Don’t You Dare: A Bad Boy MMA Fighter Romance

by Claire St. Rose

  But worse than the new wannabe fighters were the men in business suits. They silently circled around the training rings, taking pictures with their phones and typing away at their laptops. Occasionally, they would take notice of Micah actually practicing, but it would last only seconds until they were back on their cell phones, making calls to their partners at corporate.

  Micah’s coach, Dean, dealt with the majority of these men. Very rarely did the sponsors or business partners approach him directly. It was a bit of a relief not have to focus on the business side of the profession. After all, he was never great with marketing himself. He just came to win, to fight, to draw blood. The money and lifestyle was just a bonus.

  Micah tossed his bag in Dean’s empty office. He spotted the coach’s office chair, the same one he sat in when Micah sucker punched him when he learned Dean had manipulated Alice into letting Micah go. The memory was still fresh and raw, but the ties between the fighter and the coach went too far to cause further damage. Instead, Micah knew he had to let it go and move on for the sake of his career. Dean, Micah hoped, had learned his lesson and would leave Micah’s personal life out of his ring.

  Micah re-entered the gym only to walk straight into a large, black TV camera. The camera operator slammed into his chest and neck, bruising an old wound. “What the shit, man?” he shouted out of frustration.

  Dean, dressed in a polo shirt and slacks, ran towards him, holding out his hands to relax the man. “Micah! Man of the hour! Before you get on the treadmill, these fine people from Kinetics Energy Drinks needs you to say a few lines on camera.”

  Micah looked at his coach curiously. No one had told him he had to make a commercial. This was not part of his deal. Wearing a sponsor’s logo was fine, but he was not one for talking, let alone reading lines off of a page for the sake of a fake endorsement.

  Dean spotted his reluctance. He took the man’s shoulders, at least a half foot taller than his own, and spun him around to face the wall. “This is part of the game, Micah. You read the cards, you take a drink, and you walk away with a quarter million. Just like that.”

  “How ‘bout actually practicing?” Micah demanded.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, we’ll get to that—we will. Just do this first, and then I’ll call the trainers in.” Before Micah could protest, Dean turned him back around and showed him to a waiting makeup artist who powered his face and then spritzed his torso with a small water bottle.

  “It’s fake sweat,” the makeup artist explained. “Girls love to see a sweaty guy. Guys will love it, too.”

  “Or, y’know, I could just get on a treadmill and run for a bit.” Micah understood the façade but was not about to give in.

  “You could, but that would probably ruin the fun for me.” The older woman winked at him and continued to spritz away at his shoulders and arms. When she finished, she introduced him to the commercial’s producer who explained what he needed to do. It all sounded so simple. He just had to read three lines off a cue card and then take a drink.

  His first take was too passive. His second was too excited. His third just wasn’t “right.” To make matters worse, the drink was sticky sweet. It stuck to the roof of his mouth, giving him a weird berry-flavored aftertaste that was almost acidic. By the fifth take, Micah’s frustration was palpable. It wasn’t until take nine that the producer seemed satisfied with his few words and drinking abilities. As soon as the producer shouted, “That’s it! We got it!” Micah grabbed a towel, washed the gunk off of his face, and grabbed the only open treadmill. Tossing his headphones on, he ran. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Dean shook the producer’s hands and accepted a small white check, placing it in his own shirt pocket.

  Micah cranked up the speed on his treadmill further and the volume on his headset higher. He reminded himself that he just had to get through today. However, the sight of seeing Dean transform from helpful coach to seedy manager weighed heavily on his mind, eating away at his thoughts.

  He stopped the treadmill suddenly and hopped off. He watched as Dean finished off a conversation with another man in a suit and then headed back to his office. Micah followed behind, sticking out his hand between himself and the door to keep Dean from unknowingly locking him out of his office.

  “You have work to do.” Dean didn’t even glance up at Micah. Instead, he continued glancing through piles of piles of paperwork.

  “What is going on with this Dean? I told you from the get-go that I was not about this fake bullshit. These endorsement deals, these crappy drinks—I’m not here for that crap.” Micah attempted to be calm, but his voice was still agitated by the situation at hand.

  “Listen, Micah, I’m helping you become the professional fighter everyone talks about. This is part of the game you have to play. Take their money and do your job.” Dean’s eyes were still fixed on a paper contract sitting on his desk.

  “Then, I don’t want it.” Micah crossed his arms and sat down on the chair across from Dean’s desk. “Not this, anyway. Whatever the fuck this is, it’s not fighting.”

  Dean glanced up, studying the man before him. “You want to go back to living in a retirement home with your grandmother? You want to go back to working twelve-hour days at the yard being someone else’s bitch? Because if you do, that’s fine. Go ahead. The door is over there.”

