Consumed: A MMA Sports Romance

by Claire Adams

  He shines his flashlight in Mason’s eyes, looking for signs of a concussion, but a few seconds later, he’s patting Mason on the shoulder, saying, “Get ‘im.”

  “How are you doing?” I ask.

  “He’s fast,” Mason says through a thick rush of air. “I’ll start dodging one blow and the other one’s already there waiting for me.”

  “Control the pace,” Logan tells Mason. “Don’t let this guy make you run when you’d rather walk. See if you can sneak in a good casting punch or eight when he’s coming off and see if you can Fedor his ass out in round two.”

  I consider myself an intelligent woman, but when Logan speaks, I have no idea what he’s saying.

  The referee calls to Mason and then to his opponent and the air horn blows to signal the start of the second round. The man standing next to the announcer has already had enough of the device, and he takes it from the announcer’s hand, tossing it with a big, arcing throw over the crowd.

  If there was going to be laughter, it’s short-circuited as Jones crosses the distance between himself and Mason in what seems like no time at all and begins to unleash punch after punch after kick after elbow.

  Mason’s doing a fair job defending himself, but Jones just keeps coming.

  “Fedor!” Logan shouts behind me. “Cast his ass into a cast!”

  Again: no clue.

  Mason throws a right, seemingly with his entire body going into the blow, and the back of his fist curls around to hit straight into Jones’s face, knocking the latter’s head back so fast he’s got to have whiplash. As soon as his head comes back into position, though, Jones counters before Mason’s second full-body punch can land.

  My heart is pounding and for the first time in my life, I know what bloodlust feels like as I’m shouting, “Knock him out!” I’m shouting, “Take him down!”

  Although the people around me are shouting much more explicit things, a few of them turn toward me, mouthing what looks like “holy shin” before forgetting there was ever anything but the fight.

  I can feel the hot blood in my face, and I’m cheering Mason onward, only he’s not doing so well.

  Mason is so quick to my eye that it barely computes how Jones is able to counter so quickly, landing three punches for every two of Mason’s. It looks like Mason’s punches move Jones further than the inverse, but Jones is getting more of his through.

  At one point, Mason pulls Jones into a grapple, trying unsuccessfully to wrench his deceptively small opponent off his feet.

  “End of round!” the announcer calls out, having not found his air horn in the space of the round.

  It’s not clear whether Mason and Jones don’t hear the announcer or they don’t care, because both of them continue throwing blows until the ref separates them.

  Mason comes back over, looking a lot like he did the night we met. “You know,” I tell him, “the whole bloodied look was a lot more attractive before I knew anything about MMA.”

  He covers his mouth and nose with his hands as he laughs, and I try to pretend like I don’t know why.

  “He’s out-striking you, man!” Logan shouts so close to my ear I nearly slap him on instinct. “What are you doing out there?”

  “I’m tired,” Mason says. “Two weeks ain’t enough for a match like this, man.”

  “Suck it up!” Logan says. “He’s had exactly as much time as you, now get out there and start controlling the pace or we’re going to be hauling you out of here in three separate bags!”

  “Could you maybe be a little less graphic with the visuals?” I ask, but I’m glad enough when Logan doesn’t respond or even acknowledge the words.

  “Everyone’s got a weakness, but you’re giving up too much time letting him exploit yours, man. Pick a spot and start wearing him down!” Logan says.

  The gloved ref calls Mason’s name and a few seconds later, we’re into round three.

  Mason’s hanging back a little more than before, but he’s still quick to strike when there’s an opening. Jones is just dodging and guarding. He’s watching for something, though I don’t know what it is until it happens.

  Mason throws a high right hand and Jones ducks it, lunging forward and taking Mason down to the ground.

  I’m screaming for Mason to get up, but Jones is already on top of him, raining down blows wherever Mason’s not guarding.

  Behind me, Logan’s shouting, “Guillotine! Guillotine!”

