by L.J. Shen
“I don’t know about testicles, but I may sport a mustache by the end of this assignment.” I lean on a red and white sign asking the gym goers to Please Clean up Your Blood after Practice and Keep Our Gym Clean.
Shane rests his leg on a nearby wall, arms folded on his chest.
“Marco, you dropped to the ground!” Dawson thunders. “That’s no good, man. The ground is your worst enemy!” He is pacing back and forth and looks like he’s about to explode.
“Marco zero. Gravity one. Poor guy didn’t stand a chance.” I nudge Shane and we share a laugh.
But the truth is, I’m impressed. These men are doing their own thing, inching closer to their dream one punch at the time. What am I doing with my life? They have determination—purpose. I want to feel as passionate about something as they do, sans the cracked limbs and mangled ears. I want to feel fulfilled and alive like them.
“Didn’t you say your roommate is training here?” I ask Shane.
The dude has a gazillion roommates, each weirder than the other. I try to keep my communication with them to a minimum. This is a philosophy I apply to most of the human race.
“Yeah, Josh. Stopped coming here a while ago, though. Someone broke his nose.”
“Damn,” I say. Not that this comes as a surprise after the videos I watched. "No wonder he said the place is full of jerks."
“Yeah. The asshole really screwed up his face. Good thing I prefer to express my masculinity by watching NFL and running every once in a while."
After a few minutes of us silently looking at the guys dancing in semi-gay thigh grips and grunting like Anna Kournikova in a white skirt, Dawson approaches us.
“Yo,” he says, shaking both our hands. “You can talk to these guys if you want or wait for my two stars to arrive. Remember I told you about the two pros that are ranked super-high in the XWL? Jesse and Ty. They’ll be happy to talk to you when they finish practice in ten minutes.”
Shit. I didn’t know Ty was one of the guys I was going to interview. I’m not sure he’s going to be all that happy to talk to me, but my heart skips a beat the minute I hear his name. It’s pounding all over the place. One second it beats fast enough to jump out of my ribcage, and the next, it’s slow and I almost feel faint.
Get a grip, Blaire. He’s just a guy, and not a very nice one either.
“You okay?” Shane rubs my arm, his eyebrows pinched together.
I ease my arm away, still anxious about that earlier thigh grip. “Yeah. Cupcake overdose is all.” If this is my reaction to hearing Ty’s name, I’m dreading the thought of what’s going to happen when I actually see him in the flesh.
“There they are, the men of the hour.” Dawson raises his hands to greet his approaching stars.
Ty strides toward us, accompanied by a taller, even more muscular, black guy—Jesse, I guess. Between them, they have enough tattoos to cover the whole of NorCal. They swagger toward us like B-movie gangsters. There’s something incredibly cocky about the way they carry themselves. Everything, from their posture to their clothes to the way they chew their gum and the smug glint in their eyes. I'm guessing that Dawson referring to them as his “stars” doesn’t help with piercing their inflated egos.
"This is the definition of douchebag-ism," Shane complains in my ear.
Figures. Sucks to be him, or anyone else with a dick in this room, for that matter. Talk about alpha-male dominance.
Ty’s sleeveless shirt is soaked with sweat, and he is pulling its hem up so he can wipe off his forehead, revealing perfect abs. Not a four pack with a pouch, but a solid, I-can’t-believe-it’s-not-photoshopped six pack. I don’t find his sweat disgusting. At all. In fact, I wouldn’t have minded snuggling into this shirt tonight. Or snuggling into him…
Sheesh! I need to get over this thing, whatever it is, fast. Hormones are bullying Brain again, even though Brain knows better than to like Ty. He was straight up rude the first time we met, when he plucked the blunt out of my lips. He is cocky. He is trouble. And most of all—he is a distraction. I need to get this assignment over with. I need to graduate. No, I must graduate. Hormones can keep on dreaming.
The next thing I notice is a huge welt on Ty’s ribcage. I have an unexpected urge to stroke his skin, to soothe away the pain. Why does he make me want to touch him? I don’t normally fall in lust with men I don’t know.
