by Claire Adams
“I’ll never understand how guys can be so comfortable quite literally changing in front of a crowd of people,” Ash says.
“Just one of those things, I guess,” I answer.
“All right, all right, all right!” some guy with an annoying voice bellows from the center of the now massive group. “We’re here for the semi-finals. First up, we’ve got the strawweights. Chelsea! Johnson! You’re up!”
“You’re a featherweight, right?” Ash asks.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “Do you want to know the weight classes?”
She looks back at me with a smirk, and I take it that’s a “no.”
Two guys who are nothing but rib, muscle and scar tissue make their way to the middle and we’re off and running. The fight goes on for quite a while, and by the end of it, I’m not entirely sure who won because hands are coming to rest on my shoulders.
I’m up next.
The hands belong to Logan and a couple other guys from my pit, though Ash joins in when she deciphers what’s going on.
“Come on now,” Logan says behind me. “Nothing but clear thoughts, hard punches and kicks that’ll make what’s-his-name think he’s being beaten with an aluminum bat. Keep moving in there. Don’t let him get you pinned down. You’re a striker. Keep him on his feet.”
The next voice, surprisingly, is Tom’s. “You know I don’t know as much about fighting as I do about patching you guys up afterward, but stay out of your head,” the medic says. “You’ve got this thing.”
“Chelsea gets beat down in the fourth and you know that’s gotta hurt!” whoever they touched to be the announcer says from the middle of the crowd. “Next up, we’ve got featherweights, Furyk and Ellis. Let’s do this!”
The hands on my shoulders patting me and shaking me, and I look over to Ash, asking, “Do you have any advice before I get in there?”
She shrugs and shakes her head. “Keep your guard up,” she says. It might have been a bit more helpful if she didn’t tack the words, “Whatever that means,” onto the end.
I give her a quick kiss and make my way through the crowd. By the time I get to the circle in the middle, Furyk’s already there waiting for me. It looks like he brought some friends, too, because there are six or seven guys around the front of the crowd wearing “Mitch’s Bitches” t-shirts.
It bodes well for me that he’s the cocky type. It bodes less well for me that he can back it up.
He’s not much to look at; if anything, he looks a little doughy, but I’m not going to let that lead me into underestimating him. Hearing about anyone in the underground scene who’s not in your pit is rare. It only happens if someone’s either really humiliated themselves, or built up such a reputation that even the usual codes of secrecy can’t keep people from talking about it.
“All right, you guys know the rules,” the unofficial official starts. “I tell you to stop, you stop; now let’s do this!”
He claps his hands and we touch gloves.
The match starts and Furyk hits me with a quick jab to the chest. It’s a psychological move than a blow meant to cause damage. He’s telling me I can’t stop him.
I counter with a shin kick to his thigh and he backs off a bit. We circle each other.
He comes back in with a left hook, but I deflect it with my forearm, countering again with the same shin kick to his thigh.
Now he knows he can’t stop me, either.
His first real punch catches me just below the rib cage, and it’s a lot more than I was expecting. I wince and push him just far enough away from me to throw a counter punch, but he ducks it easily.
He comes at me with a knee, glancing against my left side, but I counter before he’s returned the leg, my shin going hard into his stationary calf.
His foot comes down and he takes a small step back before regaining his balance. He looks totally unfazed.
We’re still feeling each other out when the first round comes to a close.
So far, I’m still feeling pretty good, though I’m a bit more tired than I should be after that kind of round. I’m expecting Logan to come over and tell me all the things he thinks I’m doing wrong, but he just hands me a water bottle and says, “Keep it up. Don’t let him fool you, he’s not as comfortable on his feet as you are.”
I nod and hand the water back to him after taking a few quick sips from it.
Round two starts.
He hits me with a hard kick to the head and I’m staggered a moment, not quite sure which way is up and which is the other one. I forget its name.
Furyk moves in, trying to get close enough for a grapple and possible takedown, but I throw a quick left to back him up. I didn’t expect the blow to land, but it does and with a sick cracking sound as his head snaps back and he falls stiff to the ground.
For a moment, I feel about as stunned as Furyk is, but a second later, I’m on top of him with my ground-and-pound game until the official stops the fight a moment later to a loud, almost even mix of cheers and booing.
I can’t believe that just happened.
The way he clocked me to begin the round, I thought I was on my way out, but it looks like “Mitch’s Bitches” are going to have to help the guy out of the building.
Still, I’m unsteady on my feet as I walk to the edge of the crowd and wrap my sweaty, though surprisingly unbloodied, self around her. It doesn’t take her long to realize it’s not just an affectionate gesture. I’m having trouble staying up.
“Let’s get you out of here,” she says. “Logan!” she calls out loudly, though he’s standing right behind her.
“You need Tom?” Logan asks.
“I’m fine,” I answer. “I just need to walk it off.”
“I’ll be honest, man,” Logan says. “When that kick landed, I thought you were done.”
“You and me both,” I tell him and release my grip on Ash, immediately stumbling.
Ash and Logan both reach out and grab me. Putting one of my arms around each of their shoulders, they walk me to the door of the building.
