Half-Hitched

by Isabel Sharpe

  But only because she didn’t want her acquaintance getting his face broken. Not because Rich’s huge, alarming body gave her...feelings. Most certainly not. He was singularly the most obnoxious man she’d met in ages.

  As shouts rose all around her, she realized she’d spaced out. The crowd roared, but with delight or disappointment? Men’s emotions all wound up sounding the same if you doused them with enough testosterone and alcohol.

  A winner was proclaimed, his sweaty arm hoisted by the ref.

  If Rich won his match, he stood a chance of “escaping the dungeon,” as Mercer had worded it—moving on to bigger and better things than toiling all day in the subterranean sweatbox also known as Wilinski’s Fight Academy. It had been a respected boxing gym in the eighties when Jenna’s dad, Monty, had opened it, but after a criminal scandal and the sport’s decline in popularity, the place had gone to seed. Now Mercer was at the helm, saddled with the unenviable task of bringing it back into legitimacy with the addition of MMA training and some overdue improvements. Delante and Rich winning their matches could do wonders, he’d said. Bragging rights were everything in this business.

  “I need a drink,” Jenna said, eyes finally open. Her face was pale. This was clearly not her sport. Too bad she’d fallen in love with Mercer. His years as an amateur boxer had left him with a misshapen nose and cauliflower ears, and Jenna must have been imagining it was his face being pounded every time a strike landed.

  She rose and Lindsey rooted in her wallet for a ten. “Get me a beer?”

  “Sure.”

  Lindsey was enjoying the exotic atmosphere. Cleaners had to disinfect the ring between matches, mopping away the blood and sweat, and the air was charged with adrenaline. She’d grown up in a family of hockey fanatics, but with hockey, the fights were a bonus—icing on a cupcake. MMA was nothing but frosting.

  As the prefight prep wound down, her fascination shifted. Rich’s match followed the next one. Her energy dropped low, humming in her belly.

  Just nervous for him, she told herself, nearly believing it.

  Rich was a handsome, fearless showman, the center of his own universe. And he was annoying enough simply acting as though Lindsey must be in awe of him when he swung by their office to flirt. He’d surely be insufferable if he found out she had an actual crush on him, as superficial and physical as it was.

  Superficial and physical and inconvenient. She was supposed to be trying to make her current relationship work.

  Work being the operative word. Relationships shouldn’t be work at twenty-seven. They should be fun and natural. But things with Brett were exhausting and serious, and if she wasn’t mistaken, they were moving backward. They’d gotten engaged before relocating from Springfield to Boston. He’d moved to take his first law job and she’d followed after securing her own gig as a wedding planner. He’d broken the engagement after one month of cohabitation. Nothing like faking adoration for other women’s diamond rings right after packing your own away in the back of your sock drawer.

  They’d needed to slow things down. Too many changes, too soon, he’d said. New city, new career, new home...old girlfriend, she’d inferred. A girlfriend who’d sufficed when Brett had been a broke student, but didn’t seem to be cutting it now. She knew that whatever he felt about the old apartments he’d lived in and his former identity as a kind, lovable dork...he now felt the same about her, too. They’d been friends since eighth grade, confidants through high school and finally a couple when Brett came back to Western Mass for law school. That history had been the backbone of their romance. But Lindsey had borne witness to the old Brett, and it seemed the new, polished, hotshot Brett resented her for it. It made living with him a daily struggle.

  Jenna returned, handing Lindsey a plastic pint of beer and a wad of change.

  “Thanks.”

  Jenna sat and gulped half her red wine in one swallow.

  Lindsey laughed. “You’re going to make the worst fight wife ever.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re actually enjoying this?”

  “Oh, God, yeah. I have no idea how to tell who’s winning, once they get rolling around on the ground, but it’s still fun. Plus...you know. Half-naked sweaty men.”

  Jenna shot her a squirrelly look. During a wine-soaked working lunch the previous week, Jenna had weaseled the Brett situation out of Lindsey. She normally liked to keep her personal life personal, but that was hard when your boss—and best friend in a new city—was pathologically romantic.