“Meet Ty and Jesse,” Dawson proclaims proudly. “This is the reporter I was telling you about—”
“Blake,” Ty cuts through Dawson’s introduction and winks at me.
“Blaire,” I correct. I take a deep breath and try to look indifferent about his mistake. I’m not a girl who’s into Cosmo and Glamour and stuff, but even I know that if a guy doesn’t remember your name, you shouldn’t expect a call from him anytime soon.
It’s weird shaking hands with him now. Yesterday, his lips were inches from mine in the parking lot when he snatched that roll up out of my mouth, and he didn't seem too eager to talk when he showed me to Dawson's office. I’m expecting him to crush my clammy palm, but he treats me like a fragile doll. Before he lets go of my hand, he circles my knuckle with his thumb. A small gesture, but it makes the rest of my body tingle with pleasure.
Shane, however, is not awarded with the same treatment. Ty almost rips off his arm when he shakes it. Shane’s limb practically raves in the air like a dancing balloon man. Shane jerks his hand free, massaging his wrist.
“Why don’t you look around for awhile? I need to ask these guys some questions,” I quickly explain. It was my idea to bring Shane with me, but I’m beginning to regret it. I need to focus on my task, to get this assignment over with and to get the hell out of here. What I don't need is more complications.
“Ask away.” Shane hooks an arm over my shoulder and thrust out his jaw. It’s an I’m-pissing-on-my-territory face. There’s no other way to describe the look of challenge he shoots at Ty.
Ty’s nostrils flare as he stares Shane down. If looks could kill, forensics would be all over these two. Everyone falls awkwardly silent.
“Fuck this shit. I’m out, coach.” Ty grabs a towel from a nearby bench and drapes it over his close-cropped head. He walks away, not even bothering to grab his duffel bag.
What the hell is his problem?
I eye Jesse, who offers me a half-apologetic smile. “Ty’s ego is bigger than his head. He’ll come around. Let’s do this interview, kid.”
***
We sit on blue plastic bleachers in front of a cage. I spend thirty minutes with Jesse Clement. He is witty and amusing and gives good quotes. In fact, he is journalistic gold. He speaks frankly about taboos like steroids and performance-enhancing drugs, about the reaction of people who hear he beats the shit out of guys for a living, and how sometimes the same guys beat the shit out of him. Every warrior in the XWL loses a battle every once in a while, even the champs.
“Why MMA, though? That’s what I don’t get. You look like you could have been an athlete in any sport. Why pick something so...?" Barbaric, dangerous, controversial...I could go on forever, but I leave it hanging in the air.
I take a quick glance at his tattoos. Jesse is inked head to toe, fingertips included. I wonder if he realizes he’ll have to walk around with these when he’s old and saggy when it looks about as cool as my dad’s stamp collection.
“I didn’t choose MMA. It chose me.” Jesse cuts off my line of thought. “Cliché as it sounds, you gotta play the hand you’ve been dealt in life. Growing up in the projects, I had to fight to live. There were thugs everywhere, and they always wanted something. My money, my food, my new shoes. And sometimes they just wanted cheap entertainment. I survived with my fists, medicated on street fights. Then, at some point, I don’t remember when exactly, fighting became a therapy and no longer a necessity. A way to take out my anger on this world.”
I stare down. It hasn’t crossed my mind that Jesse wasn’t in another sport because he didn’t have the cushy upbringing I’ve had.
“It’s all good, though. I make good money doing what I do, and I love it. I get to travel the world, meet new people and stay in great shape all year round. Personally, I have a steady girlfriend that I adore, but if I hadn't met her, it's always a plus when chicks dig your job.”
“What, MMA?” I raise an eyebrow.
“That’s right.” He grins.
“Somehow I find that hard to believe.” My experience with competitive fighting might consist only of playing Tekken once or twice in my life, but even I can see it’s thuggish and about as appealing as bathing in your own vomit.
Jesse lets out a loud laugh, like I just told him the earth is flat and populated by glittery unicorns. He’s on the verge of tears, holding his stomach when he finally says, “Ask Tyler. He’ll tell you all about the fangirls.”
“Tyler?”
“Yeah, that’s Ty’s name. Tyler Wilder.”
