by L.J. Shen
Mary never brings up the subject of my relationship with Ty, and I never volunteer anything about how I’m feeling.
Career-wise, I'm doing better. Or at least I’m doing better than Shane, who continuously reports to me about his days serving coffee and being bossed around by people who are only slightly older than us.
Me, I spend the first week at my new job sitting in front of a dead computer (the tech guy didn’t have time to sort it out before my arrival) and trying not to cry out loud. I miss Ned’s so much. But then at the start of week two, when I stare at the black screen like an idiot through blurry eyes, I feel a hand resting on my shoulder. I look up and see Cam's knowing smile.
“Don’t worry about it. I know what it’s like to leave a safe job. I was a butcher at my local big box store all through high school. Out of state tuition fee.”
I duck my head in embarrassment, annoyed that he’s seen me cry. “Where are you from?” I sniff.
“Promise you won’t laugh.”
I shake my head. “I can’t do that. I suck at hiding my feelings.” I point at a damp trail on my cheek left by one of my tears to prove the point.
“Fair enough.” He offers me his hand and when I grab it, he yanks me up so he can go and have a smoke. “Arkansas. I’d barely left the state before I came here for school.”
I laugh, of course I do, because it's so out of the blue.
"What made you stay in San Fran? I'm sure it wasn't the high rent and crazy people the city has to offer."
"Too lazy to move again, I guess." Cam runs a hand through his hair. "Then there's this ex back home I dread seeing. There's always an ex, isn't there?"
I guess there is. I'm just not sure I need to hear about one from my new boss.
"Let's get you started and give you something to do," he says.
And that is how my journalism career officially started.
The first month was brutal.
Trying to catch up on years of history attached to the local football, baseball and basketball teams is a real bitch. Each team has so much legacy and its own little quirky traditions and important statistics. It's funny how I thought I'd get rid of homework once and for all after I graduated, but for weeks, all I seem to do is memorize more and more info about the Golden State Warriors, San Francisco Giants, San Jose Sharks and San Francisco 49ers.
By the fifth week, I already have all the coaches' phone numbers on speed dial, and quite a few of those basketball, baseball and hockey players even know my name. I also realize that I love basketball and hate hockey. Same problem as I had with MMA—hockey is way too aggressive for me. The injuries, broken noses and the way players crash into each other intentionally…Ouch.
By the time October swallows up summer, I'm a sports expert who knows which college football players are injured this year and which ones are draft prospects for the spring. I now the name of every coach in the NFL, the NBA and MLB. I even know who Floyd Mayweather is, which impresses Shane. Not to mention that I’ve already written two articles for Diablo Hill magazine and contributed to the website, which updates on a daily basis.
And the best part? I know I'm good. To begin with, I suspected that my success on my journalism assignment was purely a fluke. Now? Now I'm even starting to like writing about sports, which is something I never thought I'd enjoy.
November is just around the corner, and so is Ty's title fight. He’s going to be fighting in Vegas again, and I'm sure Cam will cover the event, but I try not to think about it.
The fact that Ty still hasn't spoken to me drives me nuts. I'm not going to chase him around. I offered to clear the air months ago, but he didn't seem too eager, and my ego is still wounded from the huge secret he kept from me.
But that doesn’t stop me from wandering to the XWL website to check now and then to see if there are any updates on him. It’s part of my job to know what’s going on with local athletes. Right?
One chilly day, I’m scanning the site for news, when Cam stops at my desk. I don’t have an office. I share a big, open area with a dozen or so people. I'm actually grateful for the constant company and prefer the hustle and bustle to being alone.
"Hey." I flash Cam a smile that I'm certain doesn't reach my eyes. My smiles never do nowadays. "Winter is coming."
"Sure looks like it. So… November 10th," he announces, looking down at a paper in hand. "Tyler ‘The Zombie’ Wilder Vs. Jesus Vasquez. Wilder is from Concord. We have to cover this."
"We? You mean the magazine.” My stomach knots, my cheeks flush, and my pulse speeds up.
