by Lana Hartley
“Mr. Moreau,” I cry out, taking one step back. “Yes, Edward’s inside,” I tell him, replying to his question with an awkward mumble. I had already seen pictures of him, but I had never seen the owner of the Gazette in the flesh.
“Good,” he says flatly, opening the door to Ed’s office and stepping inside. Behind him trails a much shorter man with a buzzcut. He’s also wearing what looks like a tailored suit but, unlike Mr. Moreau, there’s no scowl on his face. Instead, there’s a discreet smile, as if he knows something the world had no idea about. He has a pale scar that goes from his chin to the corner of his mouth and, even though it isn’t that noticeable at first glance, it really adds to his disconcerting smile.
“BACK TO WORK!” Ed shouts at me from the inside as he watches me standing by the door. Snapping my heels together, I get out of his line of sight and make my way back toward the sports department offices.
Natalie
Being a journalist has always been my lifelong dream.
Even when I was just a little kid, no older than ten, I knew what I wanted to do with my life. There was something about journalists that drew me in; they were part artists, part detectives, and the romance of the job was too appealing for someone like me to resist.
When I started college, I was no different than my peers, filled with lofty idealistic dreams about changing the world. I know it’s a cliché, but I wanted to make a difference. As you well know, though, real life is never as pretty as the plans we make toward the future.
Still, I got lucky. I landed a job at the Gazette just one month out of college, and I thought that I was on the road toward becoming what I always dreamed of. I wanted to do serious journalism, tackle the big issues facing society, and I thought that working at the Gazette was the way to do it.
One year later and I’m still in the small cramped offices of the sports department, writing short snappy articles about athletes on vacation and their newest girlfriends. When I’m not doing that, I’m covering events, checking results, and reporting on stuff that’ll make absolutely no difference to anyone. Instead of changing the world, I spend most of my day updating the Gazette’s Facebook and website, constantly pumping out a never ending river of drivel.
Welcome to the 21st century, where dreams come to die.
“So, are you going to tell me what Fat Ed wanted?” Michelle asks me, throwing a spitball at me. It hits me straight on the forehead and then falls over my desk. Looking up from my laptop, I watch as Michelle prepares another spitball, crumpling the paper between her thumb and index finger. She has her feet up on her desk, and she looks like she doesn't have a care in the world.
Even though she’s a few years my senior, she still behaves as if she's never left college. If you ask me, the Gazette just crushed her soul to the point she simply doesn’t care anymore. Okay, maybe I’m being unfair; I don’t think Michelle ever cared about anything. She likes taking it easy, and nothing ever seems to phase her. And thank God for that… If it wasn’t for Michelle, I’d have gone insane a long time ago.
“Fat Ed wants me to write a profile on Hunter and Logan,” I tell her, turning a pen over my fingers distractedly. If you’re wondering about why we call our Editor-in-Chief ‘Fat Ed’, that’s because no one really likes him around these parts. More than being fat, he’s always rude and obnoxious to everyone under him on the hierarchy; he’s just like a fat tyrant, perched on his throne and barking orders.
“A profile? On these two?”
“Yeah… He told me that if I made it juicy, that he’d give me a shot at different material. I have no idea what I can do, though. I mean, they punch people for a living… I’m not sure if there’s a story in there.”
“That’s a lot of pessimism, even from you,” she yawns, throwing her new ball of paper straight at my face. This time I duck it just in time, and it bounces off the wall and falls on the floor next to the archive drawers. “Profiling these guys can’t hurt. Besides, have you seen them? They’re hot,” she proclaims wistfully, leaning further back on her chair and staring at the ceiling.
“You’re right… It can’t hurt. Even if their profiles turn out to be boring, I won’t be worse off because of it. Worst case scenario, I’ll go back to tweeting live scores.”
“It’s always a world of joy with you, isn’t it?” she yawns again, raising both her arms up and stretching her back.
