by JJ Knight
Her face is as red as her UFC T-shirt. “Do you realize what you’ve done? Now you have a record. You didn’t even get a win out of the match. And what is this I hear that you went out with the girl who busted you in the end? Are you the stupidest brother on the face of the planet?” She shakes so hard as she talks that her ponytail swings.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m the stupidest brother on the planet. Dumb brother is gonna go stick his bag in the lockers.” I lift it between us. “You can continue yelling at me in a minute.”
I head into the men’s locker room. It’s blessedly empty, so I sit on the bench for a moment. It occurs to me that I really didn’t have a choice about Chloe at all. Even if I wanted to see her again, pretty much no one in my family would support that choice. On the outside, it really does all look bad. And maybe it’s all bad. But I know how it felt on the inside.
I pull out my gloves and shove the bag in a locker. When I walk to the foyer, Jo hasn’t moved. Her face might be a little less red.
“We talked about when you would have your first fight,” she says. “You deliberately went behind my back fully knowing that I didn’t think you were ready to take on opponents.”
“But I killed him,” I argue. “I want to fight. Are you mad because I did it, or are you mad because you were wrong?”
Colt pokes his head into the small lobby. “That’s all water under the bridge,” he says. “Come to the annex and we’ll talk about where we’re going to go from here.”
I follow Colt, because it’s the best of my options at the moment. We pass through the main weight room. Mike and Josh are both there, punching on heavy bags in the corner. I cock my head for them to come to the annex with me. The newer part of the gym is strictly for our family when we’re there. An accordion door separates it from the public area.
But I can decide when to allow others to come work out with me. Right now, I need people on my side.
Mike claps me on the back. “Hudson, you were brilliant. Face Wrecker had no idea how to handle you. He had no game with you in the cage. You were a beast.”
Josh throws in his two cents. “You work fast, man. There was no way he was gonna do anything to you. Did he get a single punch in? I don’t think you have a mark on you.”
“I was trying to make it a clean fight,” I say. “I had a breakfast date, and I didn’t want an ugly mug.”
Josh laughs. “Dude, you’re ugly morning, night, and day.”
I’ve made the right choice. These two guys are already making me feel way better. Colt tries to hide a smile as we banter on our way into the annex. I don’t see Jo. She must’ve trailed behind or stopped to talk to Buster in his office.
Inside the annex, Parker and his daughter Lily spar in the cage. She’s ten years old and a little pistol. Parker has started her training, but she always wants to look like a princess. So even when she’s fighting, she wears all pink. A glitter crown is painted on her head protector.
There isn’t really a lot for young kids like her to do in MMA, but occasionally Parker will invite some of the students of the Muay Thai or kickboxing classes to come and spar with her.
I turn away from the cage and head toward the heavy bags. I’ve already done a decent workout this morning, but I know they’re going to expect me to do more. That’s fine. I expect more from me, too.
Jo pushes through the annex door and makes a beeline for me. “Hudson, we’re not through discussing this,” she says. “You cannot get arrested every weekend in an illegal fight. Whatever you and some of your friends might think, this does impact you when you’re being considered for one of the major fight leagues.”
This is news to me. No one has had a conversation with me about what it takes to get into the leagues where you do televised matches or become challenger eligible for a championship belt.
“I’m pretty sure everyone in this room has done an illegal fight,” I say. “Including you.”
Parker turns his head and gives a little smirk at that. Everybody knows about how Jo and some ex-girlfriend of Colt’s went to an underground fight to get revenge against a couple girls involved in Colt’s shooting. I’m pretty sure Parker drove them to that fight. It was all before my time.
“That’s not the point, Hudson,” Jo says. “The point is that we’re looking out for your career. You’re on a professional track that I was never engaged in.”
Parker wanders over to the mesh of the cage and leans against it, his elbows spread wide, fight gloves by his head. “Seems like your husband might’ve done an illegal fight or two himself before he hit the big time,” he says.
Jo snaps her head around. “Unlike Hudson here, you guys were smart enough to never get caught.”
Dang. She’s going for blood.
“True that,” Parker says. He turns around and picks up his daughter and lifts her on one of his shoulders. She strikes a pose that is more Disney than MMA, head tilted, arm out.
“What do you think, Lily?” he asks her. “You think you could beat Hudson here in the cage?”
She puts on her fight face and smacks her bright pink gloves together. “I could take him,” she says with a growl.
I shake my head and move on toward the heavy bags. Hopefully Jo is done berating me for what happened. And I do get what she is saying. It would be unwise to get a lot of arrests on my record. But I’m not planning to do it again. I proved my point. To myself, if nobody else.
Colt’s trainer Killjoy takes me through drills while some of the others spar. We settle down into a typical workday. When Colt’s team brings us lunch, Buster comes into the annex and calls me back for a chat.
I follow him through the weight room to the glorified closet that serves as his office.
