by Claire Adams
“Will you hang out with me sometime?” He stumbled over his words as he tried to keep pace with me.
I stopped then and turned to look at him. “Hang out with you? Why would I want to do that?”
I turned again, and headed away from him. I couldn't think for the life of me why he was bothering me, out of all the girls on campus. I wasn't his type at all. I didn't know what he saw in me, or whether this was just a game of his to get me in the sack. My luck, I was some bet he had to win against his buddies. Oh man, I better not be a bet. Either way, I wasn't impressed at all by his behavior, and wondered what I could do to get him off my back. I had bigger issues to deal with than this guy.
“Come on, Natalie, just give me a chance. I'm really not a bad guy. Yes, I have a reputation, and I always like to have a good time in one way or another, but it's all in good fun.”
“I bet it is.”
“I'm not out to hurt you, Natalie.”
I ignored him. What did he expect me to say? Of course, he was going to say something like that. Did I really expect him to tell me he was going to stampede all over my heart? This guy was a real rich one.
I was headed to the library, and was surprised to find he stayed with me the whole way. He may be a glutton for punishment after all.
“Please, Natalie?”
“Why do you want me to hang out with you?”
“I like you, and I think if you lightened up, you would actually have some fun with me.”
I snorted, “Jet, please, I don't need to lighten up. I'm really not interested. It's not even so much you. I'm not interested in anyone right now.”
“That's the best news I have heard all day, and here I thought it was just me you hated.”
“Oh, well then, I'm glad to brighten your day.”
We arrived at the library, and I thought with no small amount of amusement, that there was no way a guy like Jet would be caught dead in a library where souls arrived to study. He was just a stupid jock; no real depth going on inside him, and I wouldn't be caught dating him, either. What the hell would the two of us talk about? That's why he couldn't be genuinely interested in me; it just didn't make sense for us to start dating.
“What do you say, Natalie, hang out with me sometime?”
I was in a hurry to get in the library to study, so I pushed through the doors, and yelled over my shoulder, “Maybe ... sometime. Bye.”
“Well, I'll take that. It's good enough for me.”
I didn't look back as I heard the door close behind me, and thanked God he hadn't followed me in. I looked around for a table in a quiet area. When I found one way in the back of the library, I settled there and got down to studying. I started taking my books back out of the bag, and lined them up on the table. Here I go again, I thought. I refused to think about that imbecile; all I wanted was to focus on my studies for the time being.
Chapter Four
Jet
I headed into the university's state-of-the-art training center, and strode to the locker rooms. There were a lot of guys training that afternoon, and the air in the room was electric with spirit and energy. Many guys were preparing for their own upcoming fights. We had a strong team for the school, and in the past two years had brought back many medals and trophies.
I opened my locker door and grabbed my hand wraps. I also grabbed shin pads and MMA gloves. I wasn't sure what training entailed that day, but I had to be prepared for anything. I went out to where the boys were training, and sat on the bench to watch. As I watched my teammates boxing or grappling, I started to wrap my hands. It wasn't something that I did all the time; it was really unnecessary for experienced fighters, but I liked the tightness of it. It made me feel in control of my own hands. I began putting my thumb through the wrap hole, and began wrapping against my knuckles, then against my palm, down my wrist, and then over and over again until the wrap ended, at which point I secured it. I started on the other hand as I watched the fighters, wondering what was in store for me that day.
My coach was just finishing up with one of my teammates. I saw him slapping the guy on the shoulder, congratulating him on a good fight session. He was a good coach, strong and dedicated to all the students that went through the MMA training program.
I spent a lot of time in the gym―more than I liked, but I planned on being a champion, so this was all part of the lifestyle of a fighter. You killed yourself for the chance at greatness, which was something that not everyone had a taste of. I lived for MMA―there was just no sport like it, and I thrived on it. I trained daily, always working on something different so that I never overworked or strained a body part. An injury was the last thing I needed, so my trainer was always careful to keep me fluid in one way or another. The goal was to master your craft, not destroy your body to the point where it could no longer perform properly. If you did, your MMA career was over, and no one wanted that.
I watched as my coach, Robbie, came over, all smiles, ready to kill me another day. “Hey, Jet. How's your day going?”
“You know me; always ready to kill it.”
“How do you feel?”
“Good. Really good; I slept like a baby last night.”
“That's what I like to hear. Need you full of energy for your upcoming fight.”
“Yeah, it's not far off now. I can't wait, man. I'm bringing home another medal.”
“Hell yeah,” Robbed laughed. “You are so ready for this, man. I’ve got complete faith in you. You’ll bring the house down.”
That is what I loved about Robbie; he knew how to get your head in the game. He was behind his guys 110%, and he fought just as hard for a win as we all did. He was an amazing trainer, and one hell of a guy.
“You ready to get started, then?”
“Yeah, of course. What's up first?”
“Let's start with the heavy bag rounds; work on your striking.”
