by Lana Hartley
“Oh my God,” Natalie gasps softly.
I shake my head.
“Died right then and there. No suffering, so I guess there’s that,” I whisper. Fuck, my heart is starting to fucking clench.
“I’m so sorry,” Natalie breathes.
I pause before I continue.
“See, she never wanted us to fight. She never wanted us to lock horns. At the funeral, one of the last times I spoke to Logan, we decided we would never fight again. We could hate each other’s fucking guts, but out of respect, we would never fight and defile her memory. In life. And in the ring,” I confide.
Natalie is silent.
“That’s why we do different weight classes. That’s why we fucking ignore each other. Because we’re both holding on to the memory of Sarah. It’s the only thing we have,” I finish.
I’ve said too much. I wouldn’t be fucking surprised if Natalie just up and left me at this point.
But she doesn’t.
She holds me tighter.
And we lay there, for a long, long time.
Natalie
“That's really old school,” Michelle comments, looking at me as I place my tape recorder on my desk.
“It was my father's,” I tell her, looking at the old recorder with a knot in my throat. Inside it, there's a tape, and inside that tape there's a recording… One that I made secretly.
If you thought I was acting like a true Machiavellian when I told Hunter I wanted to meet at Asakura’s, you don't know the half of it. You see, I had the tape recorder going all throughout the night I spent with Hunter; and, despite the fact that this recorder is almost a relic, it still picks up everything and that quite easily, which means that this tape contains every single word Hunter told me. Yes, even his confession about his past with Logan.
“Is that your interview with Mr. Handsome?”
“Yes…” I whisper, not taking my eyes off the recorder. I know that with what I have in there that I can make a killing… Just imagine the amount of newspapers the Gazette would move if we published this? I mean, an exclusive story like this—it’d go around the world like a storm!
“Let me hear it,” Michelle says suddenly, getting up from her seat and walking around her desk. She reaches for the recorder and I just act out of instinct; I grab it and press it against my chest, looking at her apprehensively. “Wow, girl, calm down. What's in there?”
“There's, uhm, private stuff in here too…” I mumble meekly, warm blood rushing to my cheeks and coloring them in a violent red.
“OH MY GOD! You're such a slut, Natalie!” She laughs, placing one hand on my shoulder and squeezing. Once more she tries to reach for the recorder, and I clutch it to my chest even more tightly.
“It's nothing like that,” I say, even though my private workout in Hunter's gym is on the tape as well. I listened to it last night, and let me tell you… We put on quite a show. We were so loud that I bet anyone walking past the gym heard my moans and screams of pleasure. Oh, well.
“Yeah, right.” She rolls her eyes at me, an amused smile on her lips, but she walks back to her desk and sits down. Propping her feet up on the desk, she laces her fingers behind her head and leans back against the seat. “Was it interesting? The interview, I mean.”
“Yeah, it was… perhaps too interesting,” I reply, sighing heavily and running one hand through my hair. I have no idea about what I should do. Can I really write about what Hunter told me? He didn't confess about his past because I was interviewing him, after all, he did it because… well, because he trusted me. I don't know if I have the guts to break that trust just because I want to further my career. I'm not that Machiavellian.
“What are you two yapping about?” Fat Ed asks us, stepping through the doorway to our office. His shirt seems tighter than usual, his paunch stretching the fabric thin, and I realize that he’s been growing even fatter these past months. Now that he’s close to retiring, I guess that he has already started to let go. Not a good strategy, in my opinion; he’s already fat, and with all the amount of smoking he does… That’s just a disaster waiting to happen.
“Nothing,” I tell him quickly, putting on a fake smile as I try and cover my tape recorder with a copy of today’s newspaper. He glances in that direction as I do it, and I can’t be entirely sure if he didn’t notice that I was trying to hide something. “We were just discussing the profile I have to write on Hunter.”