“You know me,” I whisper, pushing my chair closer to the desk and resting my hands over my laptop’s keyboard. If I’m going to do this, I might as well start right now. “Alright,” I mutter, typing Hunter’s name and pressing Enter.
I spend the rest of the afternoon going through whatever I can find on Hunter and Logan, and I do it until my eyeballs feel as if they’re on fire. These two seem like the typical star athletes—fame, women, and money, but there doesn’t seem to be any angle in their lives that I can really explore. They’re the best at what they do, everyone agrees, but there doesn’t seem to be anything particularly special or interesting about their upbringings. Sure, a few interviews and some digging might reveal one or two interesting facts about them, but I don’t think that --
Hang on.
There’s something weird about these guys. I’ve spent the last few hours going through every single article I could find on them, and one never really mentions the other. That’d odd, isn’t it? These are the two best fighters in the world, but they don’t even seem to acknowledge the existence of one another. Most sports thrive on rivalry - especially boxing - but there’s nothing between these two.
“Michelle…” I call her, looking across the office. She’s hunched over her desk, tapping her index finger against her phone repeatedly, and it looks like she’s playing some kind of game. Productive as always. Ah, well, not that I can blame her—the sports department is probably the most boring one in the whole Gazette.
“Yeah?” she asks me, never taking her eyes out of her phone.
“Is there a big difference between, uhm, heavyweight and light-heavyweight?”
“Not really,” she replies casually. “Just a few pounds difference. Why are you asking?”
“Well, isn’t it weird? Hunter has been the heavyweight champion for quite some time now… And Logan is the undisputed heavy-lightweight champion in the word. Why haven’t these guys fought yet? Everyone says they’re the two best fighters in the world… You’d guess the fans would love to see them go at it.”
“Oh, yeah, definitely. Most people would love to see them fight, but they never really sounded interested in that,” she shrugs. “They’re probably afraid of each other. Either way, they keep to their weight classes and keep out of each other’s way.”
“That’s weird…”
“Do you think there might be a story in there?”
I don’t reply to Michelle. I’m staring at a photo of Hunter on my laptop screen, one where he’s holding the heavyweight belt over his head, a tired but victorious expression on his face.
I don’t know if there’s a story in there, but I sure as hell am going to find out.
Logan
“Jab! Uppercut! Jab!" Rocco yells.
I'm moving my feet and hitting the pads fast as beads of sweat zigzag down my chest. I'm dancing around the ring, delivering blows faster than a buttered bullet.
"That's it Logan—like a fucking lion—keep your eye on the prize!" Rocco's been my trainer for years, and he keeps me moving like a well-oiled machine.
Just as he says this, I swing my rear hand forward, delivering a powerful cross that clips Rocco on the bottom of his chin. Despite his protective headgear, he stumbles back on his heels, dazed from the impact.
I give him an appreciative bow, keeping my back straight and bending at the waist. In Japan, it's considered good etiquette to bow. The deeper the bow, the greater the respect. And Rocco deserves all the respect in the world.
"Fucking hell, Logan—that was one hell of a swing," Rocco says.
"Who's next?" I say, looking around
the gym for my next sparring partner. I may not have my next professional fight lined up yet, but that doesn't matter. I need to stay sharp. Champions never sleep. No matter what, I'll be ready for the next fight that comes my way.
"I'll give it a go," a young man says, stepping into the ring. He places a red rubber mouth guard in between his teeth and chews on it nervously. Then, with both fists up, we begin the dance that boxers know all too well—a crouched, tense, and focused dance of wills.
Immediately, he steps close to me, closing the distance between us. He's bouncing and bobbing erratically. I've seen this style of fighter before. He's trying to overwhelm me out of the gate with constant pressure. He's short for a boxer, and doesn't have a long reach, so it makes sense that he wants to fight me in close proximity. He gives two quick jabs, but I dodge them. Then he unleashes a flurry of hooks and uppercuts, but I'm able to maneuver out of his reach and I throw a haymaker that knocks him off balance.
