by JD Hawkins
Butch sees me and turns to face me, hands on hips as he watches me walk toward him, face as stern as ever, but expectant. I draw close and stand in front of him.
“Connor,” he says, as all the formal greeting I’ll get.
“Butch.”
He eyes me suspiciously. “What are you doing here? You should be home recovering.”
“I came to ask you something.”
Butch clenches his yellow teeth in frustration.
“Don’t. For the love of God, Connor, don’t say it.”
“Say what?”
Butch clenches his teeth even harder, as if unable even to mouth the words.
He lowers his voice and leans in. “That you’re going to give up your title challenge. It was a poor win, aye, but that doesn’t mean you’re not still worthy of fighting Foreman for the belt.”
I let a smile crack across my face.
“I ain’t giving up shit,” I say. “I wanted to ask you how quickly I can get back into training.”
* * *
I stick around the gym for the day, to hash out a recovery plan with Butch and do some mild workouts, but mostly to serve as punching bag for the other fighters. I give as good as I get, and what I don’t I take on the chin with a smile and a groan—let them get it out of their system so that I can concentrate on what’s important when I return.
“Shit,” Butch says, his eyes flicking away as he spots me doing presses at the bench. “Not now.”
I ledge the weight and sit up, looking at him in confusion, but it only takes a second until I hear the Manchester accent and understand.
“The ‘Arse Man’!” Dean Vardy says, framing his black-hole smile with arms raised wide as he comes close.
“Shit,” I mutter to myself, turning to Butch. “How quickly can you get an immigration officer down here?”
“Aw, is that how you wanna greet an old friend?” Dean says, through a couple of sniggers. “I only came to congratulate you on the luckiest win in the history of fighting. Seriously. To beat a guy fair and square is one thing, but to lose so bad and still come out of it with people calling you a winner…that’s a special kind of talent, Connor.”
I start to say something but Butch puts a hand on my chest.
“You’re too good a fighter to gloat, Dean. And Connor’s still fighting for the belt.”
Dean’s cruel grin softens a little when he turns to the old man.
“When you gonna realize Connor couldn’t get himself a belt in a thrift store and join my team, Butch? You’re wasting yourself with him.”
Dean looks back at me and winks. He’s looking for a reaction—he thrives on them as much as fighting. I decide today is the day I’m gonna give it to him.
“How you feeling today, Dean?” I say, calmly.
His punch-carved face goes confused for a second. “I’m feeling good. Why?”
“Wanna spar? I think your face is pining for my fist.”
“Connor…” Butch warns under his breath, though I ignore him.
Dean takes a second to process the question before showing that broad cave entrance smile again.
“You joking?”
“You can tell yourself that if you’re scared.”
Dean lets out that long, wheezy laugh, his eyes going the kind of crazy they always go when he’s pumping himself up. I’ve never sparred with Dean before, partly because he trains in Britain. But on top of that, he’s a middleweight, and I’m a light-heavy; he’s a belt-holder, and I’m a challenger. He’s fast, I’m strong. The way I feel right now, though, the prospect is delicious, and anyone in the gym who knows either of us wouldn’t be able to pick a winner—at least, not before my catastrophic ‘victory’ against Hendrix, that is.
“I’d best go get me gloves on then, hadn’t I?”
He smacks me hard on the shoulder, then goes back to the other side of the gym. I turn to find Butch standing right in front of me, his face full of hard disapproval.
“What the fuck are you doing, Connor?” he says, as if talking me off a ledge.
“Relax. I’m feeling good today.”
“A couple of hours of good training isn’t going to help you go up against a bag of tricks like Dean.”
“Taking the easy route isn’t going to make me tough enough to face Foreman, either.”
“Connor,” he says, putting a hand on my chest to stop me from going toward the locker room, “you’ve just been embarrassed by Hendrix in front of millions of people. Dean fucking Vardy is on a seven-match knockout streak and doesn’t have a restrained fiber in his body. You’re not just going to make a fool of yourself, you’re going to get injured so bad it’ll set your training back weeks.”