“I see,” he whispers, looking from me to Michelle, the way he’s narrowing his eyes letting me know that he’s trying to peer into our very souls. “Did you find anything interesting?” He continues, once again turning his gaze toward me.
“Uhm, well,” I start, my heart suddenly jumping into a trot, “not really. I mean, I have some interesting material to work with, but nothing earth-shattering. He’s just another boring boxer, but I guess I can write a quality article out of the things he told me.”
“I see,” he growls, his eyes on mine for what seems like an eternity. Then, without saying a word more, he simply turns around and leaves, only leaving behind the stale smell of his cigarette smoke.
“Now that was some high-quality bullshitting,” Michelle whistles, glancing at me sideways. “What’s inside that tape, Natalie?”
“Something the world doesn’t need to know,” I say softly, looking up at her and smiling. She looks back at me for a few seconds, and then just nods.
“Do what ya gotta do, girl.”
“Yeah,” I whisper, opening the recorder and pulling out the tape. I stare at it and then, grabbing it tightly, I lean back against my seat and raise my arms up, almost as if I were preparing to make a free throw. Flicking my wrist fast, I let go of the tension in my fingers and the tape flies away in an arch, landing straight inside the trash basket in the corner of the office.
“Three points,” Michelle says, clapping her hands together. “You should’ve been a basketball player.”
“Thanks,” I whisper, even though I’m really not in the mood for jokes. I just threw into the trash the opportunity of a lifetime, so yeah, excuse me if I’m not in the best of moods right now.
“Hey,” she calls me softly, “it’s alright, Natalie. Not every story has to be a story.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some things are better kept in the shadows… We’re journalists, I know that. But we also have what I like to call common sense. Never put your job in front of your common sense. Or integrity, for that matter.”
Who’d have thought that Michelle, the laziest journalist in the whole Gazette, a cynical hard-drinker, would be the one imparting me with her wisdom?
“Thank you,” I merely say, smiling.
God bless her; I’d go crazy without Michelle.
Logan
The rope slices the air.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
I continue jumping at a steady rhythm, swinging the rope over my head, one second after the next.
The scene from the sushi restaurant keeps replaying in my mind.
Hunter. Natalie. The two of them leaving together.
Thwack. Fuck Hunter. Thwack.
Sweat trickles down my biceps.
I've never been so angry in my entire life. And this isn't like me. Not normally. But I can't help it. The one man who has been my rival for over a decade—Hunter—has bested me. And that isn't all. He's taken off with the one woman I'm interested in.
Natalie. Na-ta-lie … three syllables that have come to symbolize a drop-dead sexy, funny, and whip smart woman.
True, she unexpectedly appeared in my life, but I'm glad she did, and there's no way I'm letting her slip out of it now, just to be taken away by Hunter.
Again.
This isn't the first woman Hunter has taken from me.
I let go of the jump rope and drop to the ground, pumping my arms and performing quick pushups. Maybe that will clear my mind.
One. Two. Three. Inhale. Exhale.
I need to stay focused. There's a Japanes
e proverb that says, "After victory, tighten your helmet chord." That's exactly what I plan to do.
Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine.
Sweat's now dripping into my eyes. I'm trying to stay focused on my training, but no matter what I do, I can't stop thinking about Natalie.
I slide my hands into a pair of boxing gloves and hit a weighted bag.
Bwap! Bwap! Bwap!
I bounce on the balls of my feet. I jab, hook, and cross until my muscles burn, completely spent, and my breathing is ragged.
I can't ignore this. I can't get Natalie out of my mind.
There's only one solution. I need to see her.
I need to see Natalie now, at her office.
I grab a hand towel and drag it across my forehead, wiping the sweat from my face.
"Finished already, boss?" a voice says.
I turn around and see one of my sparring partners gearing up for the ring, securing padding across his abdomen.
"Something came up. Another time?" I'm so distracted that I forgot about our sparring session.
"Sure thing boss," he nods.