Buster rubs his hand over his bald head as he plops down in his chair. He gestures toward the metal bench on the other side of the desk, but I remain standing by the door. It’s a custom here. We all try to give Buster the respect and deference he deserves.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Jo tells me I need to set up a fight for you,” he says. “It’s a conflict of interest for Parker’s booking agent to do it, and we let Colt’s guy go years ago.” He fiddles with some papers on his desk. “But I know some people around town. We can certainly get a legit fight set up for you. We just have to decide who and when.”
I lean against the door frame. This is great. Jo has finally come around.
He picks up a list and peers at it. “I know it’s bound to have been frustrating waiting around for your family to decide it’s your time,” he says. “But these folks are the best in the business.”
“I feel like what happened last night means I’m ready,” I say.
Buster leans back in his chair. “Who did you go up against? What was his style?”
“He goes by Face Wrecker,” I say. “He was in my weight class, but he wasn’t really fit. He kicked sloppy, left lots of openings. I didn’t take any serious hits. I let him go a full round, then I pinned him.”
“All right,” Buster says. “Let me see what I can put together.”
“I appreciate that. I feel like this has been a long time coming.”
“Jo has definitely been protecting you,” Buster says. “You’re family. I think some of the things that went on a few years ago really did a number on her.”
“But it’s time for her to let go,” I say.
“There is no doubt about that,” he says. “Give me a few days to pull something together. We should be able to get a match worked into the schedule within a month.”
I really want something sooner, but I don’t how it all works. It’s not like the warehouse fights, where you just walk up and take whatever opponent is next.
“Thanks,” I say.
I head to the annex, satisfied that even if my first fight ended in a cop car, the next one should be a normal bout. And if nothing else, everything that happened this weekend caused my sister to change her mind. If going to jail is what got her to back my fir
st legit fight, then I’ll take it.
Chapter 5: Chloe
I’ve only managed a couple hours of sleep when Zeba finally comes in the front door.
She tries to creep quietly by my room, but I sit up. “Hey, how was it?” I ask.
Zeba leans against my doorframe. She is a disaster. Her hair is all over the place. Mascara smudges darken the skin below both eyes. Her shirt is a starburst of wrinkles.
But she glows.
“Awesome,” she says.
“You seeing him again today?” I ask.
“Probably.” Her smile has a dreamy quality.
“Go get some sleep,” I tell her. “You’ll need it at this rate.”
“You managed to not get arrested?” she asks.
She looks ready to drop. I don’t want to hold her up with the whole story.
“It was an eventful night, but I’m home. We can talk later.”
She yawns. “Okay, Big C. I’ll catch you in a few hours.”
When she’s gone, I flop on the bed. It’s almost ten. I should try to sleep more, but a restlessness has already settled over me. Back at the jail, lots of people are going before the judge and getting bailed out. Or not, if nobody can pay for them.
Their cars are abandoned miles away. Maybe getting towed by now. I don’t know.
It’s all my fault.
I sit up. I can’t do anything about Hudson. Or the other fighters. They got what they deserve. But I could at least try to help some of the spectators that got caught up in the bust.
After a shower and clean clothes, I jump in Jonesie. I give her a quick fill-up on gas and sit outside the reception area of the jail. Maybe I can drive some of them to their cars, and if they’ve been towed, I can take them home.
It’s not much, but it’s something.
A trickle of people come out, but nobody looks familiar.
Shoot. I need a sign.
I run to the front of the car and lift the hood to snatch a political sign Action for Action scavenged after the last election. It’s tucked behind the spare tire. After a search for a working Sharpie in my dash, I scrawl a message on the blank back of the sign.
Arrested after the MMA fight? I’ll take you to your car for free.
I stick it in the window facing the doorway.
And still, nothing. A few people glance at the sign and walk away.
At one point, the crying girl comes down the steps with an older woman. They don’t look my way.
Maybe my do-good intention is going to go nowhere.
After an hour or so, I’m about to give up when I see three guys I definitely recognize.
The ones who got me in.
I tap on my horn.
One of them peers at my car, then elbows the others. They see the sign and approach the passenger door.
The one who put his arm around me at the fight opens the door. “For real?” he asks. He catches the sign as it falls. “I totally need a ride to the car.”
Then he sees me. “Hey! It’s you!”
“It is!” I say. “Jump in!”
The other two crawl to the back seat.
“Did you get arrested?” asks the guy with the buzzed fade.
“Totally,” I say. “I got out a few hours ago and decided to come back around and help.”
“What a peach!” says the one beside me. He shoves the sign on the floor.
“I assume you were somewhere around the warehouse?” I ask.
“Yeah,” the guy says. “About two blocks down. I’ll show you.”
I pull away from the curb.
The guy with the fade leans forward between the front seats. “That was one crazy night!” he says.
“Someone come bail you out?” I ask.
“Yeah,” says the one next to me. “My uncle does bonds. He’s always up here.”
“Lucky!” I say in a higher pitch, remembering I should copy my demeanor from last night.
“Say, why haven’t we seen you at a fight before?” Fade asks.
I pull up to the light before I answer. I have to handle all this carefully. “I hadn’t been! My boyfriend kept saying he would take me, but he never did. I had to go on my own.”