I give him a look to let him know I respect his opinion, and Matt comes over to join Butch, his face almost as furrowed and concerned as the old Irish man.
“You sure this is a good idea, buddy?” he says, voice treading the line between friendly concern and worried anxiety. “I mean, I’d bet on you to take Dean out any day—but maybe you need a little more time. Work yourself in a bit til you take on guys like Dean in sparring.”
“Connor’s too thick-headed to learn,” Butch grumbles.
“Dean’s gonna shout from the rooftops if he beats you,” Matt says, getting more nervous as he goes on. “That ain’t gonna be good for your head.”
I shrug. “Maybe. But I ain’t gonna know what my head can and can’t handle unless I do this,” I say, getting a little tired of the lectures. “Just trust me.”
I throw a thumbs up to the other side of the gym to show I’m good and go to the locker room. I put on the gloves real slow, doing the breathing exercises Frankie showed me. Eyes closed, I see her face again, feel a resurgence of the cool calm of her presence. I breathe out with my abdomen and can almost feel her hand on me, electrified and balming. Her melodic, cajoling voice echoes in my ears like a song I can’t get out of my head.
Usually I pace before fights, punching palms and tightening muscles, stacking energy until my whole body crackles with it, thinking fast until my mind is a burning fire of fury I need to let out. But in this moment I’m calm, controlled, like a fine car revving with composed power.
When I step back out into the gym, the crowd’s already gathered around the ring, chatting to each other, incredulity and anticipation coming off them like smells at a picnic. Normally they’d idle around out of mild curiosity, today they’re coming to see somebody get their teeth kicked in.
“You took your bloody time!” Dean shouts from the ring. “Trying to fit through the bathroom window or something?”
I pull myself through the ropes and smile back at the fiery Mancunian.
“Come over here,” Butch says to both of us, stepping into the middle. He grabs both of our shoulders. “This is just sparring, ok? I don’t want to see anybody getting excited—that goes especially for you, Dean.”
Dean chuckles. “All he’s got to do is tap when I choke him. You got that, Connor? Just tap when I choke you and you’ll be alright.”
“Get a mouthguard, Dean. For your sake and for mine.”
He lets out a wild laugh.
“Touch gloves,” Butch says, shoving us apart and backing off as soon as we do.
Dean immediately starts hopping and skipping as he probes for an opening, his sly smile plastered over his face like a billboard. He’s fast and light, his body moving like popcorn on the cob, but I stand back, steady, reading every nuance to his movement. He darts in and out a couple of times, throwing a few fast kicks and jabs—more to see my reaction than anything else, to test my nerves.
But I have none. All I have inside of me is the calm understanding of what’s in front of me, and what I can do. When Dean decides to attack for real, I’m ready for it. I let the first jab hit my arms safely—it’s too light to do any damage—but I swing past the second one, responding instantly with a right that lands on the side of his head.
The watchers erupt into calls, and Dean dances bac
k, his smile gone now. He launches at me again, a hard kick I only just fail to catch, but swiftly followed by a flurry of hits I push through to end up in a clench with him. I land a couple of body shots until he kicks his way out—a clench is bad news for him, I’ve got way too much power for him to go in that close.
“Tire him out, Alpha!” somebody calls.
The crowd’s noise is constant now, and Dean’s moving even quicker, the sting of my hits spurring his sense of danger. I’m still good, though, moving smooth and swift. I think about my breath and it feels like a source of power.
“Don’t stick your feet!” Butch’s accent rings in the air, and I know he likes what he sees by the encouraging tone in his shout.
The next move is all Dean, the reason he’s a middleweight champion. A move I’d fall for any other day, but not now. Within the space of a second he fakes a kick to get in close, fakes a jab to bring my guard up, then swings his fist like a pool ball in a sock. I see it all like it was scripted out beforehand and swing left, moving into him to wrap my right arm around the front of his neck, the left arm around his back, tripping him forward in the process.