“I’ve got to stay,” Logan says. “Do you think you two can make it to your car all right?”
“We’ll figure it out,” Ash says, though a couple of guys from the pit happen upon the scene and offer their assistance.
The way back to the car is more than a little embarrassing as these guys I barely know go on about how awesome they think I am. I appreciate being appreciated, but this is just awkward.
Finally, we get to the car and I convince the two guys that acted as my crutches on the walk that we can take it from here. They’re still standing there as we pull onto the road.
“I’m taking you to the hospital,” she says. “I never should have let you walk that whole way. I should have had you wait at the building, and I could have picked you up out front.”
“I don’t think the guys would have appreciated the unsolicited advertisement,” I tell her. “I’m fine, really. I just got a little rocked, that’s all.”
“Still,” she says, “I think we should get you checked out just to be on the safe side. Your pupils are round and responsive, but you didn’t see the kick from where I was standing. I’m surprised you still had a head when he dropped the leg.”
“I probably should have changed first,” I tell her as my sweaty back sticks to her faux-leather seats.
“Put on a shirt when we get to the hospital,” she says. “Other than that, don’t worry about it. How are you feeling? Are you nauseated at all? Is there any lightheadedness or confusion?”
“Ash,” I tell her, “I’m fine.”
“What’s your birthday?” she asks.
“April twelfth of ninety-five,” I tell her.
“What’s my birthday?” she asks.
Uh-oh.
“Mason?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I answer. “Uh, it’s in the summer, I know that,” I start.
“Nope,” she says. “We’re going to the hospital.”
I protest a little furth
er, but it’s no use. Her mind is made up and it’s not like I have anything else planned for tonight.
When we get to the hospital, I’m still trying to remember whether Ash ever actually told me her birthday, or if she just brought it up because she knew it would get me to go to the hospital.
I’m not going to ask. I may have just gotten kicked in the head with enough force to scramble a watermelon, but I’m not stupid.
We walk into the emergency room to find it packed, though there is a single empty seat between a clearly drunk man with a sandwich bag full of ice against his forehead and an elderly woman who’s at least as involved in her cellphone as any teenager I’ve ever seen.
We get checked in and then we wait. Ash and I chat and joke, but mostly we wait.
Ash insists I keep the seat between vodka-breath and the aging social-network-butterfly.
While she’s standing there with crossed arms talking to me, a doctor walks up to her, saying, “Ashley Butcher?”
Ash turns, and I’m expecting some kind of row, but when she finds the source of the voice, she smiles.
“Dr. Templeton,” Ash says and then turns to me. “Mason, this is one of my professors, Dr. Templeton.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say. “I would get up, but I’ve been informed that doing so would be bad for my health.”
I extend a hand. The doctor just looks down at it and gives a face like she just caught a whiff of rotten eggs before she turns back to Ash.
“What brings you to the ER?” the doctor asks.
“I’m here with my boyfriend,” Ash answers. “He got a little knocked around and I just want to make sure he’s all right before I take him home.”
“Did you call the police?” the doctor asks.
Ash and I chuckle. “No,” Ash says, explaining, “it was a competition thing.”
“Ah,” the doctor says, glancing at my trunks. “A person must be pretty stupid to want to go out and get beat up for a living,” Dr. Templeton says.
My eyes go wide, but I don’t say anything. Ash, on the other hand…
“Excuse me?” she asks. “He’s not stupid. The whole thing used to kind of freak me out, too, but a lot of work and skill go into it.”
This seems like one of those times when I should just not say anything. If the doc says something rude about Ash, I’ll join the conversation, but I’d rather not jump on the grenade if I don’t have to.
“Skill?” the very annoying doctor I hope is nowhere near my treatment asks. “How much skill does it take to beat the life out of someone? It’s barbarism and nothing more.”
“It was nice to see you,” Ash says with a sneer. “I’ll be sure to take someone else’s class next semester.”
“Oh, don’t be so sensitive,” the doctor says. “I’m sure you didn’t decide to go out with him for his brains.”
“Start walking,” Ash says and my eyes are wide again. I know that stance. I know the look in Ash’s eyes. I even recognize the breathing pattern as her chest rises and falls.
She’s ready to throw down. If that doctor has any brains in her own head, she’ll take Ash’s advice and start walking.
The doctor opens her mouth, but closes it just as fast. She turns on her heel and walks off.
Ash paces a little in front of me, and I’m chuckling. “That was pretty hot,” I tell her, “just sayin’.”
“Can you believe that?” she asks. “I get that she thinks we can be a little casual because I took her stupid class, but can you believe she’d act that way?”
“Don’t let it ruin your day,” I tell her. “I get that sort of stuff pretty often when I go to hospitals.”
“It just makes me so mad!” Ash announces, still pacing.
The drunk guy next to me is trying to look in as different a direction as possible.
“Hey,” I tell her. “If you ever want to start getting into MMA yourself, I know a lot of good people that’ll help you get on the right track.”
“You’re funny,” Ash says without smiling.
“Ellis!” a nurse calls out from across the room. “Mason Ellis?”