He grins. "Well played."
"I'm just getting started," I say, still bouncing on my feet.
"I never said I was tired."
"Good." I smile. I like this kid's tenacity. He's got grit. I'll give him that.
Looking at this kid somehow reminds me of my father.
My father was stationed in Japan during his military career, and as a kid he always told me, "Son, the Japanese say 'falls seven times, get up eight times; remember that.'" I can almost hear his deep, gravelly voice, and the way he'd say this by staring off in deep thought as if he were consumed by a memory too heavy to speak.
In his office, there always hung two ancient Japanese Gunto swords, and because of him, both my fighting style and life philosophy are heavily influenced by concepts of honor and efficiency.
The other boxer and I continue to circle each other around the ring. He steps closer and I deliver two quick body shots. He flinches, but keeps moving.
I'm quick on my feet and my height gives me a long reach, so I open the distance between us once again.
Just as I make another circle around the ring, something catches my eye.
It's a woman.
But not any women.
By the way the sun catches her hair and creates a glowing halo, I almost think she's an angel. She's beautiful; there's no doubt about that, and there's something magnetic about her. I can't seem to look away.
I watch as she walks over to Rocco.
WHAM!
I stumble.
I'm so unfocused that I feel a fist crash into my left temple. The boxer looks as me, almost surprised to see he landed such a solid punch.
The hit brings me back to the present and I quickly rebound, giving him a rapid right hook and connecting with his nose. He stumbles back, but can't maintain his balance and falls down on the mat.
This isn't a real fight, just a practice match, so I reach my hand down to help him up. He takes it graciously.
"Logan, someone's here to see you!" Rocco says.
Here? For me? Is it that angel of a woman?
I can't remember the last time a woman came into my gym looking for me.
"Be right there," I say, and I walk over to the edge of the ring, step through the ropes, and climb down. I grab a towel and wipe the sweat from my eyes.
Then I approach Rocco and the woman.
"This is Natalie," Rocco says, clapping me on the back. "I'll let you two talk."
"It's nice to meet you," she smiles, extending her hand. Her hand is small and delicate, and I make an effort to keep an easy grip. She's wearing a low-cut, tight blouse and I have to make an effort to not stare down the seductive cavern of her tits.
"How can I help you?"
"You have a nice gym," she smiles, ignoring my question.
"It's not bad," I shrug, still wondering why she's here.
"You might not recognize me, but I'm a local journalist," she says.
Journalist? I freeze. If it's one thing I hate, it's journalists. I don't trust them. I mean, who does? Every professional fighter I know has been burned by a journalist at least once in their life. That's why I usually keep to myself.
I shake my head and turn to leave.
"Wait," she says.
"I don't have time for this."
"If you don't want to talk … maybe I should just try my luck with Hunter …"
That name stops me dead in my tracks.
"What did you just say?"
"I think you heard me," she says, a grin widening across her face.
She's right. I did hear her, but it's a name I wasn't expecting to hear in my own gym, and from her mouth.
What does Natalie really want?
Natalie
7:55 pm reads the clock on my phone. I got here just in time, I think to myself as I stroll through the doors of the discrete sushi restaurant on the corner of Lexington Avenue and 52nd Street. You’d think that a multimillionaire athlete like Logan would choose something extravagant, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.
The restaurant looks homely and, despite having a small dining room area, there still are a few vacant seats by the counter. As I walk through the room, looking for a place to sit, I can’t help but feel that I’ve been transported from New York to a place hidden right in the middle of Tokyo. Everything in this place, from the tables to the décor, screams Japan. Even the employees behind the counter are chatting softly in perfect japanese. This definitely isn’t a trendy sushi bar, but something more traditional and grounded.
