“But I don’t look anything like. . .”
“Remember that relaxing thing I just mentioned? It’s a joke.”
“Right.” He smiles again. “Sorry. Been a while since I was relaxed.”
“I get it, and I have an idea. Since you have the same name as my trainer, and that’s super confusing, I’m going to call you Matt “The Second” Bauer, from now on.”
“But I don’t think I like. . .”
“Don’t argue with your professor. Now let’s go inside and practice.”
Matt “The Second” is out of shape, and he might be the most uncoordinated dude I’ve ever met, but he’s absorbing everything I’m saying like a sponge. He listens, and he’s got a good attitude, much better than when he first walked through the doors. I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep working with him when—and if—I go into fight camp, but we’ll have to wait and see. If not, I can pass him off to one of the other guys or girls at the gym.
When we’re doing training, I do what I always do with my students before passing him off to his dad, who’s waiting outside the gym in his car.
“What did we learn today?”
“That I can’t run for shit.”
“No!” I yell. I want to smack him upside the head but I’ll get in trouble if his dad sees that. So, instead I put my hand on his shoulder and lean over so we’re eye to eye. “You didn’t learn that because I’m guessing you already knew that you couldn’t run for shit. If you could, you’d be on your school’s track team or something. That’s not what you learned. Think again.”
He does. He really does. I see him trying to search his brain for the answer I think he wants, but he comes up with nothing.
“Well, no offense professor, but we didn’t do anything except run a lot. I didn’t learn any fighting stuff, so I’m not sure what to say to your question.”
“First off, remember what I told you—I’m not here to teach you how to fight. What am I going to teach you?”
“Self confidence.”
“Right. And confidence comes from pushing past your limits, pushing way farther than you think you’re capable of, and coming out on the other side a better kid—a better man. So, before you go get in your dad’s car, I’m going to ask you one more time, and this time I want the right answer, whatever you think that might be.”
“Okay.”
“What did you learn today?”
He stops and thinks again, only this time he looks me in the eye and tells me what I want to hear. “I learned that I can run farther than I thought I could, and that I’m okay. I could do it again if I had to.”
“That a boy!” I say, patting him on the shoulder. “Now you can go. And, by the way, we will be doing it again, and next time even farther. Plus, we’ll learn some ‘fight stuff’, like you call it.”
“Thanks, Professor, see you next week.”
“You got it Matt “The Second,” see you then. Keep making eye contact, and keep your damn back straight!”
The kid takes off and Matt calls me into his office. I’m hoping he has some fight news. I’m too impatient to wait. “Tell me what I want to hear, brother.”
“I made some calls.”
“And? Do I get a rematch?”
Matt looks at me like I just lost my mind. His left eyebrow shoots up and he does what he always does when I say outrageous shit—he takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes. “A rematch is going to be a hard sell, Lucas.”
“Why? ‘Cause of the knockout?”
“The knockout for one, but even more than that. Wes isn’t with New York Cage Fighting anymore. He got the call up.”
The call up. That’s gym code for him being offered a UFC contract by Sean. It means he’s out of the small shows and onto the biggest show of them all. It means he’s living one of my greatest dreams. But I can’t hate on the guy, he earned his shot. Now, it’s time to work my way back up to earning mine.
“Fuck,” I say, a little disappointed. “So, what then?”
“I talked to John—he said that if you’re healthy and cleared to fight, he has something for you. But you’re not going to like who it’s against.”
“No,” I say. “Don’t fucking say it.”
“Uh-huh.”
I don’t even need to wait for him to speak his name—Jason “The GOAT” Diaz. He handed me my only loss a few years back when we were both on the amateur circuit, then he got popped for steroids in his first few pro fights. He didn’t even feel human when I fought him—the guy was one giant muscle who definitely outweighed me on fight night. There have been rumors about that guy for years. He’s as dirty as they come—an unfortunate reality of our sport—and he’s the last guy I want to have to deal with again.
“He’s being tested rigorously,” Matt says.
I let out a dismissive laugh. I don’t mean to be a dick, but this low-level testing doesn’t mean shit. “How can you look at me with a straight face and say that, Matt? Rigorous? What does that even mean in these shows? They looked at him and figured he probably isn’t doing anything, then made him pee in a cup one time after telling him when they were gonna test him? Rigorous like that?”
“I know, it’s not the best. . .”
“Not the best? You’re damn right. I don’t want to fight that roid-head again.”
“He didn’t pop for your fight. We don’t know if he. . .”
“Stop, man. Don’t insult either of our intelligences. You think he started doping six months after he beat me? He looked like the Incredible Hulk then, and he still does. It’s not a fair fight.”
Performance enhancing drugs is a trigger for me. There are so many of them floating around this sport that it makes the Lance Armstrong scandal look tame by comparison. In the old days, literally everyone was doing it. If you go back and look at footage of those guys, they all look like they’re training for Mr. Olympia. None of it was natural. Sure, they worked hard and a lot of the guys came from combat sports backgrounds, like NCAA wrestling, but they were all science experiments. There’s still a bunch of that left in our sport—and, at the lower levels, the tests are a joke. It’s only at the highest levels where real steroid testing happens, and, even then, guys get by. The difference between PED’s in our sport and in a sport like baseball is pretty major—if a guy doubles his strength, he’s not hitting a ball farther than he would have ordinarily hit it, he’s smashing someone’s brain harder than he would have.