"No, I want you to help." He studies me from behind his glasses. "Bumped into your name on TMZ the other day. You have history with the guy.”
“I haven’t spoken to him in months.”
"But you’re obviously following the fight.” He glances at my computer and the XWL site on the screen. Busted. Dammit. Why couldn’t Brain do its job and keep Heart and Hormones in control.
“You don’t have to write the story,” Cam continues. “I doubt you’d be objective anyway. All I’m asking is that you come with me to Vegas and try and get Wilder to let me interview him. He doesn't do interviews, as you're probably well aware. If we manage to get him to talk to us, we're going to get a lot of buzz and new readers."
So many things are running through my head right now. The first one is that I may see Ty again, in the flesh, only a few weeks from now. The second is that Cam is pulling something completely unethical. The third? The last time I asked Ty for an interview, he demanded a date from me in exchange.
"Cam…" I readjust in my seat, because it feels so awkward to share this with my boss, no matter how nice and supportive he’s been until now. "Ty and I aren't really on speaking terms. If I ask him for an interview, it could even decrease the magazine’s chances. I don't want you to get your hopes up."
"It's a long shot, yeah, but it's better than nothing. And we need to cover the fight anyway, right?" Cam combs his fingers through his messy shag, but his hair stands up, looking even messier. "I mean, you can still say no, but why would you? Free hotel room, free plane ticket, free first row ticket, championship fight." He motions at my computer screen. There's a picture of a very angry, very bloody Jesus Vasquez. "And you get to see your ex-boyfriend getting punched. Which, according to Emilia and a few more girls who work here, is a serious bonus."
I nibble my lip. "People know you're asking me to do this?" Great. More pressure. And most definitely more humiliation when Ty turns me down.
"Well, no. I was asking Emilia this hypothetically, because I didn't want to come off as an insensitive prick."
I fold my arms. He is kind of an insensitive prick for asking me to do this, but I'm not going to say anything because...well, because I totally dig this job.
A few seconds pass in uncomfortable silence before Cam speaks again.
"Just think about it."
"I don't have to go to Vegas for this. I can stop by The Grind and ask him face to face."
Or better yet, go straight to his house. If there's less of a crowd around us, there's less of a chance of me trying to hurl myself under a bus when this whole thing blows up in my face. But Cameron shakes his head, eyes shut.
"Wilder’s not in Concord anymore. He set his camp in Vegas four weeks ago. So unless you want to do this by phone..."
Nope. I really can't do it by phone. One, because I don't have his number, and two, because even if I get it through Jesse, Dawson or Mary, there's a good chance Ty won't answer my call.
"I'll do it," I hear myself saying, and even though the words coming out of my mouth are freaking me out, I know that it's the right thing to do.
I love this job.
And I freaking love Ty.
Vegas was bad to me the last time I was there, but maybe things will be different the second time around.
Maybe I'm already over his secret.
And maybe, he still isn’t over me.
Chapter Twenty One
I'm sitt
ing next to Cam in a cab that's taking us to our Vegas hotel. I think the panic attack started on the flight and kind of escalated to this point. I'm sweating like a pig, and my clammy hands strangle my canvas bag like I'm trying to choke it to death. What the hell am I doing? If Ty wanted me here, he would have said so. He is perfectly capable of getting what he wants—when he wants it—and now I'm just going to barge into the most important night of his life uninvited. The last time I surprised him, it ended up with tears and a breakup. I can't believe Cam has talked me into this.
"I may be out of line here...okay, I'm definitely way out of line here, but for whatever reason, I just can't seem to picture you and Wilder together? You don't seem to have a lot in common." Cam is filling the silence with his words.
"And why's that?" The assumption that we are too different to be together is pissing me off, and I'm not even sure why.
"Well, you don't have much in common. Like, you and I for instance, we share some cultural background I guess. We go to the same gigs, watch the same movies, go out to the same bars. You know, we're alike."
