Scrapper: MMA Badboy Romance

by Chloe Ellison

When I came onto the scene, I was out of control. It worked for me. My technique needed work but I was freakishly athletic. So I attacked. It was the one thing that could get me out of trouble no matter what. If an ass needed a whooping, I was the one to do it. The first day I trained martial arts, Walker told me I punched and kicked hard already.

  “You suck, but ya got power. And that’s something.” I remember thinking it was the greatest compliment anybody ever gave me. If I punched it, or kicked it as hard as I could, it was going to break.

  I got better, and so did the opponents, but no one could stop my offense. The only person who had stayed calm, and been willing to take a few shots, and weathered my initial storm ended up submitting me late in the fight when I was too tired to do anything about it. It was a lesson I carried with me going forward. Cardio, and keep getting better at jiu jitsu. They were my weaknesses, so it was easy to stay focused on them. It was nice having a brother who had a mind that worked well for jiu jitsu, and a girlfriend who was the same. Angela was very basic, a master of the traditions and fundamentals.

  “Position over submission.” was her saying. Armbars, chokes. She was very old school. So God damn sexy having a woman who can kill a mother fucker, and no one looked better in a gi.

  Chase was a technician, obsessed with all the small and unorthodox details of modern attacks. Weird grips for front chokes. They call them guillotine chokes for a reason, if you do them right, your head is damn near coming off. Chase was the new school. Like I said, sometimes, shit works out.

  The worst part about fighting, by far, is weight cutting. Putting on gloves and a mouthpiece, throwing bombs, and letting it all hang loose in front of thousands is more like the drug. The rush. It’s easy, and fun. Getting there is the difficult part. When you show up to compete in a cage fight against another man who spends his life sharpening his ability to fuck another person up with his bare hands, you’d like to know that you are well prepared. I was. All of the workouts, the sacrifices, the sparring, the flavorless kale and tuna. I did it all. There were only two things left to do. Make weight, and beat Jet Westerson in a fist fight. Too easy.

  The flight to Vegas had to come first. I was still young but I had made it before. You get old quick in fight years. Walker, Justin, and Chase made the flight as my cornermen. I brought Angela along because I would need her after the fight. I’m not sure how she felt about seeing me fight, she kept quiet about it. I appreciated that. No fun hearing your woman talk about her nerves when you are trying to stay focused.

  The main event in a sold out casino. A bunch of beer swilling morons in skull t shirts who want blood, it’s awesome.

  Vegas has nice hotels, can’t deny them on that. I used a hot bathtub to lose the last ten pounds. Sounds like a lot, it really isn’t shit if you do it right. Doing it is a draining process that isn’t by any means comfortable, but it isn’t a difficult feat. I’ve done 16 pounds in a day before.

  Ten minutes fully submerged, ten minutes out covered with towels, ten more minutes submerged, twenty minutes out covered with towels, five more minutes in, and then covered with towels and blankets until you stop sweating. Being in really hot water means one hundred percent humidity, so your skin begins to sweat in order to cool you down. Because it doesn’t evaporate against the air, you don’t cool. So you sweat, and sweat, and sweat.

  The weight literally falls off of you. An 80 or 90 minute session as described above, is good for at least five pounds. By the time I got down to my contracted weight of 185 pounds, I was absolutely shredded. There’s no reason to be dehydrated any longer than necessary, so you time the cut with the weigh in.

  When I stepped onto the scale, I didn’t feel half bad. My mouth was dry, but I could drink my coconut water and pedialyte as soon as I made it.

  “185 for the challenger!” The word made me laugh. The only challenge was focusing on training when I had grade Angela pussy there waiting for me.

  Still, making weight easy was a good sign. I damn near died trying to make the number a couple of times. Have a baby girl, get serious. Go figure.

  There were five thousand plus live at the weigh ins. Yeah, that’s right. No fights, just a bunch of dehydrated dudes stepping on a scale. Five thousand people there. It was good practice, a reminder of what it felt like to be in the spotlight. The first time I fought in the TFC, I thought weigh ins were rad. Stepping off the scale for the Jet fight, I was ready to get out of there. The fight and then being there for my family was all that mattered.