“You’re right, it’s not fair. And you’re probably right about the drugs also, but you have to ask yourself what you want to do here. The light heavyweight title is vacant now that Wes moved on to the UFC. The number two contender behind you is injured, and that leaves you and Jason as the next two in line. I convinced John to make it a title fight if you agree to take it.”
“Convinced? Why did you have to convince him? It seems pretty logical to me.”
“Lucas, you got knocked out. Cold. Ranking barely matters at this point. It’s a hard sell to get a guy who just lost his last fight in brutal fashion to step right back into a title fight. But I did it because it’s what you want. But, if you say yes, then Jason is the guy. I have to call John back. What am I telling him?”
I don’t know what I want to do—on one hand this is my shot—a chance to erase my last loss and get right back in the game for a chance to maybe get signed to the UFC. On the other hand, nothing is guaranteed even if I win, especially since they signed Wes. On top of that, I have to fight a guy who’s dirty, who I already have a loss to. Fuck, this game is unforgiving. I need to think.
Before I can do that, Jackie, our manager, knocks on Matt’s office door. “Lucas, someone’s at the desk asking for you. Said she needs to talk to you.”
“She?” I ask. “Who is it?”
“No idea. Says her name is Mila and that she’s a student of yours. You want me to tell her you’re busy?”
“No!” I yell. “Tell her I’ll be right out.”
Look at this shit. She came back.
Now that I’m not lying in bed, horny and thinking of her hot body, I’m not so sure I really want to see her. The feelings I had when she stormed out yesterday come back, and I’m annoyed again. I was already kind of pissed at how this conversation with Matt was going, but now all I can remember is her being bitchy and running out like a little kid after dealing me that verbal low blow. I can’t wait to see her, and to give her a piece of my mind.
“Lucas, be nice, alright. I didn’t tell you about her situation, but you have to be gentle with her.”
I jump up, annoyed, and ready to look her in the face and tell her what I think of her. Matt’s words aren’t going to deter me. He’s usually pretty good at helping me keep my hot headedness in check, but right now I’m like that bratty high school kid who just told his math teacher where he can stick his homework assignment.
“Don’t care right now, Matt, all due respect. No story or situation is going to explain being rude like she was. Tell John I’ll take the fight. I want an eight-week camp, non-negotiable, and I want extra drug testing.”
“I’m not sure we’re in a position to make those kinds of demands, but I’ll try.”
“Work your magic, Master Splinter—make it happen!”
I storm out of his office, not sure what I’m really angry about anymore. It’s impossible to separate cause from effect right now. I just feel like lashing out at someone.
I storm into the lobby and see her standing there at the desk, looking fine as hell. As soon as my eyes hit her, my anger takes a back seat to my attraction. In the short walk from Matt’s office to the front, I had a few things planned out that I wanted to say to her, but now that I’m laying eyes on her all I see is how fucking hot she is, and I forget all about what happened yesterday—mostly.
“Well, look who it is? Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again.”
“Hey.” She looks different in real clothes. Yesterday she was in work out gear—tights, a tee shirt, and her hair was tied back in a bun. Now she’s wearing tight fitting jeans, a nice shirt, and her hair is down, swooped over to one side of her neck. That gets me every time. She looks amazing, and I’m pretty sure that I’m staring at her. “Can I talk to you?”
“I thought I’d be the last person you wanted to talk to again.”
“Yeah,” she says. “That’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“You want to talk to me about not talking to me?”
“Sort of. I mean, not really. Do you have anything for the next hour? Like a lesson or a class?”
“He’s free as a bird!” I turn around to the sound of Matt’s voice. “I’m covering his class today, don’t worry. Lucas is going to be doing fewer classes anyhow, he’s got a fight coming up and training camp starts tomorrow.”
I smile. Leave it to Matt to get things done.
“No shit? Thanks, man.”
“You got it, champ. Now go. I’ve got things locked down here. Tomorrow we get to work.”
“Indeed, we will.”
There’s a scene in Rocky II that reminds me of what I’m feeling right now. It’s right after Rocky and Adrian have their baby, and he’s sitting next to her bed in the hospital. The whole movie he’s been talking about a rematch with the champion—Apollo Creed—and for the whole movie Adrian shut him down. Finally, when Rocky gives in and agrees to get a regular job, Adrian pulls him in and tells him to fight Apollo, but on one condition. Win, she says to him, win. The look on his face is pure joy, total surprise, followed by a hunger to go and prove that he’s the better fighter. That’s how I feel right now.
“Listen,” Mila says, pulling my attention back to her. “I was a little rude to you yesterday.”
“A little?”
“Jeez, you’re not going to make this easy on me, are you?”
“Nope,” I say with a smile. “Not at all.” She swallows hard. I can tell she isn’t the type to apologize much. The idea of it seems to be making her physically uncomfortable.
“Well, okay then. Maybe this was a bad idea.”