I send a sweet smile his way. "I don't want someone like me. I want someone who will drag me out of my comfort zone and introduce me to new things. Different things."
"I completely agree.” Cameron is not stupid. He knows he crossed a line and is now backpedaling his way into my good graces. “I also like a challenge.”
Ty is not a challenge, but I don't want to pick a fight with my boss in the middle of this trip, so I let it go and nod, looking out the window.
When the cab driver drops us off at the hotel, I'm literally shaking. Cam offers to do the check-in while I clutch my suitcase, looking around the lobby and trying to keep my emotions in check. The place is packed and buzzing with laughter and excitement. Judging by the amount of people who wear credentials around their necks, most sports journalists have already arrived and are now mingling with each other.
The lobby is spacious and dazzling, with ornate crystal and golden hand-carved marble chandeliers. Cam disappears somewhere between the masses of people waiting in line at the reception desk, and I mess with my phone, trying not to think about Ty.
Don't think about him.
Don't think about him.
Don't...
I hear screaming and clapping, peppered with low whistles and some gasps. I raise my head and watch as an entourage of about ten men slices through the crowd. I recognize Jesse instantly. He is tall and muscular and enjoying the attention. Dawson is walking next to him, and between them and a few more men I don't recognize is Ty.
Fuck, I've missed him.
There's a lot of commotion around the group, and I'm rooted to the ground, completely mesmerized by my gorgeous ex, who is looking healthy and happy as freaking ever, by the way.
My eyes follow the entourage. Ty is chewing gum and not making eye contact with his fans or the reporters, his face partly hidden under a baseball cap. I may be imagining this, but seconds before he disappears, he clutches the left side of his shirt, where he tatted my name, with his fist.
Just then, a gloriously stupid idea pops into my mind. It's so stupid I can't afford to think about it, because I know I'll change my mind. I turn around and race outside to the street, and head in the direction of the spot where Shane and I drank our Coco Loco and talked about Ty.
This is going to be so gloriously stupid.
***
"Dude, I'm sorry, but I'm not doing it."
Her name is Nash, and she is seriously hot. She's got thick bangs, a septum piercing and the sweetest, most innocent face a twenty-something-year-old could have. And she refuses to take my money and just do what I tell her, which is driving me mad. This is America, woman.
"Listen, I'm not going to regret it," I say with conviction, pressing both my palms together as I beg her to tattoo me. I know that if she won't, others will, but for some reason, I really like her. Plus, the place is packed and if it weren't for the early hour, she probably wouldn't even have time for a walk-in customer like me.
"Dude, check out my ten commandments. I pinned them to my wall." Nash points at the wall behind her, chuckling to herself. Sure enough, she wrote ten rules she sticks by when she gives tattoos:
1. No drunk-tatting. Come sober or don't come at all.
2. A tattoo is not a pet. It lasts forever. I do not ink clichés. If you're into the shape of infinity or an anchor on your wrist, go somewhere else.
3. I am not a translator. If you want something in Chinese, Arabic, Hebrew or any other foreign language, check your spelling.
4. You will suffer for your art. Try not to fidget and move too much. I do not tattoo movers. Sorry.
5. No tattoos of the names of boyfriends/girlfriends. You will thank me for it some day.
I don't bother reading number six. Instead, I swivel back to Nash, smiling as I spot a loophole. "He is not my boyfriend. I just want to ink his name, regardless. So there you have it."
"Nope," she says.
"Yes," I respond. "Because I swear, even if I never get back with him, I’ll still love it."
"So let me get this straight." Nash folds her arms, leaning over the counter, squinting as she tries to read me. She is all sass, yet not a pretender. I'm pretty sure that if I were playing for the other team, I'd totally be crushing all over her. "You want me to tattoo the name of your ex-boyfriend. On your body."
"That's right," I nod.
"And you're not drunk?"
I shake my head, bouncing on my feet excitedly. "Please, Nash. I know what I'm doing."
