Scrapper: MMA Badboy Romance

by Chloe Ellison

  Listening to our recorded conversation brought to mind the fresh images of soap trailing down his spine and between his cheeks. Images that would forever be burned into my mind. I laughed out loud at some of the ridiculous things he had said to me. I probably smiled and blushed more listening to the interview the second and third times than when it happened. I thought I had held up well with him.

  I fell asleep late, and woke up with a half decent interview piece staring back at me in the morning.

  Another pot of coffee and a quick edit, and I sent the interview over to the site. There were two other writers who handled content, and Bryan ran the site technical side of the site. He was going to shit himself when he saw what was waiting in his inbox. Check out was at eleven, and I made the drive home in a particularly positive mood.

  I mentioned having a good feeling about the interview, but I didn’t even consider the potential it had for explosion. To me, it wasn’t long enough. Not enough content. But when you have a hungry audience that is dealing with almost zero coverage of an athlete, and suddenly there is an short interview with him, a little goes a long way.

  The interview was barely a page, and went live that afternoon. 12:01 pm exactly. Social media was alerted, and we let the rest take care of itself. Our servers were crashed by four. Bryan was good at what he did and had been preparing for it when he saw the initial spike in traffic, so it was only a minor setback.

  Bryan appreciated my bringing the story to him. We had worked on building the site for a long time, and our following was quite a bit larger than my own. It was the better choice, and I did have a sense of loyalty with the people at the site and the work we had already put in.

  The story brought an influx of traffic and was spread all over the internet. Our site had more views in twenty four hours than the entire rest of its existence combined. At the end of the article there was a link to my site, and the overflow boosted it as well. All of our other stories had an uptick, and we added almost ten thousand subscribers in a week. The money from ads alone was over a thousand dollars.

  It was a good start. We had visibility and a little bit of recognition. Emails were pouring in for a follow up. People wanted to know more about his brother, and about Cage’s life. Chad Gibbons, the president of the TFC, received hundreds of requests from Cage Edwards fans to sign his training partner Brandon Ewing. Things were happening quickly, but there was a lot of work that needed done to maintain it. My nose went to the grindstone, and I burned the midnight oils writing for my blog and the site.

  The second event on my TFC tour arrived quick, and the gig had already improved for me. I had upgraded credentials. I would be attending the post fight press conference once more, this time as part of the A crowd. I could ask questions to the fighters directly. The weigh ins were no longer on my to do list, the live play by play of the actual fights became my main responsibility. It was something new that we were trying with the site to keep fan interest high. I would be doing round by round summaries of the fights as they happened, and posting them for fans who didn’t purchase the Pay per view.

  The event was smaller in comparison to the previous one I worked. The main event was a heavyweight contender fight, and there were a few interesting matchups on the card but nothing that made it a major draw. There was no Cage Edwards or Jefferson Wilcox to bring the big time interest. That said, there were plenty of talented pros on the card and the hardcore fans were always hungry for fights.

  I sat cageside, in an area designated for media. All of the bigger name websites had reporters there, a sign I was doing something right. I typed away with a fury, forced by the nature of the fights themselves to keep up. At the end of the round, the fighters had sixty seconds to recover and converse with their cornermen. It was the opposite of my rest period, I had to catch up on the rounds and give a quick edit so that I could update the site live right as the next round began. There were hiccups, and abbreviated rounds early on, but I caught a groove, and settled in by the time the main fights rolled around.

  The recurring six minute deadline made that night different than being at the fights in any other capacity. I was watching the fights, but connected to my laptop. There was no taking it in, the more action that took place in the cage, the faster I typed outside of it.

  The live play by play was a success, and bumped our traffic throughout the event. There were enough complimentary comments by the end of the show that I was on cloud nine.

  “Angela! We have to start doing these. We got another huge bump.” it was Bryan. He called on my cell right away with an update. “Seriously, like 12,000 unique visitors in a few hours. This is what we need!” he rarely got excited, but the site was becoming a success. Day by day we were building an audience, and the clicks were adding up. Our site was developing value for advertisers at the same time as gaining credibility.

  “That’s awesome, I’m so glad. That was fucking hard.” I said, sitting down outside of the arena. We chatted a bit, but I had to cut it short. There was more work to be done. Press conference, and I was trying to score interviews with some of the local undercard fighters at the hotel.

  “You are the one who got the Edwards interview aren’t you?” one of the other press members asked me.

  “Yeah.”

  “Good work. I thought that guy was on permanent media blackout.” he said. We all huddled into the press pit and Chad Gibbons read through the official numbers. Before turning the fighters over for questions, he had an announcement to make.

  “We added a fight to the TFC 264 card, and it’s a big one.” he smiled, unable to hide his own excitement. “The new main event of 264 will be a middleweight title fight, between champion Cage Edwards, and challenger Jet Westerson.” as the words left his mouth, the two fighters emerged from the back, entering from opposite ends of the conference room, which had abruptly filled with chatter. Cameras flashed everywhere as the fighters made their way to the center of the room for the stare down picture. Security knew to be alert and remained close by.