Fade nudges his friend. “We’ll be happy to take you anytime you want.”
“Won’t they be canceled for a while?” The light turns green, which is my excuse to avoid their gaze as I ask. My heart is beating like crazy.
“Nah,” Fade says. “They got spots all over town. I heard they’re moving the operation to the empty building in Manchester Square.”
“That sounds yummy! What street?”
“Western Avenue,” Fade says. “Down from the seafood market. You gonna go?”
I try to keep my voice light. “I might. They doing it Friday night again?”
The guy next to me pipes in. “Gimme your number and I’ll call you and tell you all about it.”
Fade shoves him. “Outta your league, dumb ass,” he says. “Not this Friday, the next one. You want me to put your name on the list?”
I swallow hard. “Yeah, sure. Charlotte.” I use that name whenever I have to give one on a job, to receptionists or on the phone.
“Mama Bertie’s gonna need more than that,” Fade says.
“Charlotte Moore,” I say.
“Charlotte Moore,” the guy next to me says. “Love it.”
Fade elbows him again.
“They’re not worried about another bust?” I ask.
Fade shrugs. “Don’t matter. It’s worth the risk.”
“But it’s just a sport,” I say.
“Not to them,” Fade says. “It’s an addiction, especially the fighters. Some people got the booze, some people got their pills, and some people got fighting.”
“Why don’t they do real fights on TV instead?” I ask.
“You act like that’s easy,” the other guy in the back says. “It takes money and somebody backing you, and you gotta have a trainer and all that. These are street fighters. For a lot of them, this is all they know. They live by the fist, and now they earn their money by the fist.”
The whole thing makes my head hurt. So many people, thinking the fighting is all they can ever do. You have to wonder if they have other options at all.
We approach the warehouses, and the guy in front directs me around the corner. He points out a beat-up bright-red Miata. One of its lights is cocked up and tilted like a sad and terrible wink.
“Thanks for the ride,” he says. “See you at the fights? We’ll tell Mama Bertie.”
“Probably,” I say. “I’m definitely thinking about it.”
“All right then, Charlotte Moore,” he says. He reaches out a hand and I shake it. “We’ll see you at the fights.”
As they load into the tiny Miata, I pull away to head to the jail to see if I can pick up anyone else. I have enough gas for at least ten runs. I doubt I’ll take that many. But I can spend a couple more hours trying.
Besides, the guys have given me an idea. If several fights get busted in a row, the organizers are bound to start reconsidering their line of work. If I’ve gotten in, and I can keep my head down so that no one figures out that I’m the one causing the problem, I might make a dent in this problem.
I wonder if Hudson will be at the fights again. My heart revs up a little. Why am I really going? To bust fights? Or to see him?
I pull up to the outside of the reception area of the jail. There’s a little more activity. More hearings means more people are getting out.
I’m not really sure anyone else is going to take me up on my offer, but I sit there for at least another hour. My stomach starts to rumble. But just when I put my hand on the transmission shifter, I see a familiar cherry-red head bobbing over a banana-yellow dress that I’m also familiar with.
It’s Clarissa. My boss.
I never told her I got out.
I feel some chagrin, but then anger overtakes it. She didn’t come for me last night. Left me in jail. I got strip-searched be
cause of her.
I’d still be in a cell with the vomiting woman if not for Hudson.
I watch her walk uncertainly toward the building. She checks her phone repeatedly. All the thoughts I’ve had, about not trusting her anymore and maybe quitting my job, bubble to the surface. But even so, as she approaches my car, I lean over and roll down the window.
“Clarissa,” I call out.
She pauses, looking around. Then she spots my yellow Beetle and walks up.
My boss always looks like a fruit basket. It starts with the crazy red hair. Then her round face, which completes the impression that her face really is a cherry.
Her clothing is always something bright and tropical. If she showed up with a Carmen Miranda fruit basket on her head, it wouldn’t surprise me.
She leans against the door next to the open window. “Hey, you’re out.”
I want to say, “No thanks to you,” but I swallow it. I don’t want to tell her how I got out. I settle on a simple, “Yes.”
“They let you go?” she asks.
“A friend helped me,” I say. “Since I wasn’t sure when you would come.”
She at least has the good sense to look chagrined. “I’m sorry about that,” she says. “But a second offense while you still have an open case makes the lawyer fee and the bail a lot higher.”
She tucks a loose piece of red hair behind her ear. “I had no way of checking the accounts from home. And I couldn’t commit the lawyer to going up there without knowing if I could pay. I needed to figure out what I had before I tried.”
This makes me angrier. “How can you send us out there to get arrested if you don’t know if you can get us out?” It really is ridiculous. The causes are hers, and we’re the ones risking our necks.
“I really thought you were going to be able to get away without getting caught on this one,” she says. “You had plenty of lead time. What happened?”
I can’t tell her that I was ogling one of the fighters without his shirt on, one I had made out with hot and heavy less than an hour before the fight. In fact, she can’t know any of that ever happened. I can’t imagine that cavorting with the enemy is something that her organization condones.
