ought to have coaches, teachers, and librarians running this place. They’d put the money where it matters. They’d make sure our kids are literate and in shape.”
“Yeah, for sure.”
“Anyway.” He shook his head unhappily. “What are you doing up so early?”
“Cat woke me up again. But also, I wanted to get a few hours of training in before Carrathurs comes in tomorrow.”
I hoped it was clear from the tone of my voice that I couldn’t have been more excited about the president’s visit. I’d been up half the night pacing my room in anticipation, wishing the gym was open late so I could come in and practice.
“Oh yeah, that,” said Aardman with a dismissive roll of his eyes. “I wouldn’t hype it up too much. The amount of practicing you’ve been doing lately, you shouldn’t have any problems. It’s one of those things where you can’t prepare in a day. You’re either prepared or you’re not, and that takes weeks, months.”
“You think I’ve got a chance, then?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, as though this was obvious. “I’ve seen players who are stronger than you, but brute force only goes so far in this business. What sets you apart is that you’re dedicated, and you actually take correction. I can count on one hand the number of boys I’ve trained I can say that about. You ought to do fine.”
But I wanted more than to do fine; I wanted to shock everyone with my gifts. “I’m glad you at least have faith in me, Coach,” I said aloud.
Coach shrugged. “It’s not hard. Not with you.”
He went on drinking his coffee, and I returned to the elliptical trainer with a light heart. Coach didn’t seem even remotely worried about my chances, and that filled me with confidence. I was lucky to have just one person who believed in me; there were days when I found it hard to believe in myself.
I’d been working out for about twenty minutes when Nick came in looking half-dead from exhaustion. Taking a water bottle out of his duffel bag, he splashed some of the water over both eyes.
“You doing alright?” I asked him.
“Yeah, I will be.” I gave him a skeptical stare. “It’s just—okay, so I brought this girl home last night, and we spent a couple hours on the couch making out. I didn’t feel tired, but I must’ve crashed because I woke up at around nine pm and she was gone, and—she had stolen something that was very important to me.”
“Your wallet?”
“No. That would have been a nuisance, but I can always get a new ID.” He leaned over and in a lower voice added, “She took my grandmother’s ashes.”
“Excuse me?”
“My grandmother’s ashes were resting in a jade vase on the top of the entertainment center. And I woke up and the vase was gone, and the girl was gone, and God only knows where they went. I didn’t even get her name.”
“Are you sure you didn’t misplace them?”
“No, I didn’t misplace them,” he said in a mocking voice. “I walk by that vase every night when I come home, and it was definitely there when I brought her into the house.”
“Maybe she didn’t know the vase contained the remains of your grandmother.”
Nick nodded placidly. “That’s what the police said when I reported the theft. Maybe when we were making out her eye fell on the expensive-looking vase, and she decided she had to have it. Anyway, that’s why I’m so tired this morning. I was up at the police station half the night answering questions. They even had me draw a sketch of the girl.”
“Any luck finding her?”
“None so far. I get the feeling the police aren’t going to look too hard for an antique vase.”
“But it’s your grandmother.”
&
nbsp; “I know! I tried to tell them that.” He let out a resigned sigh. “Mom is going to be so pissed when she finds out. She wants to drive down for a visit in a few weeks, and that’ll be the first thing she looks for. I hope she stays in Montana.”
“Sounds like a real crisis.”
I was having trouble looking appropriately solemn; it was hard not to laugh at the absurdity of the whole situation. It sounded like the opening scene of a Coen Brothers movie based on a Greek myth, one that sees Nick stumbling around Boulder, under abandoned bridges and inside crowded bars, searching for his grandmother’s ashes. But we weren’t in a movie, and Nick probably wasn’t ever going to see his vase again.
Nick blinked a few times, looking battered and world-weary. “Anyway. How are you?”
“Doing okay, I guess. A story like that really puts things in perspective.”
“Glad I could be of assistance.”