  Jet Westerson had black hair, good looking and clean cut. He was a bit short for a middleweight, compact and strong. He wore a three piece suit, and filled it out well. Cage wore a tank top with board shorts and sunglasses. The difference in clothing choices spoke to their differences everywhere, including fight styles.

  The stare down minus the stare. Cage faced the media, alternating between flashing peace signs and middle fingers, all the while smiling and refusing to remove his backwards baseball cap or sunglasses.

  “Scared to look me in the eyes?” Westerson asked. Edwards didn’t react, or acknowledge him at all. Cameras continued to flash for the first official face off between the two fighters, but Cage wasn’t playing the game. Westerson continued to hold his hands in the fighting position, and his face flushed red with blood. “Hey! What kind of a champion are you?” he asked.

  “I am the champion!” Cage yelled the words, and gently beat his chest, addressing the press. “I am the champion!” he said again, his body angled away from his opponent.

  “Face me coward!” Westerson yelled to Cage as he walked away.

  “Cage, Let’s stick around for some questions.” said Gibbons, speaking into his microphone. He managed to get a response from Edwards before he exited the room with his coach following behind.

  “Fuck that.”

  There was a brief moment of awkward silence, and then the press conference picked up where it had left off. Gibbons was a bit flustered, uaccustomed to the athletes ignoring him. The fighters were available for questions, but the real story was the announcement of the Edwards and Westerson fight.

  While the press conference continued, I used my smartphone to quickly pen a summary of the fight announcement, as well as what had happened when the two fighters met, and put it live on my blog before re joining the conference. Covering the TFC was proving to be a serious hustle, and at times overwhelming.

  “I have a question for Nahko. Hi Nahko, great fight by the way
, very impressive.” I said, addressing the main event winner.

  “Thanks.”

  “This was a big win for you, and without a doubt moves you into the top 5. What do you see as the next step for yourself? Is it a title shot? Or do you think you need to fight one more elite heavyweight?” I asked, turning it over to him.

  “You might be asking the wrong guy.” he laughed. Nahko Spikes was a 260 pound power puncher with an uppercut that could turn a horse into a giraffe. Fans adored him. “Hopefully that strap. Everyone knows I’m the fans choice for the next title shot, but you never know. I’ll fight whoever. This is what I do.” he was soft spoken, and left it at that. I scribbled down his answer. My first press conference question.

  When it was over I got a cab back to the hotel. Staying at the same hotel the fighters did made it easier for chance encounters and interviews. I wanted to have a strong drink at the bar and then crawl into bed, but I had lined up an interview weeks before with a fighter named Chris Duncan. He had made his TFC debut that night, and won by early head kick knockout. I understood how big of a deal that it was for him to put celebrating the biggest night of his life on hold and I refused to take my foot off the gas pedal.

  “These bones are made for hustlin’.” I would say it to myself whenever I needed a boost. This was less about motivation and more about wanting to take off my uncomfortable shoes. I tipped the cab driver and headed inside to the lobby. Duncan was there waiting. An ice pack rested on his eye, and was still wearing fight shorts.

  “Angela? Nice to meet you.” he had a reputation in the fight community as a class act. We had spoken online but had never formally met.

  “Congratulations.” I said, very happy for him. His winning made the mood of our interview upbeat. Not always fun trying to talk to a man a few hours after being physically beaten in competition.

  The interview went smooth from the start. Chris had been fighting professionally for five years, and did media all the time. Each question was met with a sports cliche response. He was nice. Boring.

  “I really am my harshest critic.” he said. “Tonight was a good win, my team really had me well prepared in there.” and other gems, “hats off to my opponent, we knew he was a good fighter, and he proved to be a really tough challenge.”

  My highlighter illuminated the questions that I had already asked, and there were only a few remaining when the lobby went into a sudden uproar.

  “CHAMP!” someone yelled. I followed the sounds, and spotted Cage Edwards, surrounded by people, trying to walk through the lobby. His backwards cap was now forward, and worn lower to cover his eyes. His sunglasses were hooked on the neck of his tank.

  “I can’t stand that guy. He’s a fuckin’ prick.” Chris said, rolling his eyes. I was surprised to hear that coming from him. Our interview had paused, as we both watched the hype train rolling through. Until Cage stopped, and turned his head in my direction. We weren’t more than twenty feet apart, and he was looking right at me.

  “Hey you! Angela right?” he said, loud enough to be heard over the hum of people surrounding him. “When you finish up with small time, let’s finish that interview.”

  “Definitely.” I said, being struck by lightning for a second time.

  “I’m kidding. Now. Let’s go.” I stared back at him, and then looked to Chris. He shook his head, and his face had turned white. He said nothing, only waited for my response.

  “Uhm, this was really a great interview Chris. Thank you so much for your time.” I said, offering him a handshake. He flatly refused, and stormed off in a huff. He may have been cursing. “Hey!” I said, exiting the lobby to catch up. Cage waited for me at his car, and held the door so I could get into the backseat. He entered behind me, and slammed the door shut behind us. His young and baby faced driver looked back at us.

  “You brought a bitch?” he asked, and then slammed the gas. We screeched as we pulled away from the hotel and into the night.