Tyler Wilder. Lookie here. Looks like I have a name to Google.
"Before you make any assumptions, I suggest you hit one of our classes and see what the fuss is all about. If you're going to write about it, you need to try it, no?"
I drop my head back and sigh, knowing he's right. I know Dawson wants me to try it out, and a happy Dawson means a happy interviewee.
"Okay," I say, feeling pushed to the corner.
Jesse gets up from his seat and chuckles to himself. "Besides, you kinda look like a tomboy. I think you'll have fun."
When Jesse and I climb down from the bleachers, Ty is waiting for us, leaning against a doorframe, ankles crossed, eyebrows raised and arms folded. He grits his teeth when I pass him, a devilish look in his eyes. I flip him the bird as I stroll over to join Shane, trying to look like I’m bored with his antics.
Jesse nudges Ty's ribs. “What's good, bro?”
Ty is jerking his chin at me when he returns gruffly, “Nothing's good. And there goes the neighborhood.”
Chapter Three
I fill up a bath and wait for Izzy’s scheduled call.
Sliding into the water, I dunk my head, still fuming about Ty Wilder. How dare he bail on the interview I need! And why was he so bitchy after Jesse and I came back?
And did I mention he is not my type? Because he isn’t.
The phone rings.
“Izzy.”
“Babe!” she yells. My arm is already stretched to avoid the unfortunate scenario where her voice will make my head explode.
“Where’s your skinny ass today?” I ask.
“Australia. Sydney is amazing. You should see the harbor. Everything here is so expensive but they have the best burgers and cutest accent. And the men! Blaire, the men are just to die for! This is almost my last stop. Only eight or so more weeks before I’m coming home.”
I’m happy for her. ’Course I am.
I tell her everything about Ty and Shane. Izzy’s take is that Ty likes me and he went all cold on me because he thought Shane was my boyfriend.
“I don’t know much about this world, but I can smell flirting from a mile with earplugs and a trash bag over my head. This Ty guy, he was definitely flirting. Now google his ass before I do. I will steal him. You bet I will, soul sista’.”
I finish my bath in a hurry, make myself a giant cup of coffee and mentally prepare myself for some earnest, unforgiving journalistic investigating. That’s right, I’m googling Tyler Wilder.
The first thing I discover is that Ty has his own Wikipedia page. It doesn’t give much detail about him, but it exists. He also has a Facebook fan page with over two-hundred thousand likes, but doesn’t have a private Facebook page I can connect to.
I map out my plan for research. I’ll start with Ty so I can come up with good questions for when I interview him. Then I’ll move on and see what I can find out about Jesse and Dawson.
I establish some basic info first: Wilder is twenty-six years old. He was born in Martinez and has lived in northern California his whole life. He currently resides in Concord and is an avid Harley-Davidson fan. His favorite color is black (shocking, I know) and his culinary weakness is Mexican food.
There are some crazy hot pictures of him on Google Images, including a few where he’s in a tux at an MMA charity ball two years ago. I also find lots of YouTube videos of him thrashing his opponents to knockouts and submissions. He is the darling of winning by decision too. Ty’s ring nickname is “The Zombie.” It suits him perfectly, with that ugly, snake-skull tattoo. To add a personal touch, he always breezes out of the tunnel and enters the ring to “Zombie” by the Cranberries, an angry grunge tune I overplayed as a teenager.
It sends a chill down my spine every time I watch him walk out of those tunnels in one of the videos, beer dripping on his head as the crowd erupts with screams, people clutching their beer cups, roaring and chanting. His lower face is always covered with the skull bandana, and he’s looking at his opponents like he’s going to butcher them alive. Every time the cage door shuts and I hear the secure click, the audience leaps to its feet in anticipation.
Not everybody is rooting for Ty, but everyone respects him.
He frequently wins by decision, which is prestigious, I guess. His wrestling and Muay Thai background makes him lethal in the cage, and his left hook is the best in the XWL, if the rumors online are true.
One of the commenters in a video where Ty sends a dude straight to the ER with a broken nose and blood streaming from his forehead points out: Man, Wilder is ruthless. He shattered the dude to pieces like taco shells!