Oh, right, you’re probably wondering why the hell I’m going to a sushi restaurant chosen by Logan. It’s quite simple, really; I’m going to have dinner with him. You see, being a journalist has its perks. Even if you’re someone as unimportant as I am, press passes are always a good thing. For instance, press passes are what allows me to be places where I shouldn’t be—like Logan’s gym, for instance.
Maybe I should've done some more research beforehand, but I couldn’t resist the urge to go straight after my marks. I decided to start with Logan because he sounded like someone more… approachable. From what I’ve read, he’s level-headed and reserved, while Hunter is a complete trainwreck. While one likes to keep to himself, the other doesn’t mind being photographed while he parties hard inside the most exclusive nightclubs in the world.
The moment I said that I was a journalist, though, Logan shut down fast. I thought my mission had already failed, but I decided to trust my instincts, and my instincts proved to be correct. I mentioned Hunter just once, and I swear I saw something change in his posture. A few seconds later and he agreed to meet me for an interview.
I’m right, I can feel it; there’s a story in here, somewhere.
Sitting by the counter, I drum my fingertips against the surface, anxiously checking the time on my phone. It’s 8 pm sharp and, even though he isn’t late yet, I’m starting to worry; what if he doesn’t show up? Guys like him probably flake on journalists all the time.
“You’re early,” I hear someone say behind me, and I turn around on my seat to see Logan standing behind me. I didn’t even hear him come in. He’s wearing a simple tailored black suit, and it fits him so perfectly that I can’t help but wonder if that’s a consequence of an expensive tailor or of the ripped body he’s hiding underneath the fabric. Maybe it’s a bit of both? Either way, I’m surprised to see him in a tailored suit. It’s kind of stupid of me, but I always assume that athletes (fighters, mostly) wear funky clothes everywhere.
“And you’re right on time,” I tell him, smiling as I feel a wave of adrenaline wash over me. I can’t believe that a guy like him, one of the richest men in the sports world, agree to be interviewed by me. Michelle was right; these profiles on Logan and Hunter might give me some leverage back at the office.
“So,” he starts, taking the seat next to mine, “you want to do a profile on me. Is that it?”
“That’s right,” I reply. Maybe I should tell him that I’m profiling him and Hunter, but instinct tells me to keep my mouth shut about it. “I want t
o give the readers of the Gazette a glimpse at who the real Logan is.”
“The real Logan,” he whispers, more to himself than to me, and smiles. “I’m afraid that’s going to be one hell of a boring article… There’s nothing really remarkable about myself.”
“I doubt that,” I reply. I don’t even know why, but there’s something about him that tells me that he’s more interesting than most men, famous or not. It’s a kind of aura, one that exudes power and control.
“Have you ordered already?” he asks me and, the moment I shake my head, he turns to one of the guys behind the counter and starts saying something in perfect Japanese. Holy shit, what the hell’s this? He speaks Japanese?
“I grew up in Japan,” he says, readying my thoughts. “My father spent most of his military career stationed there.”
“See? Now that’s something I didn’t know, and it’s definitely interesting,” I chuckle, reaching inside my purse and taking out my notepad and a pen. I set them on the counter, ready to jot down his words, when he reaches for me and places his hand on top of mine.
“I know you’re here to do a job… But don’t ruin dinner, alright? You’ll have plenty of time to take notes,” he tells me, and my body reacts almost automatically; I store all my stuff inside my purse again, and I nod at him.
We spend the next few minutes making small talk, chipping away at the ice between us; when the sushi rolls start being served, I feel as if I've known him for years.
“God, this tastes so good,” I say in what almost sounds like a moan, the most delicious sashimi I’ve ever tasted inside my mouth.
“Asakura is a true sushi master,” Logan tells me, satisfied with what I just said. “And he’s my friend as well,” he continues, nodding at one of the smiling Japanese men. Asakura returns Logan’s nod (in truth, he almost bows down) and goes back to cutting thin slices of salmon.