  Last week, Lindsey and Brett had been on-again. As of three nights ago they were off-again, to the tune of a mutually negotiated free-to-see-other-people experiment. They still cared for each other, but as friends now, more than lovers. She’d poured years of love and energy into what they had, but it had begun to feel like an obligation, not a commitment.

  “Brett doesn’t care if I look at other guys,” she assured Jenna. Let her think they were still together if it made her happy. “You’re not one of those types who think checking people out is cheating, I hope?”

  “I’m not that old-fashioned.”

  “It’s a very pervy sport,” Lindsey said with approval. “Our payback for women’s beach volleyball uniforms.”

  “You perv all you want, but I’m keeping my eyes shut. They ought to make special blurry glasses, so you can’t see the blood.”

  After a noisy introduction, the next match began.

  The guys seemed to be getting bigger, the crowd more excited. Lindsey felt the energy herself, an electric stirring in her middle, not quite fear, not quite arousal, but as primal as both.

  No shoes, no shirts, fingerless gloves. Muscular men rolling around. She scanned the crowd, surprised by how few women were in the audience. Then the guy on the mat took an elbow to the face and the resulting blood reminded her why that was. Jenna hissed with fear, squinting through her bangs.

  But Lindsey leaned forward, mesmerized.

  The very concept was thrilling—two humans stripped and tossed in a ring, out to prove which one was the stronger, better competitor with a minimum of rules, etiquette and padding. Lots of blood and sweat, surely lots of bruises when dawn arrived. Lots of...skin. Lots of everything she was missing out on since Brett had ripped his new, urbane identity out of an Esquire spread.

  The match ended with an anticlimax, the outcome decided by the judges. Next up, the third-to-last fight, yet as far as Lindsey was concerned, the main event.

  She watched the ring prep, heart thumping harder, harder, until she swore she could hear it over the rabble. She twisted her program into a tight tube again and again.

  “Rich is next,” Jenna said, the collar of her shirt fisted in both hands. “Why couldn’t Mercer be into fly-fishing? Or ultimate Frisbee?”

  “Too bad you didn’t inherit your dad’s love of fighting, huh?”

  Instead, Jenna had inherited the gym, along with a portion of the former factory that housed it. She’d been estranged from her dad but had moved to Boston to take advantage of her odd inheritance sight-unseen and open a new franchise of Spark, a regional matchmaking company. Lindsey was awfully happy she had. She liked her new job. In fact, she’d probably love it, once her own romantic hangover subsided. At the moment it wasn’t the easiest thing, mustering enthusiasm for other people’s relationships.

  “I just don’t get it,” Jenna said, blue eyes on the activity in the ring.

  Lindsey shrugged. “Mercer will never get matchmaking. It’s healthy to have some autonomy.” Did she believe that for real? Or was she just trying to make herself feel better about how much space she craved from Brett?

  The announcer scattered her thoughts.

  “Next up, the match to decide the New England MMA Light Heavyweight Championship!” Music started up and the gigantic arena screen displayed two open double doors.

  “In
the blue corner, defending his title, a mixed martial artist from Warwick, Rhode Island. Thirty-one years old, five feet eleven inches, two hundred and five pounds. Greg ‘the Trucker’ Higgins!”

  Striding down the aisle toward the cage, Higgins was meaty and pink-faced, with a tacky chinstrap beard and a trucker cap that helped explain his fight name. Several men in matching hats and shirts followed.

  Jenna clapped politely. Lindsey hated Higgins out of principle, and booed along with the minority as he strutted to Johnny Cash’s “I’ve Been Everywhere, Man.” He stripped to his shorts and entered the ring, warming up as his music faded.

  “A-a-a-nd in the black corner, a boxer and kickboxer hailing from Lynn, Massachusetts. Twenty-eight years of age, six feet three inches, two hundred and four pounds, Rich ‘Prince Richard’ Estrada!”

  Her breath hitched when Rich appeared on-screen. She twisted in her seat to watch him descend. His intro music was a remixed hybrid of hoity-toity chamber music and some infectious Latin hip-hop. He wore black warm-up pants and an open, deep purple sweatshirt lined with ermine fleece, hood cocked. Raising his arms, he welcomed the modest applause, and hisses from the Higgins fans. He dropped his hood with a grand, arrogant gesture and bared his chest, fists thrust triumphantly in the air, his entire body emanating 10,000 watts of pure, blinding smugness.