  It wasn’t about showing everyone how cool I was anymore. I accepted responsibility for my own life, and that was enough to keep me too busy to worry about what other people thought. The day after the fight. Who is there with you that day? Worry about them. The career that I chose is weird, but I am the best at what I do. People liked to talk about me, good or bad, but I was the one who had to step in there and make shit happen. I was scared as fuck. Not of Jet, but of reality. Anything can happen. That’s what makes life cool, it’s action.

  Of course, I was fighting Jet McBabydick, so I was obligated to do a face off with him after he made weight.

  “185 for the champion.” the announcer said, with Jet giving the double biceps flex. Jet threw the make believe belt onto his shoulder, wearing sunglasses, and stepped up to me like he was gonna do something.

  I’d have liked to have hit him, but I only had to wait 24 hours. That doesn’t mean I couldn’t have any fun, so I snatched the belt and threw it into the crowd. They had to have twenty bouncers there for us, maybe more. They were between us within seconds, but needle dick was screeching and running his man pleaser all the same. I smiled, and watched his face turn red. After nine months locked away without my woman, this was only a show. I could tell Jet took it seriously, a good sign as far as I was concerned. They'd fine me but little else.

  After a few selfies, the fan who caught the belt gave it back.

  The bridge of Jet’s nose was thin. That’s what I noticed in the stare down. If my fist found it directly, I would send the blood draining down his nasal cavity. God damn I am getting hard thinking about it, I couldn’t wait to get back in there.

  I was a new man. Twenty fours until the world knew too.

  Twenty Five – Angela

  I had dated a fighter before. I knew how shitty watching your man get ready could be. Weigh ins, the walk, the actual fight. Talk about nerve wracking.

  With Cage it was even worse. Not only did I care more about him, he was fighting more dangerous opponents. The best guys in the world. I could feel him separating himself from me, changing. He had to get away so he could be the focused killer he needed to be. His mind needed to be dark, without distraction.

  We were one leading up to the fight, but in there, Cage would be by himself.

  He was a lot different than he used to be for the weigh ins, less involved. He was watching and participating at the same time. Looked delectable as always. His perfect cock was clearly visible through his white boxer briefs, something I would be mentioning to him after the fight. No more of that, I knew that the world was filled with other Danielles.

  Before he headed out onto the stage to get on the scale, he looked me right in the eye and told me what he needed from me.

  “Look Angela, I’m not used to this. I need to be left alone until after the fight, but don’t think for a second you aren’t on my mind.” He pulled me close, holding tighter than usual.

  “Whatever you need baby.” I said. I couldn’t pretend to understand what he was going through, but I could be there for him. “I love you.”

  “I love you.”

  Then he went out there and tossed the belt into the crowd. You can tame them a little, but you won't have them domesticated.

  And that was the last I would see of him until after the fight.

  The next day came up quick. Chase and I got coffee and talked about the fight.

  “He's a good grappler, and he's scared of Cage standing. Scared. I can see it. He is going t
o run for takedowns, no way he exchanges. It's a weird style match up. Cage just needs one clean shot. Same as always. Zero takedowns would be the best thing that could happen for us.” Chase was very analytical. Between him and Justin, they knew everything about the match up. Stats and everything. Their approach gave me confidence but I knew it was live in there. Anything can and will happen in MMA.

  Chase went back to the arena early to catch up with Cage. I had to wait another two hours until the doors opened to the public. Fight day for a girlfriend, is a long day indeed.

  There was no way for me to pay attention to the fights when they started. Cage and Jet were the main event, the last fight, so I would be nervous until then. Eight other fights had to take place before that. So it was nail biting or beer drinking for me, I went with the latter.

  My seats were premium floor seats, and as long as I moved around so that I wasn’t behind someone tall, I could see everything. Four inch heels didn’t hurt either.