  Micah considered his words. It was Dean, after all, who convinced Micah that he could make a career out of MMA fighting. And not just a career, Dean had promised him a better life for him and his grandmother. No more rundown assisted living homes, no more cutting classes to make it to work where he lied about his age for a job, no more chasing scraps of food and booze with whatever he could come up with money wise. Because of Dean, his life had changed dramatically.

  “What is this about, Micah?” Dean looked him up and down—as if he could tell that something was different, perhaps missing. “It’s not her, is it?”

  “Who?” Micah egged him on, knowing that Dean wouldn’t dare mention her name—at least not after the knockout punch he delivered the last time he brought her up.

  “So, it’s over? You ended it?” Dean’s gray, burly eyebrows arched suspiciously, questioning.

  “That’s what you told her to do, wasn’t it? That’s what you wanted me to do, as well.” Micah’s face turned to stone. He was not about to let Dean know that the relationship had continued despite his attempts to kills it.

  “I only ask because a reporter came to me asking about a girl he spotted you with after the match. From the description, it sounded a little too close to her for my comfort. Red hair, long legs. It seemed to fit.”

  Micah’s heart raced as he swallowed hard. “It was just a girl from the outside. Security let her slip by. Do you have a problem with that or should I take my vow of chastity now?”

  “I don’t have a problem with you hooking up with ring girls. I have a problem when your training suffers and you start losing matches. And that’s what happens when you’re with…her…”—Dean stopped himself from saying her name outright—“…when you’re with a girl that takes up your time and energy. Stick with the ones you can screw and lose.”

  Micah stood up, wanting no more to do with the man he once considered to be a father figure. His anger boiled and tumbled in his throat and veins. Reaching for a poster of himself at an old match, he ripped it down, crumbling it in his hands. Without turning back, he tossed it bitterly on the ground and walked out of the office without another word.

  He had work to do, and he wasn’t about to waste another minute listening to Dean and his opinion of how his life should be. After all, what did he know about life outside MMA? He spent his days living, working, and breathing in his cramped brick office. The only times he ventured out was to get to a match or scout a local talent someone had given him a lead on. Even his coaching had become a joke. Micah knew his motivation, and it sure as hell wasn’t giving Micah the life that he “deserved” anymore. It was all about the bottom line, the percentage h
e could get.

  Micah grabbed his sparring gloves from locker on his way to the ring. He noticed his phone flashing in his bag. It was a message from Alice:

  “Do you have an ETA on that car? I need to see you.”

  He could guess why she needed him. His fist hurt just thinking about it.

  Chapter 15: In Action

  If Alice were to be honest, she would admit that waiting for a private car never really got old. In fact, she secretly loved the idea of being chauffeured to and from places, her own personal assistant to open her door, offer her a bottle water, and place her bags in the trunk. It was the kind of luxury that she knew she only got from being Micah’s secret. But, as she waited by her bedroom window for the black sedan, she couldn’t help but feel like a part of his world by proxy.

  However, today Alice was growing impatient of constantly having to wait. The normal routine was for her to meet him at the gym, as she waited in the backseat of the car. But Micah’s texts had her running a bit scared. The change of plans sent chills up her spine, as she looked for the possible red flag to come. Why would he want her to stay far away from the gym and his practice time?

  The hours passed one after another. She attempted to concentrate by painting a bit more, but her mind wandered and her work looked almost uncharacteristically sloppy. Even her prized painting, the one she started when she first began seeing Micah, suffered from the paint dripping unevenly in places.

  Seven o’clock rolled around. Her stomach growled, as she debated going ahead with dinner without Micah. She questioned sending him a text but stopped herself, knowing that if he was still at practice, he wasn’t going to answer his phone until he was done. Instead, she said screw it and cooked up some quick pasta with spaghetti sauce and sat down to watch television.

  Eight o’clock—nine o’clock—ten o’clock—her eyes struggled to stay open as she watched the late night news. As she curled up under a blanket, her head filled with thoughts of where Micah could be, a knock shook her apartment and brought her back to life. She walked slowly towards the door, cautious of opening. After her mugging, she was not too keen on breaking safety protocols.

  “Alice.” A low, almost rash voice floated into the living room where she stood debating opening the door. “Alice, open up.”

  She unlocked the chains and pushed the door open wide. Micah stood outside, decked out in a light leather jacket, a pair of jeans, and a black, tight fitting t-shirt, he was dressed to kill. His face, however, said otherwise. Without a word or an embrace, he shuffled past her and sat on the couch, grabbing the remote from the end table and turning the volume down.

  Neither spoke until Alice grew wary. “What happened to the car? I thought I was going to meet you after practice?” She tried to make it not sound accusatory, but she couldn’t help but be a bit suspicious. After all, his practice normally finished around five.

  “I was held up.” He was not in the mood to talk, she could tell, but Alice shot him a glance that forced him to continue. “Dean had me doing these commercials with this sports drink or something. I didn’t start practice till late.”