Nash is laughing hard, trying to regulate her breathing. She looks at me like I'm the craziest person she’s ever come across, which is pretty worrying, considering the fact she works in a freaking Vegas tattoo parlor. She looks around her, checking that no other tattoo artist or co-worker is watching as she bends her own rules for me.
Damn, I knew our chemistry was on fire. Shane is about to get dumped in favor of a new BFF.
"This is sick, girl. But I'm totally on board with that if you let me pick the size and the place.”
I hesitate, because in my vision, Ty will be inked across my heart, just like he did for me. But when I actually lie beneath Nash, and she has her black elastic gloves on, she curls her finger in my direction, signaling for me to flip onto my stomach.
"Tie your hair up. Like, really up," she instructs.
I do as she tells me, my heart drumming wildly. Nash picks a place right underneath my left ear and applies the stencil transfer she's made for the tattoo.
"Chest tats are very in if you're a jailbird,” she says, turning on the machine, “but I think this spot makes far more sense."
The buzzing is making my head spin but I keep it together.
"You chose a tiny tattoo," I argue.
"My castle, my rules, baby." She laughs. "It's going to hurt, so take a deep breath, and remember that love hurts."
It certainly does, Nash. It most certainly does.
***
The massive Las Vegas arena is jammed and full of people. Nobody even bothers to sit down, Everyone's standing, and the air throbs with a deafening roar of chanting and cheers. The atmosphere is buzzing with excitement mingled with the oppressive smell of beer, hotdogs and BO.
There are a lot of types of crowds, and they're all different. A football crowd is not the same as basketball crowd; a hockey crowd is different from a soccer crowd. And the MMA crowd? It's freaking nuts. The fans here have such raw, unrestrained passion.
Cam pushes through the masses, leading the way to the press area, which is literally only fifteen feet from the ring. I can barely hear myself think, which is great, because thinking is not my strong point at the moment.
It’s too hot in the arena, so I take my jacket off once we find our seats. I'm wearing a cool, blue vintage dress, one of the few I own, paired with my denim chucks. There are still echoes of pain from doing the tattoo this morning, and Nash promised it's going to itch like a bitch once it starts hea
ling, but I don't mind that at all.
"I'll go get us something to drink,” Cam shouts in my ear. Then he takes a step back and stares. My new tattoo hasn’t escaped him. He frowns slightly, but doesn't say anything, just pivots to the other side and walks away.
I plop down on my seat and take in everything around me. I'm pretty sure I saw Dawson walking around outside the ring, and I definitely saw Jesse sitting across the ring, on the opposite side, with a few other XWL fighters who came to see the show. There's an announcer who entertains the crowd every once in awhile, but I don't bother listening to what he has to say.
The reporter on my right accidentally elbows my ribs. "Oops, sorry."
I nod.
"Hey, do I know you?" He turns around.
“Not likely.” I shake my head. “Diablo Hill magazine?” I try.
He frowns. "I'm from MMA Madness. Chris," he introduces himself and we shake hands. He is still frowning, still looking at me, and as the pieces fall together, I blush and turn away from him, desperate to avoid his next question. But I can actually hear Chris smiling behind me when he says. "Hey, you're Wilder's old girlfriend. I saw you on TMZ when I was doing research."
Well, ain't that just grand. I turn back toward him. I'm hoping to convey annoyance, but I'm way too agitated to control my facial expressions. "I'm sorry, Chris. I can't seem to hear you with all the background noise. Enjoy the fight."
I’m relieved when Cam takes the seat to my right. He’s brought bottles of water, and I sip from mine, pressing the cold bottle against my forehead.
Vasquez is the first to emerge from the tunnel. He’s probably as tall as Ty and built like a gladiator. Ty has been doing this for four years professionally, but Vasquez is older, thirty-two, and more experienced. He’s already won three championship belts, and he’s considered a Brazilian Jiu Jitsu master. The Brazilian crowd cheers him on loudly, while some of the Americans boo him. Vasquez doesn't seem to mind, though. He's fought enough bouts to look past the booing.