  Mercer trailed him, along with a couple other guys Lindsey recognized from Wilinski’s, his corner for the fight. Unlike Higgins, Rich’s team didn’t have special gear splashed with sponsor logos, just black T-shirts with Wilinski’s Fight Academy, Boston, silk-screened on the front.

  “This match will be comprised of three five-minute rounds,” the announcer confirmed for the fans.

  Rich stripped and Mercer shoved a mouth guard between his lips. When one of the guys from Wilinski’s slicked his arms and chest with Vaseline, Lindsey suppressed a ridiculous stab of jealousy. He entered the ring to warm up and the lights over the audience went dark as the music faded, setting Lindsey’s skin prickling.

  The men fought barefoot. Higgins wore loose-fitting kickboxing trunks covered in sponsorship logos. Rich sported far snugger, plainer shorts, ones that hugged his thighs and butt and...other places, and made Lindsey feel funny. Dangerous-funny.

  The men hopped and shadowboxed, keeping their muscles primed as the rules were announced. When Rich circled she could see the large tattoo inked between his shoulder blades in black and gray. The dark wingspan of a condor above a shield, framed by draped banners—the Colombian national crest, a snoop through the MMA message boards had told her. He had a mismatched design on the swell of his right shoulder—a circular field showing a river and horizon, an ax, an anchor—the seal of his hometown. There was a third one, a line of black Thai characters that ran down his ribs. Lindsey didn’t know what they said, only that he’d trained in Thailand for a year. All indelible reminders of where he’d come from, or perhaps souvenirs of where he’d been. Apt for a man destined to go places.

  What must it feel like, being in the spotlight, everyone’s eyes on you? Lindsey had always been a supporting player, tagging behind her popular older sisters when she was growing up; a barnacle along for the voyage when she’d uprooted her life to follow Brett. For her past clients, the invisible woman running herself ragged so their big days would go off without a hitch, and for her future clients, the temporary go-between broker, there to facilitate their first dates.

  As she watched Rich stretching his neck and shoulders, bathed in those pure white beams...she envied him. She’d never felt like someone whose entrance commanded the room’s attention, let alone an entire arena. Lindsey was always in the shadows, never the light, frequently thanked but never applauded.

  A blonde ring girl in a spangly bra-top circled the cage, flashing a sign that read Round 1. There was no bell. Instead the official shouted, “Let’s go!” and the men met in the center for a second’s grudging fist tap before jumping back, circling.

  Neither was shy. Both kept their guards up, feet busy. Rich baited his opponent with a couple short jabs, rewarded when Higgins took a swing. Rich dodged it and came back with a kick to Higgins’s thigh, then crowded him toward the chain-link.

  They traded minor hits, then Higgins escaped and retreated a few paces. Rich stayed on him, still baiting, getting him to toss out defensive jabs, sneaking in a punch here, a kick there when his opponent’s guard was open. For a while, the action seemed to slow. Higgins certainly seemed to slow, shifting from foot to foot, red in the face.

  Just when the fight was starting to get a bit boring—bam. Rich caught Higgins with a high kick to his ear. It bent the guy over, and Rich got him in the back of the knee and buckled him. Then, chaos.

  Rich was on his opponent, pummeling his head and raised arms with punches and elbow strikes, hard enough that Lindsey saw sweat or spittle flying under the lights. The crowd was roaring. She realized she was screaming herself, a stream of hysteria erupting from some well of untapped ferocity.

  Mercer stalked the periphery of the cage, shouting and jabbing the air. Lindsey wondered if Jenna was going to get soundly trounced tonight, and if so, she envied her. She could use a sound trouncing herself. Hell, she’d take a spirited dry-humping.

  Higgins managed to get his legs around Rich’s waist and shift them to their sides, but the effort looked desperate. Rich took a sharp hook to the temple, unfazed.