I can't tell if that's disappointment on his face, or relief, but I don't have time to wonder. I grab my car keys and leave the gym.
The second I step out of the gym's glass doors, the noonday sun is blinding. I blink back the brightness, and before I can even see where I'm heading, I walk straight into a man in a tailored suit and thick, horn-rimmed glasses.
"Excuse me," I say, stepping out of his way.
"Logan?"
I look up at the man and holding a hand cupped over my brow to shield my eyes from the harsh sun.
"Can I help you?"
"Your profile article in the Gazette is creating some buzz," he says. "Is it true about Hunter?"
As soon as he says this, I notice he's holding a pen and small pad of paper in his hands. He must be a fucking journalist.
"Sorry, I don't talk to journalists," I say.
"You talked to Natalie. I only want a moment of your time," he says.
I keep walking, ignoring him. I'm almost to my car when another reporter approaches me. She's a thin, frantic woman who seems to speak with her hands, gesticulating wildly.
"You and Hunter are the two best fighters the sport has seen in the last decade. Seeing both of you profiled at the same time is causing people to talk," she says, holding a voice recorder in my face.
"I don't have time for this."
"People aren't just talking," she continues. "Your article has created a media frenzy. Everyone is asking why the two of you have never fought each other?"
"We'll never fight each other," I say.
"Why not?"
"It's personal."
"But you two are the best in your divisions. People are saying the matchup would be the fight of the century," she says.
Finally, I place the key in my car door, open it, and slide inside. But before I can shut the door behind me, the woman continues, "There can only be one champion. What are you afraid of?"
"Afraid?"
I don't know why, but her accusation brings back the images of Hunter and Natalie together in my mind again. I'm willing myself to stay calm.
She shrugs. "Do you think he'd win and get the best of you? Is that it? Are you afraid to see what the outcome of that match would be?"
"If it's one thing I'm sure of, it's this: Hunter wouldn't stand a chance against me in a fight," I say. So much for staying calm. I can feel a rage building up behind my temples and my pulse is kicking into high gear.
"So why not fight? Why not show the world who's the best fighter?"
I think about the way Natalie and Hunter exited the sushi restaurant, hand in hand.
Enough is enough.
Hunter isn't going to dictate what or how I live my life. He doesn't get to step into my life and wreak havoc, or take women from me.
Fuck it. I'm tired of being cautious. Always playing by a safe set of rules.
I look up at the journalist. "If Hunter wants to fight me, I'm more than happy to oblige."
Maybe it's time for us to go into the ring.
Natalie
No wonder everybody hates Fat Ed.
It's already 10pm, and I'm still stuck at the office. I was about to head home, trailing after Michelle as she dragged her feet down the hallway, when Ed ambled out of his office, a burning cigarette perched on the corner of his mouth.
“I need you to do this. Tonight,” he grumbled, pushing a stack of documents into my hands. “ I need it uploaded then,” he told me, turning on his heels and marching down the hallway. “Have a good night!” he laughed as he left, leaving me completely stunned.
And now here I am, sitting behind a pile of documents as I turn them into tweets, Facebook posts, and what have you. Thankfully, Michelle’s here with me. The moment she saw what Ed did, she turned around and decided to stay behind to help me.
“What did you do to piss him off?” Michelle asks me, never looking up as she drums her fingers against her keyboard, furiously tapping at the keys. “Gah, this is fucking bullshit! He has you updating the information on the website about the local teams. The local teams! What did you do to piss him off?” she repeats. Jumping up from her seat and placing her hands on her hips, she taps one foot against the floor as she waits for my reply, and I feel like a schoolgirl telling her parents the reason she brought home a note from school.
“Nothing!” I sigh, gritting my teeth as I feel anger taking over me. Why today, of all days? I can't work overtime today!
“Well, he looked pissed off. But then again, he always looks as if he's pissed off about something,” she admits, sitting back on her chair and exhaling sharply, her frustration showing on the wrinkles on her forehead.