  Four - Angela

  “This is my brother Chase.” Cage introduced me to his driver.

  “Sup?” Chase nodded his head. We were in an all black jeep, bouncing around as our lead foot driver propelled us ahead.

  “You roll that blunt while I was in there?” Cage asked, leaning forward to talk.

  “Yep.” Chase handed it back.

  “You smoke?” Cage asked.

  “No thanks.” I said. A minor was not the person I expected most champions would elect to usher them around, but Cage wasn’t most champions. His phone was vibrating with a call, but he ignored it.

  “We are going to a club for an after party thing. I figured we can hang out and talk.” his window cracked, and the smell of ganja filled the jeep’s interior after a fiery spark.

  “Sounds good. Do you know what club it is?” I asked. The jeep was a manual, and Chase drove it well, if not a little recklessly.

  “Loco Toro or something like that. Coach got me the gig.” he said. The brothers passed the blunt back and forth, and reggae music was in the air. Chase turned it up, and drowned out my opportunity to get the interview started early.

  It was ten after eleven, and we tore up the highway a few miles before pulling off at a downtown exit. The back window was cracked open, and the whipping sound of wind reminded me of summer nights being younger, driving too fast at a late hour. I breathed in, and mentally rehearsed the questions I planned on asking.

  “Here it is!” Chase exclaimed, taking the turn at 30 MPH and honking his way to the entrance. The place was packed, and people stood all around. The line to get in was forty or fifty deep. “I’m gonna go park, I’ll come find you in a minute.” he said. We had stopped right in front, and there was a massive poster of Cage, shirtless and wrapped in a title belt. One night only, party with the champ. Five dollars on select beers.

  “Let’s go.” Cage said, and pushed open the door to step out. “Follow me!”

  I was a bit shook up from the ride over, but did as I was told and stayed close. As soon as we were out of the car, it was chaos. Everyone in line held up their phones and pointed them in our direction, and there were flashes going off on both sides of the line as we entered.

  “Cage! I want your babies!” a woman yelled.

  “Champ! You da man!” screamed someone else. Cage flashed a peace sign but kept his head down and walked quickly to get inside. I struggled to keep up. There were security guards all around, and they ended up between us.

  “Ma am. You need to wait in line.” we were separated, and the doorman latched the rope in front of me.

  “I’m with Cage Edwards.” I said. He returned a condescending, disinterested glare.

  “Sure you are.” he said. I didn’t even have his number.

  “Angela. Hey! She’s with me.” it was Cage, he had pushed his way through to get me. “Give me your hand.”

  I reached out, our fingers latched, and he pulled me along. His hand engulfed mine entirely, and we made it inside.

  “We have a VIP table upstairs!” he said, yelling to be heard over the music. “Follow me!” once inside, his security detail was smaller. The entire club was lined with other bouncers ready to jump in should anything take place. They lead us up a flight of stairs and to our special VIP area, which overlooked the dance floor and main bar. The club was huge, and people were moving around and having a good time. The bar was translucent white, and multicolored lights beamed up through it. My tape recorder would be useless, I would have to trust my pen and pad. The upstairs area was split into four sections, with us occupying one of them. “Angela, this is Brandon Ewing, this is, what’s her name?” he asked Brandon for the name of the girl sitting beside him. “Trish!” he echoed the answer. They were the only others in our section.

  “Nice to meet you.” I shook his hand, and did the same with Trish before taking a seat. I was a bit under dressed, but it wasn’t like I had any warning. We were on the way when I learned I would be attending an after fight party at a club. I sat down beside Cage, and he
asked me what I wanted to drink. “Oh nothing, I’m fine thanks.”

  “Fuck that. We’re drinking tonight. It’s on me.” upstairs was every bit as loud as when we had walked in. I wasn’t sure how I was going to conduct an interview in the setting.

  “I’ll have a long island.” I had to cup my hands and speak into his ear. He nodded, and then leaned over to confer with Brandon. There were two shot girls upstairs with us, and our drink order was relayed to them. The service was quick, and they brought us two unopened bottles of liquor, two buckets of beer, and a couple of mixed drinks. I made a mental note to be careful, and to mind my pace. They may have been at the club to party and get wasted, I wasn’t. I could tell it would be in my best interest to play it cool, to have a few drinks, but I had to keep my head on straight. That little one page interview was nothing compared to what I could do with more time.

  “Thank you.” I said, taking my drink.

  “Everybody shots! Tonight is a big night. Brandon got a call from the TFC, straight from Chad Gibbons himself today. He wants to talk about a deal.” Cage spoke loud, shouting over the music. One of the shot girls arrived, and began unloading a mix of clear and brown shots onto our table. Minding my pace may be easier said than done. “To Brandon!” Cage slid a clear liquid shot in front of me, and everyone held up theirs.

  “To Brandon!” we all said in unison. Down the hatch, ugh. I typically avoided liquor. It was Vodka. Chase arrived seconds later to join us in VIP, despite being four years underage. There were two girls with him, probably in their early twenties, with big boobs and tiny dresses. One sat on each side of him. He looked happy.