The fight’s over before he even hits the ground, face first, and with me on top of him in a perfect choke-hold. I squeeze it tight to let him know I’m happy to put him to bed even in a sparring match, and after a couple of feeble attempts to pull my forearm off he taps. I hold him a few moments longer—a dick move, but one I can’t resist. Few faces are as nice to rub things into as Dean’s—then I roll off him.
The sound of sharply hissed breath, incredulous laughter, and amazed conversation forms a ring around us, as everyone watching experiences the release of knowing it’s over. They turn away, back to their training, back to talking about what I just did.
I stand up and offer a hand as Dean lolls around, rubbing his neck.
“You jammy fucking bastard,” he croaks.
“Just be grateful,” I say, as he grabs my hand and lets himself be pulled up. “I left your beautiful smile alone.”
* * *
Butch tells me to take it easy when I leave, but the first place I go to is Frankie’s yoga studio—it’s class day, and I’m long overdue. The other members give me the same hushed looks the fighters did when I walk in, but once we get started it’s business as usual. I make faces at Frankie whenever she looks at me from the front, and she tries not to grin back, biting her lip in between instructions.
I hang back while the class leaves and then go to see Frankie at the reception desk. The way she brushes her hair behind her ear and smiles down at her desk lets me know she can’t look at me without thinking about what happened in her office the other night.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” she says, looking up finally. “Nice to see you back in class.”
I shrug. “I shouldn’t have stopped in the first place.”
“Well you’ve still got a few lessons already paid for,” she says, poking a pen between her lips as she enjoys the ambiguity of her own comment.
“Actually,” I say, putting my palms on the desk and leaning forward, “that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. I want you to work with me for the next couple of months, and in the meantime help me get prepared for the Foreman fight. I wanna do all the things you mentioned—meditation, breathing, yoga, whatever you think I need.”
Her smile drops a little, replaced by what looks like regret.
“Connor…it’s a bad time for me. I’m gonna be really busy now, trying to resurrect this place,” she says, looking around her with an expression of fear, as if it’s falling down around us.
“I’ll pay you of course. Consider it work.”
She looks skeptical. “Do fighters get paid that much?”
“They do if they win. Which I will—if you agree.”
Her smile returns, but there’s still a note of reluctance.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Isn’t that going to get kinda messy? What with how we can’t seem to keep our hands off each other for even ten minutes?”
I laugh a little. “I know. I fucked up before. But before I fucked it up you were really helping me. I never felt as focused as I did then.” I pause for a second. “And there’s nothing like getting your ass beat in front of hundreds of thousands of viewers to make sure you don’t make the same mistakes again.”
Frankie laughs with those lush lips, and it takes me pressing against the desk to stop myself from jumping over it and grabbing her.
“I need to think it over,” she says, sighing a little. She twists her lips together in a way that immediately sends me back to her office, me leaning back in that chair, bare-ass naked, and her on her knees with my stiff cock pumping into her wet, sucking mouth. “What would I be exactly? A coach? Advisor? A personal yoga teacher?”
I clear my throat and push the memories away. “You’d be in control.”
“That wouldn’t be very ‘alpha’ of you,” she says, a provocative glint in her eye.
“I disagree. I’ve got nothing to prove to anyone, I know when I’ve got something still to learn, and I’m willing to let a smart, confident woman who doesn’t take any shit teach me. I think it might be the most alpha thing I ever do.”
Frankie folds her arms and leans back, looking at me like I’m the most eye-catching painting in the gallery.
“Hmm. I like that. And I agree—it’s definitely more alpha than talking yourself up and surrounding yourself with naïve girls and sycophants to prop up your ego.”
“So what do you say? A fresh start?”
