The Clinch

by Nicole Disney

  “Control!” I yell. It probably sounds like useless advice to people around us, but Brooklyn and I drilled the clinch enough she knows what I mean. She adjusts her grip, pushes Mendez back, and thrusts a knee into her gut. Mendez wrenches free and goes into a flurry of punches. Brooklyn dodges two but eats a third. The crowd reacts big as Mendez starts firing off one after the other.

  “Come on, watch her,” I mutter. “She’s open.”

  Brooklyn hauls off a single, powerful cross, and Mendez’s knees buckle. The crowd leaps to their feet, and Brooklyn flies over to Mendez for the kill. She lands one more bomb, but the horn screams, and the ref throws himself between them.

  Brooklyn sprints to the corner, and I jump in. She sits, breathing hard but looking excited. The cutman goes to work on Brooklyn’s busted eyebrow. I kneel in front of her. She’s already staring at me with striking focus for input, and in that moment, I can see and feel she trusts me completely.

  “That was the worst of it,” I say. “She’s tired and hurt. She’s going to start leaving her punches hanging. Look for the takedown.”

  “She ain’t shit next to you, Coach.” Brooklyn smiles and smacks my shoulder, and I can’t help but beam back at her.

  “Bring it home. This is your round.”

  The break ends, and Brooklyn stands back up. The ref signals them to resume and Brooklyn goes on the prowl. Mendez throws a long punch and Brooklyn goes straight for the takedown, wrapping up her legs and slamming her to the canvas, moving straight into mount as if it were the easiest thing in the world. Mendez twists and bucks for freedom, trying to roll away, but even the half of her back she’s exposed is enough for Brooklyn to slide and take control of her from that position. Her arms and legs constrict around Mendez’s body and flatten her out while Brooklyn starts inching her forearm under Mendez’s neck.

  “It’s over.” Théo grips my shoulder. “That’s it. She’s got her.”

  Mendez’s struggle is like watching a fly in a web. She’s not getting out, and her effort may even be making it worse as Brooklyn inches closer to the rear naked choke.

  “She’s done!” Théo yells.

  Mendez makes her inevitable last mistake, lifting her chin as she tries to break free, and Brooklyn’s arm slides into place. Mendez can only tolerate the choke for a couple of seconds before she taps. The ref pries Brooklyn’s arms apart to end the fight.

  Brooklyn leaps to her feet to celebrate, pounding her own chest with her fist as she circles the octagon. She stops in the middle and points at me, like the first time I saw her win, but this time with a huge smile and so much affection in her eyes. Joe Rogan comes in and pulls her in with his arm around her shoulder.

  “Brooklyn, what a fantastic victory! Did the fight go how you planned?”

  “Exactly like we planned. I’m so hyped to be here with you, New Mexico!” The crowd roars in answer to her, and she blows them a kiss.

  “Brooklyn, your corner is looking a little different. We’re dying to hear how you patched things up with Eden Bauer and what it’s like working with her. Was the rivalry all a show? Are you really friends?”

  The crowd roars so loud at the question Brooklyn has to wait before she can answer, a second she uses to flash a disarming smile at me.

  “You just can’t not respect Eden Bauer, man. She’s a bad motherfucker. She carried that belt for four years, and when she’s done with it, you can pass it straight to me, ’cause it stays in New York right at Emerald Tiger, baby. I don’t care who I have to smash. Karinov, Brown, Silverton. I’ll walk through any of them.”

  It’s strange how much easier it is to contextualize her trash talk now that I know her. I’m sure everyone she named feels the way I did when we were about to fight, but now I also understand how her brothers felt, looking on with fondness as she shouts out my name and my gym. The receiving end stings, but, man, is it cozy over here where her loyalties lie.

  We file out of the octagon and back down the walkout tunnel. Her brothers are all over her. Brooklyn absorbs it, returning their hugs.

  Then she turns and hugs me. I squeeze her back, surprised by the gesture and unable to miss how nicely our bodies fit together but trying like hell not to fixate on it.