I put on my gloves, and we headed over to the bags, he set a timer and we got into it. It was a great workout when my coach had me working heavy bag rounds. It was the best possible cardio exercise available. It burned straight through you, and if you could work hard in the gym―really kill yourself―then the fights were easy. Training is where you burn yourself out; that way, you are ready for the fight, and you won't tire out. Many people didn't realize that as they spent hours on the treadmill. You could burn far more calories in less time by doing heavy bag rounds. It was a more intense endurance training than just running.
It would be a tough day, as I would be worked to exhaustion. Heavy bag rounds consisted of 10 two-minute rounds that mimicked a fight sequence. I had to throw everything I knew, such as elbows, spinning back kicks, punches, and knees. I had to use speed and accuracy to ensure that not only was I quick, but powerful. You could only be powerful if your technique was on the nose, otherwise you were just a sloppy fighter. I had to complete all 10 rounds with no break and no water. If I survived, I would be awarded a water break that lasted no more than a minute.
I began my rounds and threw combinations of jabs, rights, and hooks, all landing in a pop, pop, pop motion, knuckles engaging with the bag in one fluid motion. I didn't think of anything else but my imaginary opponent. I stayed focused, sweat pouring off of me as I handled round after round. My trainer stood in the corner, coaching me on where to throw, reminding me of what I needed to work on.
My last strike hit hard as the bell went off. I was dripping sweat on the mats, my shirt drenched, but I felt exhilarated.
“Good job, Jet. You stayed focused, you dug deep. That's what you want, man. When it comes to winning, sometimes you need to dig deep. Fight through the pain, Jet, and you will always be a winner. Now go get a drink of water, and then meet me back here for pad work.”
I headed for the water cooler. Once there, I grabbed a bottle of water, and drank half of it without blinking an eye. I needed to be careful; I loved the cool, quenching taste of water, but too much of it could cause me to cramp up in a fight. I wiped the sweat off my br
ow with my shirt. I practiced my breathing to slow down my heart rate. Breathe in slowly through the nose, and out through the mouth. Do that a few times and your heart rate slows right down. It refreshes your body to allow you to keep going.
I headed back to where Robbie was holding the pad. At the last minute he decided to do pad work with me in the ring for two rounds.
“Feeling lucky?”
“Pad work is where I always win, Robbie; you know that.”
He chuckled, and held up a large Thai pad in front of his body, and when the bell rang, we would spar. The purpose of the exercise was for me to avoid being cornered. I would have to throw whatever I could at the pads, keeping my opponent off of me, and ensuring I would not be pushed in the corner. It was the trainer’s job, however, to apply pressure, and force me into the corner. The exercise proved to be exhausting, but highly effective, because if you could build up enough endurance with someone's body weight on you, a real fight should be a piece of cake. It was also why weight training was important. If your opponent was strong and you were not, then you would never be able to push his weight off of you. It was highly important to have balance in training, and weights certainly had their place. We only did a few rounds of those, because it could take the life out of you and we had much more work to do.
“Alright, kiddo, good work. You really fought me off in there, that's what I like to see.”
“Hell yeah.”
“Let's get the focus mitts and work on your technique.”
We got out of the ring, and headed for the mats again. I took a moment to grab some water and breathe a bit while he fetched focus mitts from the back room. He returned quickly; however, he didn't want to allow me to cool down.
“Let's go!”
Next, Robbie had me do more pad work, but this time with focus mitts. Using focus mitts forced a fighter to use good technique, or risk missing the pad completely. All that you could hear across the gym was the pop, pop, pop of my gloves hitting the pads. We did five rounds of that, and ended our day in the cage. He had me do two rounds of light sparring to get a feel for how I was doing. At this point, I really needed to dig deep as a fighter, because I was gassed. It was a hard training session that just seemed never-ending. When our round ended, he invited in a freshmen teammate who was not part of the starting squad.
“Hey, Josh, come in here and spar with Jet. You might as well get your feet wet. Don't go hard on him though, Jet.”
I just nodded.
The sparring rounds were good, and kept me on my toes. It was an excellent way for me to see where my weaknesses were. I was also allowed to use all my tricks. I could keep the fight going as a stand-up, or I could take it to the ground. It all depended on how the fight went, and what my opponent's weaknesses were.
The kid wasn't bad for a freshman, but he had a lot to learn. He would get there though, they always did. We ended our round, and touched gloves before the kid headed out of the ring. I took my gloves off, and got out of the ring myself. I sat down on one of the benches and took off my shin pads. I was taking my gear off, but my workout was not complete. We still had weight training, and we’d be focusing on back and biceps. I grabbed a quick rinse, and followed Robbie to the weight area.
We did a series of back exercises that left my muscles shaking, and then proceeded into bicep curls in various ways. We went to muscle failure, where my arms felt like jelly, and I wondered if I would be able to pick up a coffee mug the next day.
By the time I was done training, I felt jacked and ready to get into a fight. It was only a matter of time.
“You're all done for the day, Jet. Go relax, have some fun. But not too much fun.”