She looks down and starts to walk away again. I stop her right away by putting my hand on her shoulder. I don’t even think about it, my arm just reaches out instinctually to stop her, like it was meant to touch her in that moment. I stop her and she jerks around.
“Wait. No. I’m sorry, I’m being a dick. What did you want to say?”
“Are you hungry?” she asks.
“Huh?”
“It’s a simple question. Are. You. Hungry?”
“Ummm. . . sure.”
“Great. I know a place. Let’s go.”
Chapter Twelve
Mila
It’s easy to forget how tall Lucas is. Not just tall—he’s a big man in all ways. When he was training me it was easy to forget that. You know what they say—lying down, we’re all the same size. But standing next to him is a different thing—standing, we’re not the same size at all. He’s a mountain, casting a shadow over me, and making me feel safe for no reason whatsoever. It’s been forever since I’ve felt that.
For months now, men have inspired the opposite feelings in me—apprehension, fear, anxiety. But Lucas doesn’t do that. He makes those feelings go away, and I’m not sure exactly why that is. His size is one thing, and the fact that he’s very good looking is another. Couple that with the fact that he’s a fighter, and you have a person who might be the first guy to make me feel protected in a very long time.
My plan was to show up, apologize for being rude, and just maybe talk to him about taking another self-defense lesson. Now, I’m heading off to eat with this ruggedly handsome guy who I was fighting with twenty-four hours ago.
We get to a diner around the corner from his gym. I’ve never been here—I saw it on the way to my lesson when Holly drove me in—but clearly Lucas has been here before. As soon as we walk in they give him a hero’s welcome.
“Yo, champ!”
“Stop calling me that, Spiro. Or at least save it until I actually am.”
The older, very Greek man standing behind the lunch counter smiles. “What’s that American expression? Fake it until it’s true?”
“That’s ‘fake it until you make it’, Spiro, but good try.”
“Eh, I can’t keep up with all the sayings in this country.”
“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” Lucas jokes. “You’re doing a great job.”
The hostess sits us in a booth right by the entrance. The whole time we were walking over here I was thinking about what to say to him—how to apologize properly, how to tell him that I want to keep taking lessons from him. But the thought that’s really dominating everything in my brain right now is how hot he is. Even the hostess—a young blonde girl who clearly knows Lucas—was giving him the eye. He didn’t react at all—maybe he’s used to being looked at that way by women, but I noticed it.
“Come here a lot?” I ask.
“Once or twice,” he tells me before motioning at the booth. “Sit.”
I do. And practically as soon as my butt hits the seat I try to apologize, only he speaks first. “Don’t worry about yesterday. It’s nothing. It may have caught me off guard and pissed me off when you said it, but I don’t hold grudges.”
It’s the last thing I’m expecting him to say. I was literally rehearsing my apology to him on my drive over to the gym, but I guess it wasn’t necessary. “Really? Are you sure? I was. . .”
“You were rude, and so was I. I wasn’t having a best day. Shit happens, we move on. No hard feelings, okay?”
And just like that the drama of our first meeting is gone, and I feel stupid for stressing about it in the first place. “Wow,” I say.
“What?”
“Nothing, I just wasn’t expecting you to be so cool about the whole thing.”
“Mila, I’m a fighter. I get punched in the face for a living. Grown men try to strangle me on a regular basis. So, no offense, but nothing you can say to me at the gym is going to hurt my feelings for long, don’t wo
rry.”
I guess he’s right. I know that he’s an MMA fighter—I saw what happened to him in his last fight. It may have been a little silly to think that my attitude would really do much to him. But still, I feel bad that he may have gotten the wrong impression of me. Hopefully today can make up for it.
“How’d you get into it?” I ask. “Did you come from a bad background?”I regret asking that as soon as the words leave my mouth, but he doesn’t get offended, he just snickers at me. “Stupid question, huh?”
“It’s not the first time someone’s asked me that, so don’t feel bad.”
“Is that your way of saying that it is a stupid question?”
“Kind of,” he laughs. “I didn’t want to come out and just say that, but, yeah.”
“I’m sorry.” He leans in towards me across the table that separates us. At first, I don’t know what he’s doing, and instinctually I lean back and flinch. He looks at me sideways and puts his back against the back of the booth again, as if not to scare me. It’s moments like this that remind me I’m not all the way mentally healed yet. Now I’m embarrassed. “Sorry, again.”
“Listen,” he says. “You need to do me a favor and stop apologizing. I didn’t mean to scare you, but that’s what I was going to say. Stop apologizing. You won’t hurt my feelings, I promise.”
He’s been trying to put me at east this entire time, but I realize that I’m not at ease. I’m tense, my shoulders are sore, and now I feel like my cheeks might be turning red from embarrassment. “I. . . I’m not going to apologize again because you just told me not to, but can I explain something?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“You didn’t scare me. I mean, you scare me a little—you’re really big and muscular. . .” Stop talking, Mila. Just shut the fuck up before you really embarrass yourself! “I’m saying all the wrong stuff. Maybe I should just go. . .”
I stand, abruptly. He doesn’t get up or do anything dramatic. All he says is, “You ever try box breathing?”
The Savage Gentleman Page 6