  She squeezes again before she lets go. “Time to rage. On me.” The guys and Laila whoop, and Brooklyn winks at me. “You too, Bauer. Don’t even think about sneaking off to your room.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  None of us know the first thing about New Mexico, but it doesn’t slow us down. After a quick change of clothes, we’re in the lobby of the hotel copying the location of a Brazilian club the concierge tells us about into our phones and waiting for the valet to pull the cars around. With five of us traveling together, we opted for two, a sensible Ford Escape and a flashy two-seater Brooklyn picked out, a red Maserati convertible.

  They pull that around first and hand Brooklyn the keys. She makes eye contact just long enough I think she’s going to ask me to ride with her, but Théo joins her without any indication another option even occurred to him.

  “See you over there,” she says.

  The Ford pulls up and Leandro, Laila, and I jump in. We follow Brooklyn for a block before she smokes us. She must floor it all the way there because by the time we arrive, she and Théo are already in a VIP booth drinking something with lime on the rim. The music is thumping but not overwhelming. The dance floor is set back from the bar and VIP booths so that we have a view of it but are in our own world. Théo holds up his arms and beams when he sees us. He’s still in sunglasses and leather despite it being in the eighties and dark.

  Brooklyn is in the back corner of the wraparound booth with her arms propped on the back. She’s in a red tank top and loose white shorts to her knees. Even in the dim light, I can make out tender patches on her arms and legs where she took punishment, areas that will be purple by tomorrow. Her split eyebrow is sewn shut with four stitches the back-stage doctor did just after the match on site.

  Leandro slides in on the other side of Brooklyn, followed by Laila, then me. I’m so glad Laila is here. This would be so much harder without her. I pick up the drink menu, but Brooklyn practically lunges over the table to flatten it out of my hands.

  “Don’t even look, Bauer. We’re all having caipirinhas.”

  “Cai whats?”

  “They’re Brazilian. Here, taste.” She hands her glass to me. “That goes for you too,” she says to Laila. I nod at the bright taste of the drink. “I can do that.” No sooner than I say it, the servers are setting glasses in front of Laila and me anyway.

  Laila holds up her glass. “To your win. And many more to come.”

  Brooklyn raises her glass back. “To the best team on Earth. Saúde.”

  “Saúde.” We repeat the word with questionable success. The Shaws all smile.

  “I’ll get you there.” Brooklyn winks.

  “And to Eden,” Théo says, holding his glass up again. “I know I gave you a hard time, but you’re the real deal. Welcome to the family.”

  His sincerity is touching. “Thank you, Théo.”

  “Saúde.”

  The music seems to get louder as time passes, but so do we as the drinks start to flow. It’s hard to talk to Brooklyn across the table in all the chaos. That shouldn’t bother me. I don’t know why I keep looking at her like something is still hanging. We’ve said all that needs to be said. She’s right to focus on her career. It makes sense that she’s over there with Théo and Leandro.

  “Whoa! Eden Bauer!” A gorgeous blonde in a backwards baseball cap about does a backbend as she passes. She tries to come over, but the VIP area is roped off and guarded, and they’re already ushering her on. Laila whistles as she walks off.

  “You should go after that one.” Laila elbows me, and the whole group laughs. I don’t embarrass easily, but I may be blushing now. I’m not sure which of the Shaw reactions scares me most, but I’d rather not look at any of them, so I just swat the comment away.


  “If she’s not your type I don’t know who is,” Théo says as he slides another drink across the table, shocking me. I assumed his attitude would reside somewhere in the vicinity of his father’s. God, wouldn’t it be nice if I were wrong?

  “Eden’s never gone for fans,” Laila says.

  “Shut up,” I say.

  “Or students,” she adds, and I’m pretty sure she winks at them.

  “You make it sound like it happens all the time.”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Eden Bauer, heartbreaker,” Brooklyn says. “I can see it.” She smiles with her eyes and takes a sip of her drink.

  Laila relieves me of the need to respond when her hand lands on my arm. “Well, you’re officially on vacation. Have a little fun and dance with me.” I snap over to meet her eyes, taken totally off guard. She’s leaning forward with intense eyes, but her tone is airy and casual.

  “I should probably stay behind the ropes here.”