  By the time the co main event rolled around, I had my first stumble. Fuck. So I switched to nail biting. Every couple fights or so, the giant overhead screen would show promo highlights for the main event. A constant reminder the man I loved was going to be in danger tonight. Maybe one more beer.

  The crowd enjoys and can tolerate the other fights, but they were there for the big one. The lights in the arena went off, and only roaming spotlights remained. The roar was deafening.

  “The main event!” the announcer in his penguin suit was bouncing all over the place, really screaming.

  Cage walked out first, and I clutched my beer. When I looked up on the screen I could see the close up of his face. He appeared relaxed, loose, even grinned at the camera. Walker, Ewing, Mann, and Chase all surrounded him close behind.

  The fans were a mixture of cheers and boos, but no one was quiet. The entire arena was electric, a true blockbuster world title fight. It gave me chills, and made me feel sick to my stomach. Those were my guys too now, and I felt helpless. I've never rooted so hard for anyone in my life. I hated Jet Westerson, everything about him. The fake persona, the cheesy hair. Fuck that guy.

  Cage held up his arms, and Walker pulled his shirt off over his head. The familiar sight of them together, ready for another scrap. They had done it so many times before. There was no one I would have trusted to be his eyes in the cage more than Walker. Cage closed his eyes and Walker applied the Vaseline over his eyes and cheek bones. There were hugs all around, and then they separated. Cage was back where he belonged, in the arena.

  The lights went low again, this time signifying the arrival of the champion. The crowd noise spiked again, and music blared on the speakers. Jet Westerson, in a black robe with silver lining, came bouncing down the aisle. His song was a bouncy pop song, yet he wore an angry face and a white headband. His Vaseline had already been applied.

  I finished my beer, and gave the guy sitting next to me a twenty dollar bill for one of his. There was no way I was leaving my seat, and I drink when I'm nervous. My own adrenaline was pumping hard and seemed to negate some of the affects of the other beers. I was shaking, and thought about finding a seat somewhere in the back. Watching someone you love fight is one of the hardest things, enough to give someone a heart attack. The referee went over the instructions, and that quick, fight time.

  It was no longer Cage Edwards that I was watching fight. It was my man, the one I saw myself with for as long as he would have me. The father of my child. The love of my life.

  Boom. Cage connected with the first kick, hard to the body. The crowd erupted. Two follow up punches were off target, but he landed the kick again. I was screaming for him. Jet was already backing up, and it looked like he might be hurt, ten seconds into the fight. Cage chased, and threw a head kick that missed by inches. The crowd could sense the end was near, and Jet circled away. Cage followed, and closed the distance immediately with more punches. There was no one else like him in terms of striking in the world.

  Takedown, out of nowhere. Jet was on top after a double leg, and Cage was in his worst position. Flat on his back. The crowd shifted with the momentum, cheering loud when Jet postured up to throw down punches. Shift of momentum in a fist fight can happen in a split second.

  “Cage!” I screamed, and turned away. Seeing him on the bottom, covering up and being hit was new to me. I couldn't watch. “Fuck!” I said, and grabbed the guy next to me. “What's happening?” I asked, unable to look.

  “Cage is blocking most of them, but he isn't doing shit on bottom.” he said, eager to relay the information. The crowd was roaring so I knew some big shots were getting through. When I lifted my head to see for myself, it was at the exact moment Jet collided with a huge elbow on top.

  “Fuck, get out of there!” I screamed, now unable to look away. I knew enough about jiu jitsu to know that it wasn't always that easy, especially with someone like Jet Westerson on top of you. Good grapplers make you carry their weight, and they make themselves extra heavy. Cage managed to tie him up, and hang on while not taking too much damage for the next couple of minutes, but he was losing the round. His defense had improved, but Jet was still the superior grappler. Skills are measured in years.

  When the action in a fight slows, the crowd has been known to be a little less than patient. Cage was neutralizing Jet on top, and mostly just playing defense. The crowd didn't appreciate it, and started in with a few sprinkled boos. I could hear Walker instructing Cage to relax, to hang on. He seemed fine giving up the first round in a long fight.