“Deal,” she says, holding out her hand. “Shall we hash out a plan here?”
I take her hand, unable to let go once I feel the cool softness of her skin in mine.
“How about over dinner?”
* * *
Half an hour later, we’re sitting outside a vegan place eating salads through smiles and glances. We’re sitting side by side so we can face the brilliant sunset of an endless west coast.
“You know,” Frankie says, swallowing some radish and looking at my plate, “you might be the only guy I’ve gone to dinner with who ate less calories than me.”
“It’s only ‘cause I’m still cutting weight. I’d swap this for a meaty pizza with stuffed crusts and a side of hot wings in a heartbeat.”
“A clogged heartbeat if that’s your idea of good food,” Frankie says, still smiling as she jabs at a faux-mozzarella ball.
“Did you judge every guy you had dinner with by what he ordered?”
Frankie stuffs the fake cheese into her mouth and looks at me with keen eyes. It’s all the answer I get.
“You’re really a closed book, you know that?” I say.
Frankie nearly chokes on her food as she laughs.
“No I’m not.”
“Yeah, you really are.”
“Maybe there’s nothing to know. Maybe I’m really that boring.”
“Bullshit,” I say.
Frankie’s eyes drop to her salad bowl, her fork meekly poking the food around it.
“Sometimes I think I am.”
“You serious?” I say, after a long enough pause to know she is.
Frankie glances at me, showing a little strain in her face, a faint echo of some deep knot inside of her, but only for a second, her eyes going down after they meet mine.
“When I’m about to go to bed, brushing my teeth in the mirror, looking at myself, and it’s just me—not Frankie the yoga teacher, Frankie with the failing yoga studio, Frankie the little sister—all those Frankies that everybody else knows—once they’re gone, I sometimes just wonder…what’s left.”
I put my hand slowly on the back of her neck, thumb gently rubbing the hollow behind her ear.
“You know,” she goes on, squinting at the enlarged orange sun now, “Eastern philosophy is all about losing your ego, about letting yourself flow. Accepting, and letting go. And I spent so much of my life thinking
that’s what it was…but these days I kinda wonder if I’m just kidding myself. If maybe there really is nothing to me. That I’m just…going through the motions.”
“Bullshit,” I repeat, firmer. “I see way more than that in you. Something fascinating.”
Frankie lets out a nervous chuckle.
“I’m not talking about physical attraction.”
“Neither am I,” I say, tapping her neck gently to get her to look at me. “Do you remember what you did at the desert spring? Just, getting up and getting into the water like that? It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. I can’t imagine anyone else I’ve ever met doing something like that. You’re adventurous. And brave.”
Frankie gives me that embarrassed laugh again and says, “I was just in a weird mood that day.”
“It wasn’t that at all. You were relaxed, having fun. You were being you for once. Not worrying about your business, not thinking about your sister, or anybody else, not putting up all these barriers to stop you from doing something you’d regret. I think that was closer to the real you than you’ve been in a long time. I mean you’ve traveled, you’ve studied yoga all over the world, you’ve chased your dreams relentlessly, worked so hard and sacrificed so much to build a life that’s centered around helping people—that’s incredible, Frankie.”
She turns to me, her eyes shining as if some filter has been removed. Her wry smile, her distanced objectivity, her ironic façade all gone now. The kind of expression I’d only ever seen for a second before she’d look away, only now she doesn’t.
Our lips slide toward each other, as if we’re still in that desert spring, underwater. I kiss her firmly but tenderly, her lips pliable against mine, as if taking strength from me, as if the words I’ve said are still hanging off my lips, and to truly believe them she needs to take them from my mouth. This time we kiss and it’s not a prelude, not a transformation, not an announcement—it just is.
Frankie pulls away smiling, her eyes still closed for a few seconds, her skin glowing, as if healed somehow, nourished. We turn back to our bowls, nothing more needing to be said, and eat a little more, her free hand now in my lap.