  “Why?”

  The directness of it leaves me with nothing. After a second of silence, she pushes me to let her out of the booth, and I let her drag me toward the dance floor. I catch Brooklyn looking on like she’s amused. Yes, definitely amused, though I don’t know what that means. I follow Laila, and soon we’re mixed into the heat of moving bodies, the thumping bass vibrating up my legs. Laila faces me and puts a hand on my waist as she starts dancing.

  “Relax, Eden. It’s just a dance.” I feel stupid admitting it even to myself, but it feels wrong dancing with Laila in front of Brooklyn. How ludicrous.

  “Yeah, okay. You’re right.”

  The caipirinhas are finally going to my head even though they aren’t strong. As the heat crawls over my skin, it starts to feel good to dance, and I lose track of all my obnoxious racing thoughts, who’s trying to take a picture, what the Shaw boys are thinking, what Brooklyn is thinking, if she’s watching, if she cares.

  Soon there are so many bodies on the floor we can hardly move without bumping into the people around us, and the music is so loud it’s like becoming aware of a new dimension. Laila and I are at once dancing with each other, by ourselves, and with everyone around us. At first, I think it’s just a random person who’s run out of room and inched into my space, but when her arm comes into view for a second and I see the black cross on her forearm, I realize it’s Brooklyn, and she’s shaped to my back, dancing in the same rhythm, very close but not actually touching me.

  I turn to face her, unable to help my smile. The red and yellow lights circling the room glide over her, drawing my eye to all the sexy exposed skin, and I see her now, in the club, a little differently than I ever have before. I’ve never witnessed her removed from the martial arts world, and it’s striking. You still can’t miss her lethality, but she’s soft and sensual too. Her face is structured with the hard lines of an ancient warrior, but her eyes and lips are thoughtful and mischievous. Everything about her is a duality between sex and war, the shine of moisture on her lips and the stitched cut on her brow, her soft brown skin and the deep purple bruises, her strong arms and the delicate hollow at the base of her throat.

  “Sorry,” she says.

  “Sorry?”

  She nods discreetly at Laila, who’s in her own world now, then leans in and speaks low in my ear. “If I’m interrupting something.”

  My heart skips in my chest, and I’m pretty sure I’m doing nothing to hide what her proximity does to me. “You’re not.”

  “I’m glad.”

  She says it like it’s nothing, and it probably is nothing, but I feel a little out of breath. Does she not know how much I want to touch her? She smiles slowly like she’s reading my mind and grabs my hand, pulling me farther into the crowd, closer to the speakers and away from Laila and her brothers, who are all dancing in a group now. And then she starts dancing with me.

  The second she sinks into a rhythm it’s like my brain shuts off and the only way I can hope to operate is by instinct. She’s an incredible dancer, fun and free and sexy. But then, that’s who Brooklyn is all the time, whether she’s trying to slam you into the next dimension or kiss you so passionately you forget your name. She moves closer and touches me, her hand fitting to my hip. A surge of arousal and a jolt of fear flood me as I both want to reach out for her and can’t believe she’s daring to touch me this way in public, but then, she’s from a dance culture. This is normal and platonic. She wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t. This smothering attraction is just the result of Brooklyn being Brooklyn, not an invitation.

  Keeping that in mind while the drinks and music are swirling takes all my focus. I move with her, smile at her like none of this is difficult to navigate, like I’m not thinking about it at all, but I can’t stay inside her space without losing myself in her warm scent and bare neckline, and she’s doing nothing to help me stay out of it. She’s inches away, radiating burning energy, just brushing across my skin in a whisper.

  One moment, I’m deep in a hypnotic state, the next, reality floods back. Théo and Leandro are each within thirty feet of us dancing with Laila, all smiles and fun, nothing romantic or sexual to speak of. That’s what this is supposed to look like, and I’m positive it’s not. I’m positive I’m wearing my desire on my sleeve no matter how I try to hide it, and I don’t want Brooklyn seeing it any more than I want her family to.

  “I’m burning up,” I say. Well, it’s true. “I’m going to go to the bathroom and take a breather.”