  The round ended with Jet still in the top position, and Cage's face beginning to show the cumulative damage of the round. He wasn't cut, but he had picked up a few lumps. Jet stood and raised his arms while he headed to his corner, having won the round.

  I wished I could hear what Walker was telling him, to see how his cardio was holding up. I was well aware Jet had the type of submission game that could give Cage trouble, and hoped we could keep the fight in the standing position going forward. Jet had such a quick double leg take down, that you had to accept that being on bottom was a possibility.

  One minute of rest, and the fight continued. Back on the feet. Cage was more measured in the second round, and used his footwork to cut angles and throw hard counter punches. He was sitting down more, adjusting to the take down. The kicks were working wonders, but they were making him vulnerable to takedowns as well so he stopped throwing them.

  A bead of sweat rolled down my armpit, and my heart rate was sky high. Jet rushed his way into the clench, and they wrestled for position. Jet pushed Cage into the fence, and quickly scored another take down.

  “Fuck.” I said to myself, and checked the time. It was a long fight, but being down two rounds was not where you wanted to be against a grinding style of fighter like Jet who gets better as the fight goes on.

  Cage sprang loose, and scrambled his way back to his feet. Jet was hot on his heels, and caught a hook to the jaw for his troubles.

  “Yes!” I screamed. The fighters began to settle in, and exchange punches in the center. Cage was the crisper puncher, but Jet was willing to stand in and throw. He connected, and Cage wobbled. “No...” I felt some relief when Cage smiled, and gave Jet the nod, acknowledging it was a good shot.

  Jet tried another take down, and nearly succeeded. The moment that they broke free from the clinch, Cage fired a left uppercut that caught Jet on the chin. Out cold, like a sack of potatoes. The ref waved him off before he followed up, and Cage dropped to his knees and threw his mouthpiece.

  “Ahhhhhhhhh!” I screamed, over and over. Cage was covering his face up, emotional at the end of a long journey. “Baby!” I yelled, and would have jumped up and down if it weren't for my heels.

  We did it.

  Twenty Six – Cage

  Jail didn't make me miss fighting. It made me miss life, my family, and Angela. The training for Jet seemed harder than before, and I thought about the other things I could have been doing instead. I pushed through because that was t
he plan, but I was always doubting it.

  It took putting my fist into the middle of that mother fucker's head to remember why I loved it so much in the first place. Fighting is fun! I forgot how much I missed it, how therapeutic.

  A massive wave of emotion swept over me when the limp body of Jet Westerson crashed into the mat. It was a relief. It was over. All the work, effort, I proved it was worth it. We did it.

  I wouldn't cry in front of twenty thousand people over a knockout. Not that the punch wasn't beautiful enough to make someone weep. There was more riding on that fight than a title belt and prize money. I had a plan.

  “Chase! Give me it.” I had to walk up to the cage and remind him. He couldn't remember anything.

  As soon as the fight is over, the production team goes into hyper speed. There is the official announcement, and then the interviews. In title fights they'll even interview the loser, unless he is too concussed to speak. Sorry Jet.

  At least he was able to stand for the decision. The ref held up my arm, and Chad Gibbons wrapped the belt around my waist. Champ again.

  “Cage Edwards, middleweight champion of the world. How does that sound?” and there was a microphone in my face. I had always blown off the post fight interviews, but this time I had something to say. I snatched the mic from homeboy's hand.

  “Yo Angela!” I yelled, stepping away from him. That guy was trying to snatch it back from me, so I had to get to the point. “Baby.” I knew she was on the floor, but I couldn't spot her. Chase and Ewing were looking for me. I reached into my mouthpiece pocket, and pulled out the little black box that Chase had been holding for me. The announcer gave up on trying to snatch the mic when he realized what I was doing, and Chase found her right in time. The floor is right outside the cage, so I could bring her in. Security escorted her to me, and she had to take off her heels to walk on the mat.

  No more microphone was needed, I could look into her eyes when I asked. Hold her hand. I dropped down onto one knee in front of her.