“I’ve just been practicing for our brawl tomorrow.”
“Oh, shit! Is that tomorrow?” Nick’s eyes grew wide.
“It is, and the president is going to be there, and I’m trying to get as much practice done as I can in the next thirty-six hours. Not that I think it will make any difference at this point.”
“Probably not,” said Nick. “I’m a shitty fighter, and I’m prepared to accept that.”
He went on chugging away at the Stairmaster, and I watched him for a minute, smirking. “You know you could be really good if you put some effort into it.”
“You calling me lazy?” he asked, though there was a teasing tone in his voice. “I’ll fight you.”
“No, I just think you could easily be as good as me. Maybe even better. I’m only an average player, but I excel because I’ve put a ton of hours into it.”
“That’s the mystery of ambition,” he said philosophically. “Some people have got it, and some people don’t. What motivates one person to become a great painter, while another is content just to sit around and play Halo?” I honestly don’t know.”
“I used to wonder the same thing growing up with my brothers. Marshall could teach himself any skill in under a week. He was a genius at card tricks, poker, various musical instruments, you name it…whereas Darren thought he deserved cake just for getting out of bed in the morning.”
“Getting out of bed is hard,” moaned Nick. “There ought to be cake.”
“You and Darren would probably get along.”
“Yeah, your brother Marshall sounds like kind of a prick, but I wouldn’t mind hanging with Darren.”
“Marshall is a millionaire now.”
“Of course he is. And I bet he never lets you forget it.”
“Not even for a second.” Nick returned to the Stairmaster, and we spent the next hour training in silence.
Chapter Six
Jaimie
On Monday, we returned from our trip. On Tuesday, Randy called me into his office.
It was a cold, gray morning, and a chilly mist rose over the abandoned train tracks on the other side of the window. Randy sat at his desk clutching a mug that said “World’s Best Dad,” a thoughtless gift from a cousin of his. In front of him lay a stack of important-looking tax files and a couple of manila envelopes with red clasps.
“Morning,” he said in a sleepy voice as I walked in. “I feel bad for dragging you all the way to Florida. It would’ve been one thing if we had done what we set out to do, but the whole trip was sort of a waste.”
“That’s okay. At least we got to see the Enchanted Tiki Room.”
It wasn’t okay, but of course, I wasn’t going to tell him that. I could have spent the weekend resting and working on my novel, but instead, I had squandered it chasing Randy around the Magic Kingdom. And we hadn’t even gotten to try butterbeer.
“Yeah.” Randy grinned wistfully. “Boy, that was really something, all those Polynesian dancers. I’ve been humming that song for days.”
“Same,” I said sadly.
“Anyway, I hate to ask you to accompany me on another trip so soon after the last one, but I’d love it if you could come with me to this training facility. Aardman is an old friend of mine from my college days, and he’s convinced that his current crop of fighters showcases some rare talent.”
“Don’t they always say that?” I asked skeptically.
Randy shrugged grudgingly. “It’s a fair point, but Aardman has never been the type of guy to bullshit me. He’s always been sort of allergic to hype, even his own, which makes him a bad marketer but a good friend. If he says there’s something unique about these guys, I’m inclined to believe him.”
“Fair enough. At least we won’t have to stay in a cheap hotel with tatty furniture.” I’d rather not have to go at all. Assessing prospective fighters wasn’t strictly part of my job—I could have stayed indoors today where it was warm and immersed myself in the satisfying monotony of crunching numbers—but he was being so polite and respectful that I didn’t dare say no.
“You sure you feel up to this?” he asked, apparently sensing my hesitation. “You can stay here if you feel you need to.”
“No, I’ll go. Your opinions can skew toward the eccentric, and it would probably help to have a second pair of eyes.”
“Do they?” He stared in surprise.
I nodded, remembering how excited he had gotten over the finials poking up over the tops of the buildings at Disney World. “You’re great at a lot of things, but selecting champions maybe isn’t one of them.”