  Mason’s arm comes up a little, his elbow more pushing than striking Jones’s head. Jones is trying to pull his head back, but Mason’s arm closes around the other’s neck and he wraps his legs around the lower part of Jones’s upper body.

  Jones’s flank is exposed and Mason slips his left hand from under his opponent and capitalizes on the moment with repeated punches to the ribs.

  They’re in this position for more than a minute, and it’s not entirely clear who’s inflicting the most damage at any given moment. I’m sure I’ll never say this to Mason, but if I wasn’t so sure this had to be painful, it’d actually look pretty hot.

  As it is, though, Jones finally manages to get out from Mason’s grip and it’s while he’s getting to his feet that I see it. Jones’s hand starts toward his right side, but he quickly redirects the motion.

  He’s hurt.

  That’s not stopping him, though, as he swings a wide kick, striking Mason in the shoulder. Jones’s foot’s not even completely down before he’s throwing up a follow-up punch and then another and then another, pushing Mason back as the latter tries to nullify as many of the blows as possible.

  Mason catches Jones in the mouth with an upward elbow, but Jones leans back then lunges forward, taking Mason to the ground for the second time this round. This time, Mason’s struggling for position until the announcer shouts, “Round!”

  Eventually, the two separate, but there’s a growing enmity between them. Mason jumps to his feet, but as soon as he’s back by me, Logan and Tom, he turns away and hunches forward a little.

  He stands back up straight again, but continues facing the center of the ring. The reason he’s facing the center is, I’m pretty positive, the same reason he covered his mouth and nose when he started to laugh between the last two rounds: He doesn’t want to get any blood on the rest of us.

  I’m a nurse, and I know for a fact that he’s clean, but I greatly appreciate the gesture all the same.

  While Tom is tending to Mason, I lean forward, saying, “He’s hurt on his right side. It looks like around the area of the fourth rib—do you know where I’m talking about.”

  Mason nods in front of me.

  “He’s trying to hide it, but he’s favoring that side,” I tell him.

  It’s a good thing Tom’s standing a little to one side, because I can see the little drops of red coming out with Mason’s words, “You sure? I didn’t see it.”

  “He went to grab for it when you were getting to your feet the first time, but he moved his hand away like he didn’t want anyone to know,” I tell him.

  “You sure you’re training to be a nurse?” Mason teases. “Why not come to the dark side? You can be my carnage coach.”

  “Can you go after him there?” I ask.

  “You bet your ass he can,” Logan says. “You know what you gotta do. Do it.”

  Mason nods and the ref is getting the fighters’ attention.

  That’s when it hits me.

  I turn toward Logan. “If all the championship fights are happening right now, why are you here?” I ask. “Mason says you could handle yourself well against the pros? What happened?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Logan answers, his eyes focused somewhere behind me.

  “We’re both going to be a part of Mason’s life for a while,” I tell him. “We may as well get to know each other.”

  It feels awkward the way I say it, but I don’t really know how to approach Logan about anything yet.

  “I didn’t enter,” he says. “I told Mason I was winning matche
s so he’d keep his head in the game, but tournaments aren’t my thing. I’d rather support my boy.”

  I can feel Logan’s body tense a little as I give him a quick hug, but he gives me a pat on the back before I’ve pulled away. “You’re a good friend,” I tell him. “Maybe we’ll have to have you over for dinner sometime.”

  Logan shushes me.

  I turn back around when I hear the announcer yelling, “Round four!”

  Mason looks tired, but determined as he steps toward his opponent again. He waits until Jones comes at him with a hook before dodging and throwing his first hard punch into the weak area of Jones’s ribcage.

  Jones winces and I can’t help but feel a little bad. Then again, he’s trying to beat up my boyfriend. Screw that guy.

  “Take him out, Mason!” I shout.

  Jones is a little slower with his next punch, but it connects, rocking Mason backward a little, but my man comes hard with a hard kick to what could seriously be the exact spot he’d landed the punch.