Another commenter adds: I love the intensity in his eyes. Truly, the gladiator of our time. He is an animal, and tall for the welterweight division. Most strikers don’t stand a chance getting inside his reach.
I read comment after comment. People praise him, curse him, love him and hate him, fear him and respect him. I seem to share those mixed feelings. He attracts me and repulses me at the same time. Like a car crash. Only I worry I’ll be one of the casualties involved.
I quickly realize why Jesse was oh-so-amused with me thinking women don't find this sport attractive. Desperate, female fans are found in toxic quantities with every video I watch. Nearly every match online of him knocking out an opponent bears endless comments from adoring women, like: I watched this video three times. Once with the door locked ;-) And the less understated: I want to sit on his gorgeous face!!! CALL ME TY.
Cue to pass the puke bucket, please.
Evidently, I was wrong. Women like men who play hockey, football, basketball and golf (okay, scratch golf). Women love men who know how to fight.
Ty’s ranking in the welterweight division is impressive, with experts predicting that he or Irish Eoghan Doherty could take the title from Brazilian Jesus Vasquez this year.
I spend the night gorging on info about Ty Wilder, creating a self-feeding monster. The more I find out about him, the more I crave. It’s 3 a.m. when I finally slam the laptop screen with a bang, exhaling sharply.
Yes, I will research Jesse and Dawson. But I'll do it tomorrow. Tonight, I've seen enough.
***
On Wednesday, I decide to bite the bullet and take a class at the gym. The workout is both research and minor damage control, seeing as Shane is coming over tonight for our delayed Walking Dead marathon and he’s bringing enough junk food to clog every artery in my body. Yeah, I guess Sunday is forgiven, despite the thigh-gripping incident.
Plus, I'm pretty sure taking a class will get Dawson and Jesse off my case, and I want to play nice with them. They’ve already helped me a lot, even when I e-mailed them each three times on Sunday.
I park my pink Mini in an exceptionally busy XWL parking lot, but this time there’s no sign of Ty. Not that I’m looking for him.
Ginger-Bearded Guy welcomes me at the desk with a big smile, and even calls me “Blaire” a few times just to prove that he remembers my name. He also introduces himself as Scott, which, I admit, is far catchier than Ginger-Bearded Guy.
“So what class should I take?” I study the schedul
e on the board behind the desk. Every single class sounds foreign and intimidating. Muay Thai. Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. Tae Kwon Do. I run my hand over my hair with frustration. Guess there’s no point asking when the next yoga class is.
“There’s either kickboxing with Jesse or jiu jitsu with Tyler. Both start at six o’clock.”
I think I'll get a better grip of how things work if I take kickboxing. Plus, Jesse is a cool dude, so that's a no brainer.
“Kickboxing, please.”
“Cool. Go all the way straight, and it’s the first door on the right. Ask Jesse for the gear. Break a leg, babe.”
“Trust me, Scott. With my luck, I just might.”
I stroll into class, and even though I’m ten minutes early, there are already fifteen people inside, chatting to each other and swapping class-related advice while guarding their favorite spots.
They obviously know one another and are comfortable as a group, and they all have boxing gloves, mouth guards and kickboxing gear. Being the newbie, I keep to myself. Which is easy, since no one talks to me. A pang of excitement pierces through me. I've always been the sporty one, Izzy being the delicate, girly twin. Me? I climbed trees, rolled around the mud and even played soccer. This could actually be fun, I try telling myself.
Five minutes later, the door swings open and Jesse walks in, hands on his waist. I sheepishly wave to him, grateful for his welcoming smile. He looks surprised to see me. I'd be surprised to see me too. But the truth is, Dawson pushed me to participate in a class, and I definitely don't want to piss him off. I need to nail this baby down if I'm ever going to get my degree.
Jesse hands me an old pair of boxing gloves. They match my lazy attire of black yoga pants and pink, loose crop top I borrowed from Izzy's closet. I listen patiently when he explains what we’re going to work on today, and nod along with everyone else, even though he might as well be speaking in tongues.
He is using kickboxing lingo, and I pretty much understand only every fourth word. My mind drifts and I’m zoning out.