I laughed as I headed to the locker room to grab my bag. I put away my gloves and gear, and shut the locker door. I heaved my bag over my shoulder and got the hell out of the training center before Robbie found something else for me to do.
Chapter Five
Natalie
It was a beautiful day for the art walk, and I was in my own private art tent, setting up. I had arrived a little late, due to a terrible night’s sleep. I had to get my showcase set up, and the show was opening up in less than an hour. I began by hanging my drawings, one by one. They were all in a particular theme, and it was important to set them up in such a way to allow the viewer to understand exactly what I had in mind when I drew them. From there, I put up my pastels, and finished with watercolor. I only showcased my best work, as I considered myself a serious artist.
One of my classmates, Brenda, showed up with a cup of coffee, and I almost kissed her for it.
Having my work showcased for the entire city to see was an exciting opportunity for me. Not only did I get a chance to make a local name for myself, but I got to make a quick buck. Students need more opportunities to make quick cash, and although I doubted that I would sell out that day, at least I would have some pocket change.
I proudly stood aside as people came in and out of my tent, looking at the paintings and drawings up for show. I was particularly good at drawing with ink, the kind of ink right out of a bottle. I also specialized in watercolors and pastel drawings. It was an incredible feeling to create something out of nothing. To put ink to paper without a thought in mind, and have an inkling of an idea take shape on paper, and turn it into something incredibly inspiring that would move a person so much that she needed to buy it and hang it in her own home.
I said hi to a woman who arrived with a little girl in tow. The little girl had been gazing dreamily at a painting of mine with a moon lighting up a streetscape. She couldn't keep her eyes off of it. My heart filled at the thought that someone so young found something compelling in one of my paintings.
“Your girl is mesmerized there. How old is she?”
The mother looked up at me from a drawing and said, “She's 4, and yes, she certainly knows what she likes.”
I bent down towards the little girl, and asked her what she liked about the painting.
“It makes me feel magical.”
“Thank you.” I smiled at her before returning to my chair, where I had been sitting with a classmate of mine named Brenda, the one who had brought me a cup of coffee. A girl after my own heart, to be sure. Her media of choice had been photography and her work was breathtaking. She had stopped at my tent to take a break before the show started.
The mother approached me with the drawing she had been looking at, as well as the painting her daughter had grown so attached to.
“I would like to buy these.”
I smiled, and wrapped them up for her with paper before handing them back.
“That will be $50, please.” The woman paid, and then took her daughter’s hand and left.
I sat back down once again.
“You really need to start charging more for your work, Natalie, you are practically giving the stuff away.”
“One day maybe. I'm not too worried about it right now. When the time is right, I will.”
“You could have easily made $300 bucks right there, though.”
“I know, but it seems like an awful lot of money...”
“You're an artist Nat, and you have to understand that your work is worth that much.”
“Like I said, one day.”
“All right, I hope so. So what have you decided to do for your changing object project?”
“Ugh, I have no idea. I keep trying to come up with something creative but it's just not happening. I should be able to come up with something, but every time I think about it, I get ... nothing.”
I sipped on my coffee, enjoying the heat that the creamy liquid offered my throat. The day just couldn't get any better for me. I certainly didn't think it could get any worse, but that was until Jet showed up.
He walked into the tent like he owned the place, and I couldn't believe that I couldn't shake the guy.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here? I found you at last,” he chuckled as he said it.
“What are you doing here, Je
t? I wouldn't expect you to find you out at an art walk.”
“Well, I figured you would be here, and I wanted to see you.”
I looked over at Brenda, whose mouth was awkwardly dangling on the ground. We artists weren't use to incredibly hot guys visiting our art tents. I nudged her arm so she could get a handle on herself.
There was no doubt about it, Jet was insanely good-looking. Most girls would swoon over that black hair and brown eyes, not to mention the body of a Greek god. The problem for me, however, was every time I looked at him, I was reminded of my boyfriend, and all he had done to me. I was not over the pain of finding out he cheated on me, and chose my best friend to do it with. How could I trust another man after that, especially one as smooth as Jet? He was used to getting whatever he wanted from women. How was I any different? I had to assume I would be used and abused, just like the rest of them.
I continued to sip my coffee while he looked at me for some sign of affection.
“What do you want, Jet?”
“A date, one date.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“You promised me, though.”
I snorted. “Oh is that what that sounded like to you? Do you know what a promise actually is?”
“You are such a hardass. I can't get through to you no matter what.”
“That's the truth.”
He smiled. “Well, why the hell is that?”
“Too many reasons to list.”
“There was this guy ...” Brenda chirped up.
“Brenda!” I yelled.
Jet laughed. “Come on, you can't be blaming me for whatever some guy did to you in the past. It's too cliché.”
I felt my blood pressure rise. “I'm not blaming you for anything. I just don't like you, and I'm entitled to my opinion.”
“Damn. Why are you so cold? I'm actually a fun guy to hang around with. You know how to have fun, don't you?”
“I do!” Brenda chimed in once again. Both Jet and I turned to stare at her, and as she blushed, I smirked.
“Thank you for that, Brenda.”