  Jones staggers back, clutching his side a moment and everyone in the crowd who didn’t know what was going on knows now.

  “Right side! Right side!” people all around me are yelling and I’m pretty proud of myself as Jones’s eyes go wide.

  Mason doesn’t let up, either. Not all of his strikes go toward Jones’s right side, but enough of him do that the latter is really starting to slow down.

  For the first time in the match, Mason is out-striking his opponent.

  Jones lunges forward desperately, trying to take Mason down the way he had so easily in the previous round, but Mason chastises him with a hard knee to the right side and then another.

  Mason’s got Jones in a grapple now and he’s just pummeling his now-frequently-blinking opponent with knees and fists.

  Jones finally gets a leg between Mason’s and uses it as a fulcrum to take Mason to the ground, only this time, Mason has every advantage.

  “Arm bar! Arm bar!” Logan is shouting behind me.

  I don’t even know what words are coming out of my mouth, but I’m shouting, my blood pumping. Honestly, I could probably do pretty well in a fight, myself, right about now.

  Mason gets Jones’s arm between his legs when the announcer shouts, “Round!”

  Seemingly every voice in the room—Jones’s excepted, naturally—seems to say, “Aww,” at the exact same moment.

  Mason lets his opponent go and the two get to their feet.

  Tom does his thing and Logan and I just stand behind Mason, silent. As far as I can tell, he knows what he has to do and he’s doing it.

  When the ref signals to the fighters, Mason glances back at me and we share a look that may as well be a conversation. His eyes are fixed on mine as mine are on his and without even consciously thinking about it, my head starts nodding on its own.

  Mason nods once and then turns back toward the ring as the announcer shouts, “Round five!”

  Both Mason and Jones almost run toward each other, coming into a grapple. Mason tries to get a knee into Jones’s ribs again, but the latter’s wised up since the last round.

  Still, Jones is hurting and when Mason takes him down, the fight is all but over.

  “Arm bar!” Logan shouts again, and I’ve just decided that I’ve really got to learn some of these terms.

  Mason has Jones’s arm held with both hands and one leg. He swings his other leg up, trying to close it around Jones’s arm, but Jones pulls away so hard I’m worried the guy’s going to dislocate his shoulder.

  The move works and Jones slips out of Mason’s grip and both of them get to their feet. It would have been nice if Mason could have ended it there, but he’s got the advantage now. It’s just a matter of time.

  Mason takes a step forward the same time Jones does, the latter throwing an uppercut and just like that, Mason’s off his feet, landing limply on the ground.

  I lunge forward the same time Jones does, only Logan holds me back as the ref basically throws himself on top of Mason, waving his hands and calling out, “It’s over!”

  Logan releases me and I beat Tom to Mason’s side.

  Epilogue

  The Falling In

  Ash

  “How are you doing?” I ask Mason as we sit in the parking lot. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

  “Probably not,” Mason answers, “but there’s not a lot I can do about that.”

  That championship fight against Ben Jones was the last match Mason ever fought. Maybe someday that’ll change, but for now, he’s much too busy focusing on school.

  After that fight, I thought he was going to be devastated, but to him, it just seemed like the way that part of his life had to end.

  Now, we’re sitting outside the county jail, waiting.

  Testifying against mom and dad turned out not to be necessary. When the police started going through all the paperwork mom and dad were fortunately too dumb to throw away, the real villain became clear: Johnson B. Witherton VI, Esq.

  My parents are certainly not innocent, but when their former lawyer was confronted with the pages of handwritten notes my father had taken about every topic he wasn’t actually supposed to write down, he confessed to everything. The fraud had been his idea, as had every single one of my parents other schemes over the years.

  They tried to tell the press they didn’t know what they were doing was illegal because it came from their lawyer, but nobody, least of all me, bought it.

  On the bright side, though, the two of them did get a reduced sentence when it was explained to them at great length that these crimes weren’t actually their own idea.