  Brooklyn nods, and I squish through the crowd. The moment I’m free I cool down on the spot as cool air touches my sweaty skin.

  ✥ ✥ ✥

  To call this place high end is an understatement. The entry to the bathroom is grand, white marble and spacious with a sitting room before you enter what I suppose you’d call the actual bathroom, which is bright and elegant and split into stalls made of the same white marble that goes floor to ceiling and closes with dark wood doors. The stalls, if you can even call them that, each have sinks and mirrors so there’s no communal area.

  Being inside is almost as private and comforting as getting in your car at the end of a long workday, and I need it. Jesus, I’m wound tight. Luckily, I don’t look like half the train wreck I expect to, but I take a second to finger comb my hair. The New Mexico heat and dancing are making it a little wavy, but that’s the most it ever does. I splash water on my face and wake my skin up.

  I check the time on my phone. One a.m. Seems like an acceptable effort. Maybe they won’t fuss too much if I go now. I need to get away from Brooklyn. I can’t be this buzzed around her and behave, least of all with her an inch away moving the way she does on the dance floor. Does she think I’m superhuman? I need to quit before I do something dumb. I’ll take a Lyft if I have to. Yes, that’s good. Run. I open the stall door and almost walk right into Brooklyn.

  I stop just in time, straightening up in a jolt. One of her hands moves to my waist, the other to my face, and somehow, she’s both pulling me closer and pushing me back into the stall. Her lips meet mine full and hot. She closes and locks the door, then pushes me into the wall and kisses me with a passion I’ve never felt before. I’m swallowed in a tidal wave of desire, confused and jumbled and so turned on. I can’t begin to fight it. I hold her against me and slip my tongue into her mouth. She opens to me and leans into me hard so our breasts, stomachs, and thighs are pressed together. My skin is charged and sensitive. Her hand traces down to the waist of my pants, and she hooks a finger in them and runs it between my hips, low enough my knees go weak.

  “Brooklyn, we shouldn’t.” I pull back long enough to whisper it, but as if they weren’t words at all, I crash back into the kiss, licking her lower lip and meeting her tongue with another surge of thirst. Her hands are everywhere, running up my sides in an assertive touch, around the back of my neck, cupping my breasts as our kiss gets wild.

  “You don’t want me?” she finally whispers back.

  “You know I do.”

  She pushes her thigh between m
y legs and pleasure rockets through my stomach and spine.

  “Fuck,” I say into her neck as she crushes me against the wall and I let her pin me there, enjoying the pressure of her, the tension in her muscles. I bite her exposed neck that’s pressed close and feel her shudder. Her pleasure sends me to the edge of sanity. I just want to rip her clothes off, but that voice is still chirping in my ear. She said she didn’t want to do this, and we’ve had a lot to drink. Is she going to hate me tomorrow if we let ourselves get caught up?

  “Brooklyn, wait,” I whisper. She pulls back enough to look me in the eye, our arms still tangled. She stares at me through deep brown eyes full of desire, confusion, apprehension. I touch her face, so fully under her spell. “You told me less than twelve hours ago you don’t want this.”

  “I’m ridiculous. I’ve never wanted someone so much in my life.” Brooklyn smiles, but I cling to seriousness, knowing I’ll never recover it once I let it go. One of us has to look at this outside of this cloud of lust. Being Brooklyn’s coach has gone from something I thought would never work to the centerpiece of my life in what feels like a heartbeat, and as much as I want her, if we’re going to have to part ways because of it, I don’t want to.

  “I don’t want to be a mistake,” I say. She rests her hands on my chest and kisses me, light and soft.

  “Eden, you would never be a mistake. I just didn’t trust myself to stay focused.”

  “Are you still worried about that?”

  “Yes, but staying away from you isn’t going to help. You’re already all I can think about.”

  “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” She laughs. “It’s nice.” She kisses my neck. “If I’m honest, it’s been that way for a while. Since before we kissed. Even before I liked you I couldn’t keep my eyes off you.”

  The confession surprises me. I would have never thought so, but I guess her kiss didn’t just fall out of the sky.

  “I think of you too,” I say.