“Weird, I’ve always thought my selections were impeccable.” He rose from the desk, adjusting his tie in the gray light. “If it helps, you can think of it as being like a Doctor Who adventure: a kindly older gentleman with a unique style of dress takes a journey through time and space with the help of a young female companion.”
“Or a journey to the other side of Boulder,” I said as I reached for my coat. “But if it makes the trip more interesting for you, I suppose you can be the Doctor.”
***
But whatever Randy said, I couldn’t escape the impression that Aardman was desperate to push his guys on us. When we reached the training facility, he led us into a cozy office furnished with leather armchairs and a Persian carpet. The whole place smelled faintly of wood varnish. In the next room over, I could hear a couple guys grunting feebly as they took turns whaling on each other.
Reaching into a wooden liquor cabinet, Aardman pulled out a bottle of vodka, which he poured into three glasses.
“I’ll try to make this worth your while,” he said, seating himself in a burgundy chair opposite. “As I think you’ll see in a minute, my boys are some of the best in the business.”
“How so?” asked Randy, holding his glass just under his nose.
“For one, they’re built. But big deal, right? These days, anybody can be built. Exercise regimens for men have come a long way since our day.”
“Very true.”
“But these guys are driven, and that’s something you don’t see every day. It’s been ages since I’ve seen this much dedication and ambition in a single group of people.”
“Well!” Randy set his glass down on a side table and placed his hands in his lap. “Now you’ve got my attention. If these guys are really as good as you say they are, then I have to see them.”
I could sense that both Randy and Aardman were going through a ritual, saying things that maybe they didn’t quite mean. But they were both professionals, and they did it with such skill, I almost envied them. I was too sincere, too volatile, too much of a mess, to ever do what they did.
He rose and led us out into the auditorium where stood a octagon and several dozen rows of brown metal folding chairs. We took our places in the front row while he trotted out the first pair and introduced them.
Then the fighting commenced, and I nearly fell asleep in my chair.
I might have underestimated how done I would be with MMA fights after having to watch them the entire weekend. The meeting on Saturday night had been du
ll and exhausting, and the one on the following afternoon had been just as dull and just as exhausting. I don’t know what it was about boys and sports: I had less trouble staying awake when I had to sit at my desk all day examining financial records.
If there was one thing I could say about them, they were better fighters than the group we had seen in Florida. Even the weakest displayed a level of aggression that was slightly alarming in men so young. I winced as we watched one, whose name was Gerald, steadily pound the face of his opponent like a ragdoll.
“Are you seeing this?” Randy leaned over and whispered. “Aardman wasn’t joking. This is next-level stuff.”
I nodded weakly, wishing we could hurry up and skip to the end. I had found the one sport I hated more than football, so of course, I worked for an organization that promoted it.
But then the last pair of fighters went up, and they had my full attention.
“This is Bruce,” said Aardman, lifting up the arm of a slender shirtless boy in his late teens. “Bruce has been with us for about three years now. Bruce, you want to tell them your story?”
Bruce smiled. “Yeah, when I was eleven, me and my mom went walking on the beach near our home in New Haven. Mom fell and sliced her leg on a jagged rock. I used my own shirt as a tourniquet and stayed with her for the next hour until help arrived.”
“Did she make it?”
“She survived that. She was killed the next Christmas by a drunk driver.”
Randy winced in sympathy.
Coach Aardman thanked Bruce and turned to his next player. “What about you, Braxton? Any exciting stories?”
“Nothing I care to talk about,” said the one named Braxton with a shake of his head.
Rennie and I had recently discussed the mystery of how some people are effortlessly charismatic. Braxton radiated charisma without seeming to be aware of it. He had one of those bodies that are the admiration of women and the envy of men, the kind that you want to sit and stare at because it seems impossible that nature could make something this perfect. His eyes were a hypnotic shade of gray, and when he looked out over the audience, I shivered without really knowing why.