“Right here,” Ash answers for me and we follow the nurse into the little room to take my vitals.
The nurse doesn’t ask anything, she just gives commands. “Tell me what brings you in,” she says. “Get on the scale.”
I’m her dancing bear for a few minutes and we get through the intake process. The nurse leads me back to a room and I lie down on the bed, patting the mattress next to me as I look up at Ash.
To my surprise, she actually climbs onto the bed next to me and lies down.
“You know something?” she asks.
“What’s that?” I return.
“Never mind,” she says.
I look at her. “What’s on your mind?” I ask.
“Oh, now’s not the right time,” she says.
I want to press her more, but the curtain opens in front of me and a middle-aged doctor in blue scrubs comes to the side of the bed.
“Mason, what’s seems to be the trouble today?” the doctor asks looking at his clipboard.
“I do MMA,” I tell him. “I took a shot to the head and we just want to make sure I’m all clear.”
The doctor writes something on his clipboard. He has yet to look at me once.
“We’ve been getting a lot of MMA injuries the last few months,” the doctor says. “Maybe it’s time to find another hobby.”
I give Ash’s shoulder a squeeze, trying to encourage her to just let that sort of thing slide, but it’s no use.
“Excuse me, doctor?” Ash asks.
“Yes?” the doctor answers, still looking over his clipboard.
“It’s difficult to do an exam if you won’t look at or touch the patient, don’t you think?” she asks.
The doctor finally looks up.
“Miss, I’m sorry, but for now I’m going to have to ask you to climb down from the bed—at least until we know what we’re looking at here,” the doctor says.
I tell Ash she’s fine, but she gets up anyway.
The doctor gives me a quick once over, shining his light into my eyes and asking me who’s president and he leaves the room without voicing what he’d found.
“What do you think that means?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she says. “It could be a sign that something serious is going on, or he might just be acting like he’s so much better than everyone else that he doesn’t have to do his job and tell a patient what’s going on.”
That altercation in the ER waiting room really seems to have sparked some fury for Ash. I try to lighten the mood, asking, “Is it true that doctors and nurses really don’t get along or do they just play that up for television?”
“Screw it,” Ash says and gets back in bed with me, giving my ribcage a good squeeze when she gets comfortable.
“Easy there,” I tell her. “I’m going to be pretty tender for a few days.”
“Right,” she says, pulling away. “I’m sorry. I forgot he got you there.”
I smile and tell her, “It’s all right. I don’t think he broke anything,” though since Ash put pressure on those ribs, I’m not entirely sure I’m right about that last bit.
“You know when I knew?” she asks.
“When you knew what?” I respond.
She looks up at me and then away, not answering my question. “It was that day at the lake,” she says. “You saved me that day.”
“I’m sure you would’ve let go of the boat when it started to pull you under,” I tell her.
“It already was,” she says. “You’re right, though. I’m sure I would have let it go. I’m not going to let myself drown just to save some stupid boat, but that’s not what I’m talking about. That was just incidental.”
“What do you mean, then?” I ask.
She shakes her head a little. “I don’t know. It’s hard to describe. It’s just,” she hesitates, “when we were out there, chasing after the boat
, I knew there wasn’t going to be anything we could do about it. I mean, we were in the water: It’s not like we had something solid under us for leverage. Still, though, once my hands touched the rim of that boat, I didn’t want to let go. Everything but that boat felt so utterly hostile,” she says. “That sinking rowboat felt like the only solid thing I had to cling to, but it wasn’t.”
“What made you decide to take me seriously?” I ask.
She sighs. “Are you ever going to get tired of that question?”
“I’m glad you did,” I tell her. “I guess it still doesn’t make sense to me, given the way I looked when we met.”
“There was something in the way you carried yourself, something in the way you spoke,” she says. “You were confident, but it wasn’t just a show. I mean, it was a show, but it wasn’t just a show. I have never felt that.”
“You’re kidding,” I tell her. “You’re probably the most impressive person I know. You know,” I jest, “myself excluded.”
She gives my ribcage another quick squeeze as punishment for the joke, but I’m wheezing laughter as I say, “Ow, ow, ow.”
“In the world I grew up in, real confidence is one of those things you just never find,” she tells me. “In my parents’ circle, you’re either acting confident because you’re trying to cover how incredibly insecure you are or you’re more than a little deluded. You didn’t start getting delusional until I told you I liked you, and by then it was too late.”
I snicker a little and kiss her forehead.
“Can I go back to what I was saying now, or are you going to further undermine the very confidence that tricked me into liking you in the first place?” she asks.
“Fine,” I laugh. “Go ahead.”
She rests her head on my shoulder again. “The heavier that boat felt in my hands,” she says, “the tighter I held onto it and the harder I tried to lift it to the surface, even after you first told me to let it go. I can’t tell you how much I hated you for saying that.”
“You hated me?” I ask.
“…for saying that,” she says, finishing the thought. “I hated you because you were telling me what I knew very well to be the logical thing, but I had no intention of letting that thing go. Like I said, I’m sure that would have changed if I held onto it even five or ten seconds longer on my own, but it was what you said after that. That’s when I knew,” she says.