  “So, then, what are you doing here? Why didn’t you just text me that you were running late?” A million other things ran through her head, but she kept it low key. He was obviously not in the mood to play along or to share.

  “I’m here because I’m here. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t tell you because…” he stumbled looking for an answer. He honestly wasn’t entirely sure why he was at her place today. “I didn’t tell you I was coming because I didn’t think it mattered.”

  “It does matter if Caroline was home. It does matter if you were followed.” It also mattered to her.

  “I know. Let’s just drop it, okay? You said you wanted to talk to me about something, so let’s just move on to that.” Micah hadn’t once glanced up at Alice. Instead, he waited for her to slam him with something, to make his day even worse than it already was.

  “I talked to my boss today.” Micah’s heart sank, as she continued. “He gave me some vacation days and changed my schedule back to afternoons. Since I’m no longer welcome at your practices, I guess that will work out.”

  “Yeah…” Micah waited for her to continue.

  “Yeah what? I thought you would be thrilled. It will be no more sneaking out at four in the morning to get to my morning shift. No more working seven days in a row if I don’t want to. I can take time off and travel with you to your tournaments if you want. Why is this not a big deal to you? If you’re worried I cannot be at your local matches, I get off of work at seven now, which should give me enough time. ”

  Micah kept quiet, unsure of where to go with this. It was happy news, but it was also completely unexpected. “Yeah, it is great. I’m glad to hear it.”

  “When is your next match, this Saturday? I want to make sure I have it in my calendar.” She sat down next to Micah on the couch, as she grabbed her phone and opened up the schedule.

  “Saturday,” he stammered. “Yeah. The Breakthrough Invitational. Saturday’s the—uh—the prelims—” Before he could continue, Dean’s words came back to him, haunting him once more. In order to continue fighting his way to the top, he had to be in the best form. Could he risk her being there? His performances since dating her had been so uneven. One minute she was his inspiration, the only thing keeping him alive. But those were easy matches with slim targets. He probably would have won those outright with or without her around.

  But the Invitational was something else. It would be huge with promoters and sponsors begging to bring those to the next level. Dean’s “quarter mill” comment played like a broken record. What would happen to that money if he moved up? What could he do for himself, his family, even Alice if he had that kind of cash sitting around?

  “Micah, I asked you what time your fight was at.” Alice was growing impatient. It was late, and she really had no energy to be ignored.

  Micah returned his focus with new determination. “I don’t want you there. Can you sit this one out?”

  “What?” Alice was stunned. First, he was telling her to stay away from the gym, and now there was this? She wasn’t sure what this all meant. “What are you asking me?”

  “I’m asking you to stay home. I can’t have you distract me.”

  “A distraction?” Her voice raised, insulted. He had never once referred to her presence as being an issue. Now, she couldn’t help but feel like he was putting his past losses and failures all on her.

  “Okay, hang on. That’s—that’s not what I—look, Alice, I have to think about my career. And when you’re around, it’s like, my focus goes… elsewhere.”

  “Gotcha,” she said huffily. “So it’s my fault you suck lately.”

  Micah moved closer to her in an attempt to calm her, but she scooted away. She didn’t want anything to do with him, let alone let him get any closer to her. “Alice,” he whispered tenderly, “it’s just one match. Let’s just see how I do without you there.”

  “One match?” she said bitterly. Micah nodded his head in a reply. “Fine. I’ll stay home. I’ll watch it on TV like everyone else. But don’t you fucking dare blame me if you lose. Whatever happens is all on you.”

  Micah could feel that he had wounded her; he had taken away a part of her pride. But he knew it was for the best. With Dean already suspicious of him and reporters chasing her down, this was the only way he could protect her. He knew she wasn’t ready for a life in the celebrity bubble. And if he won the Invitational, it would be even harder to keep up. Taking a step back, away from the sneaking around and the lies, was the only way to make sure these moments lasted as long as possible.

  There was a long pause. Micah looked down at his feet, then towards the kitchen, and finally back to Alice. “So… any leftovers from dinner?”

  Alice couldn’t help but break into a smile. It was a question only a man could bring up after a fight. She walked into the kitchen and grabbed the remainder of the pot of pasta,
pouring it out onto a bowl. From the refrigerator, she grabbed one of Caroline’s beers. She returned to the couch and watched him dive ravenously into his meal.

  The moment, to Alice, felt so normal. This is what real couples do. They come home from work; they eat their home cooked meals; they watch their late night talk shows. It may not be perfect or full of fame and fortune, but this was what it was supposed to be. It pained her to think that life with Micah was always going to come with strings attached, like photographers and journalists hounding him while his coach pressured him to chase tail. She didn’t sign up for that.

  But as the two slept soundlessly into the night, her head resting on the expanse of his naked chest, she remembered that it may not be perfect, but this was what it was. Every moment with him brought her closer to the kind of love she wanted to both give and receive.