“Do you think he realized I was keeping something from him?” I ask her, my eyes darting to the trash basket in the corner. It’s already empty though; it’s so late that the cleaners have already come to empty it.
“Maybe? I don’t know… Who the hell knows what’s going through his head?” Focusing on her screen again, she goes back to typing so fast that I’d almost say it’s humanly impossible. That’s Michelle—Goddess of Procrastination by day, the Vigilante of Productivity by night.
“Oh, well,” she continues, “it’s not like I have anything better to do. I was hoping to doze off while watching Netflix, but oh well.”
“I wish I could feel as upbeat as you do,” I admit. “He couldn’t have chosen a worse day.”
“Why’s that? Had any plans for tonight?”
“Yeah…” I whisper, biting on my lower lip. Maybe I should’ve kept my mouth shut - now I’ll have to tell her about it. “I had a, uhm, date.”
“Oh, you rascal!” She laughs, looking away from her screen and looking straight into my eyes. “Which one is it? The gentleman or the wild beast?”
“The wild one,” I laugh, feeling my cheeks turn red.
“You’re really something, uh? Who’d have thought it? Natalie, going on dates with multimillionaire fighters… Soon enough you won’t even need to be a journalist. Just get a ring on your finger and you’ll be set for life.”
“It’s not like that. And, besides, the way you say it… It’s not as easy as you think, you know?” I tell her, throwing my head and staring at the ceiling for a few moments. “It just isn’t right - I mean, I’ve been with Logan, now I’m going out with Hunter. It’s just so --”
“So fantastically awesome? Because from where I’m standing, that’s what it looks like.”
“Yeah, yeah… Alright, it’s a lil’ bit awesome. But I don’t feel that great about it. I don’t like being duplicitous.”
“Then don’t,” she shrugs, “just be honest. And grab your phone; tell Hunter to come and get you. I’ll cover for you tonight.”
“No! You don’t need to --”
“I do. And you’ll treat me to dinner one of these days. Somewhere fancy. Now grab your phone and do what I tell you to, you peasant!” S
he finishes off, raising her voice and trying to speak with a faux (and definitely very exaggerated) British accent.
“Right away, Your Royal Highness,” I reply in the same tone as her, chuckling as I grab my phone and send Hunter a quick text. Sure, I’ll be there in 30, he replies just a few seconds after I fired off my message. I don’t even know how to thank Michelle - I had already given up on dinner with Hunter, and now he’s picking me up at the office. Ah, I’m definitely taking her to the fanciest place I can find whenever I have the chance.
“Alright,” Michelle yawns a few minutes later, raising her arms and stretching her back. She closes the her laptop’s lid and then jumps up to her feet. “I’m taking this home, and I’ll finish it in front of TV. It’s going to be long night for me, so you better make sure my sacrifice wasn’t made in vain.”
“Aye, aye, Captain!” I reply, getting up to my feet and offering her a mocking salute. “Seriously, Michelle, I don’t even know how to thank you.”
“Don’t. Just make sure you have fun, alright? Have a g’night.” With her purse slung over one shoulder, the laptop tucked under her arm, she heads out of the office and leaves me alone in the eery silence of the Gazette. Hunter’s going to be here in five minutes or so, so I better get ready.
I’m about to head out the sports department offices and make my way toward the bathroom, when I hear the chime on my Facebook feed go off. My eyes dart to it almost instantly, and my eyes widen as I see a video of Logan under a headline I wasn’t expecting: “A FIGHT IN THE MAKING?”
Holding my breath, I drag the mouse icon toward the video and press play. I watch in sullen silence as a bunch of journalists crowd around Logan, pestering him with a thousand questions all at once. Then, the guys shoving their mics into Logan’s face start going on and on about Logan, and that’s when he relents: if Hunter wants to fight, he’s more than willing to oblige.