  An air horn blasted to end the round, and Rich was on his feet. Higgins wasn’t quite so quick to rise, and Rich wasn’t as courteous as some of the earlier fighters—he didn’t offer his opponent a hand up. Both made it back to their corners. Through the fence, Lindsey watched Mercer swab Rich’s now bleeding temple with some kind of goo, another guy forcing a water bottle to his lips.

  Her heart thudded so hard she felt high. She wished she were right there, close enough to smell him and see whatever fearsome energy was shining in his dark eyes.

  The ring girl did her prancy thing, then the round began. The men swapped punches and kicks. Lindsey hadn’t even taken two breaths and whack! A stunningly hard hook from Rich and Higgins went to all fours. Rich followed, ready to grapple, but an official stepped in and forced him away. There seemed to be a short window of time during which everyone waited for Higgins to make it to his feet, but it didn’t happen. He dropped his forehead to the mat between his elbows, body shifting uneasily from side to side, and suddenly—

  “A stoppage has been called, due to a technical knockout.” The crowd erupted in a mix of cheers and boos. Rich was corralled to the center by the ref, and once his opponent was helped to standing—

  “The winner—Rich Es-s-strada!”

  His arm was raised, and Lindsey shrieked like a banshee. Jenna caught up, looking confused but thrilled, having missed the single punch that had ended the round inside fifteen seconds. The earlier shot Rich had taken must have been worse than it had looked. A thin ribbon of red trailed from his temple down to his jaw. The announcer held the mike between them and asked, “How does it feel, earning your first championship title?”

  Between panting breaths, Rich answered, “Overdue.”

  “Good fight?”

  “If I ever get another match with Higgins, I want a scrap next time, not a slow dance.”

  This was met with major heckling from the Trucker fans.

  “Any other words?”

  He put his hands on his hips, chest still heaving. “Thank you, Merce, all you guys. Thank you, Mamá. Thank you, Diana. And thank you, Monty, wherever you wound up.” He gave a little heavenward salute and walked away from the mike.

  As Rich stepped down from the raised ring, Mercer greeted him with a beaming smile that seemed to ask, “What took you so long?” They shared a manly, brusque hug before a medical guy tidied Rich’s cut. Rich led the way back up the aisle, his corner following. Lindsey’s gaze caught on his back muscles, gleamin
g under the stark spotlight.

  “Wow,” she said, relaxing back in her seat.

  “If only all fights were that efficient.” Jenna frowned. “Except that would mean every fight ended with someone getting really badly hurt.”

  “Still. What a way to kick off your career.” In a few months, Lindsey could be shelling out a small fortune to watch Rich fight on pay-per-view. The thought was enlivening, except...

  Something soured her stomach. Rich wouldn’t be around much longer. Mercer had said he needed new guys to fight, more opponents in his weight class and at his level. He’d be off to a training camp, who knew where.

  She’d miss Rich’s ego-stroking flirtation, but it had been nice while it lasted. Exciting, without any messy romantic fallout. A crush. Someone to get secretly nervous about seeing, to put on eyeshadow for, without actually having to do any of the work of an actual relationship. Then again, also without getting to enjoy any of the perks, such as three rounds with Rich’s body in the ring better known as her bed.

  As if she’d have had the first clue what to do with him if she got the chance.

  With Delante’s and Rich’s victories secured, the final two matches were stress-free. By the time the main event was wrapped, Lindsey had officially caught the MMA bug. Swearwords she’d never uttered aloud had come streaming from her mouth unbidden, and she’d hopped to her feet so many times it was a wonder she hadn’t broken a heel or twisted her ankle.

  “Are you coming to the after party?” Jenna asked, organizing her purse. “Nothing glamorous, but free drinks once the press stuff is done. Merce and I could give you a lift later.”

  “Count me in. I could stand a little VIP treatment.” It wasn’t every day she’d get a chance to mingle in this strange, feral world.

  If she’d known she’d be going to an after party, she’d have dressed up a bit more. It was chilly for early fall and she’d worn jeans. Nice ones, with a cute top, but watching jacked, angry men attack each other had her feeling exceptionally feminine, and she wished she’d dressed to reflect that.