  “Here we go,” Mason says, and we get out of the car.

  “What up, Brossels?” Chris calls when he spots us as he’s coming out of the jail.

  “Brossels?” Mason calls back.

  “You know,” Chris says, “like the country in Belgium.”

  “I think your brother might be an idiot,” I murmur to Mason.

  Mason smiles and laughs, saying, “I know it for a fact.”

  Chris finally gets to the car and gives Mason a hug. “Thanks for coming to pick me up, man.”

  “I’ve had some time to forget about all the crap you’ve pulled over the years,” Mason says, playfully shoving his brother. “Give it an hour and I’ll probably be trying to get you back in here.”

  “Let’s not do that,” Chris says. “Hello there, gorgeous,” he says, turning to me. “I see you’re sticking with the less impressive Ellis, huh?”

  “Chris, I’m sure we’d have a lot of fun, but we’re just different people,” I tell him. “I like a good cry-movie and you’re more into selling people bridges in Arizona.”

  “You’re right,” Chris says, giving me a hug. “It would never work out, would it?”

  “You still staying with us for a while?” Mason asks.

  “Us?” Chris says and turns to me with high eyebrows, wide eyes and a gaping mouth. “Oh my dear lord, you’re pregnant!” he exclaims and he’s now—what is he doing? He’s putting his ear against my belly button.

  “You’re a weird guy, Chris,” I tell him. “I thought Mason told you we’re living together now?”

  “That’s right,” Chris says, though he doesn’t move.

  “Chris?” I ask.

  “Yeah?” he answers, still listening to my abdomen—for what, exactly, I haven’t the slightest.

  “Could you maybe get off of me now?” I ask.

  “Sure thing,” he says, getting to his feet. “Hey, would you two mind if we stop by the gas station for a minute? I could use a cigarette like you wouldn’t even believe, bro.”

  “Got any money on you?” Mason asks.

  “I had a couple bucks in my wallet when they took me in,” Chris says. “I always carry enough for a pack of freedom smokes. You never know when you’re going to need them except right now, so could we…?”

  “Fine,” Mason says, patting his brother on the shoulder.

  It�
�s only about half a mile to the gas station, but the distance seems much further than that as Chris recounts us with the various horrors of long-term jail life; not a single one of which I feel comfortable repeating or even processing.

  Suffice it to say, the guy saw some things.

  We pull into the parking lot of the gas station and Chris jumps out of the car before we’re anywhere close to being stopped.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I’m having a nici-fit like you wouldn’t believe.”

  Chris shuts the door and runs in while Mason finds a spot to park.

  “Should we go in there with him?” I ask.

  “Nah, let the man have a minute and a half of freedom,” Mason says.

  “How are you—” I start, but Mason interrupts.

  “Really, I’m fine,” he says. “I’ve come a long way this past year.”

  Time simultaneously changes everything and nothing. So much can happen in a year, but once that year has passed, you still feel like you. At least, that’s the goal, I think.

  After Mason gave up fighting, we started spending a lot more time together. It’s been nice not having to compete with the gym and, you know, the violence involved in MMA, but I actually find myself missing it sometimes. Those are the times Mason and I head to the nearest abandoned building and hope for a show.

  After a few months of me sleeping at his place every night, I finally told Jana and her mom (who is still living there, by the way,) that it was time for me to move out.

  “So, where do you think we should…” I start, but in the next moment, I’m frantically patting Mason’s chest with one hand and pointing out the side window with the other. I try to explain what I’m seeing, but the only word I can manage is, “Chris.”

  Mason looks where I’m pointing and he’s out of the car. I get out and stand in Mason’s path. “We’ll find out soon,” I tell Mason. “Just let it go for now.”

  What has me trying to talk Mason down is the sight of Chris being led out of the gas station by a plain-clothes policeman with a badge hanging from his belt.

  “Chris, what the hell?” Mason shouts.