by L. G. Kelso
I nodded.
"That's my next fight."
"Yup."
"I'm kind of surprised they offered the fight."
"Me too. I think it's because of the show. The drama. Ways to attract an audience. I guarantee they'll talk about my last match a million times before this one."
"Everyone has bad fights. You got hurt. There's no shame in that." His tone was an audible shrug.
I picked at another piece of grass. Max rested on his side, relaxed. He definitely didn't understand what I meant. How could I expect him to when he didn't even know what happened?
"I froze," I said. I blew the piece of grass out of my hand and looked at him.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, I froze. In that fight. That's why I got the KO and the knee damage. I just froze."
He leaned forward, still on his side, indicating he had picked up on how serious I felt about this. But most of him stayed relaxed.
"You won't."
"Won't what?"
"Freeze."
"You sound so positive." I scanned his body, trying to figure out why he wasn't more worried. His eyes rested on me, and his face attentive, so why did he sound so calm and so sure of himself?
"I am positive." His gaze locked on mine.
"How?"
"I have faith that you'll work through whatever made you freeze. You know that you're your biggest opponent. It doesn't matter who you're in there with. If you can get through to you, you've got this."
"And if I can't?"
"Now you're just being ridiculous."
I shrugged.
"You can do it. If you want it, you can do it." He sat up, off his hip and onto his butt. He stuck his legs out, bent at the knee, so that my body, with my own knees drawn up against my chest, settled between his legs.
The conviction in his voice made me almost believe him. It also confused me. He wasn't just giving me the "you'll win" crap friends used to feed me. Jeff had believed in me like that before. However, by the way he had reacted when I volunteered to work with Max for the first time, it made me think he had lost that faith.
Maybe the only reason Max had faith in me was because he didn't know about me. He didn't know the mess called my head. He knew I tore my ACL and now he knew I froze, but he didn't know why. He didn't understand that Will's snapping while sparring had done a tremendous job of screwing me up. It had scared me. Hell, Max didn't even know that Will snapped.
For a moment, I indulged myself and wondered what Max would think if he knew. Would he be like Will's lawyers who had told me that I knew what could happen, that I had understood the risks when I stepped into the cage with him, that I was a fighter and that this was training—not any form of assault or battery. According to them, and indubitably to Will, I might as well have asked for it.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked.
"Like what?"
"Like I'm crazy."
"I just don't understand why you're so confident about it." I looked away, at another blade of grass between my fingers.
"About it?" he asked. "You mean about you. Because I've seen you. I've seen you work and I see it in your eyes. Your head is in the gym even when your body isn't. You have the determination. You're levelheaded. You got this."
"I don't think I have a level head. Not anymore."
"Because you panic sometimes?"
I jerked my head up and my gaze off the grass. He had picked up on that? Of course he had.
"You haven't panicked in a while," he said. "But is that what you mean?"
I nodded.
"Getting scared is normal. I'd be worried if you never did. Fear is a part of life."
"But it makes me freeze."
Max's eyes latched onto mine, and amber specks flashed in the sunlight. His jaw flexed, and the tension tightened his shoulders.
And I could see it. In his eyes. I could see him making a connection.
"What happened?"
"What happened when?" Play stupid. Play stupid.
"Between your second to last fight and your last fight. What scared you and made you freeze?" He scooted closer. His knees bent more, staying only inches from my arms. The edges of his running shorts had fallen down his leg, revealing tight quads. If I reached out slightly, my hand would rest on them.
I swallowed—that was loud—and even though I wanted to look away, I couldn't.
"It's nothing," I finally said.
His eyes flashed again, but a cloud now covered the sun.
"Nothing is always something."
Still, I held his gaze.
"Next time you get scared, try to focus on it. I know, I know. That sounds backward. I don't mean focus on what's causing the fear—don't do that—but focus on the feeling instead. Use it. Fear is never going to go away. It's going to pop up at times. But it can be a great adrenaline catalyst. Focus it into physical energy. Use it to do what you need to do."
My phone buzzed. I ignored it.
"And don't try not to think about it. Not dealing with it won't help. It'll make it that much harder when it pops up. Face it. Each time. And then, maybe, it won't surprise you as much when it happens."
"You sound like you've been scared before. For some reason, I don't believe you." My knee touched his.
"I have. It happens to everyone."
"But you're Max."
He chuckled. "Yes, and you're Tori."
I punched him in the arm. I dropped my legs, brushing my knee against his, and crossed them. The angle of my knees disappeared under his legs at my side.
"My first fight was ugly," he said. "I was angry and I suck at fighting when I'm angry. Big time. My brain shuts off; my strategy goes out the window. I was going off sheer emotion, and unstable emotion at that. And at one point, I got scared shitless. I was sucking and taking hit after hit, and fear, like I hadn't felt since I was a kid, hit me."
"What happened?"
"I lost the fight. Wound up with a bunch of stitches and a broken hand. The hand was my fault. First round. I threw a bad punch in my pissed off state, gave myself a damn boxer fracture. And that just pissed me off more."
"What made you so angry?"
"Things I hadn't dealt with. I let things build up and it came out then."
My phone buzzed again.
"You want to get that?" He nodded toward the phone.
"Not really."
Whoever was texting me decided to call, because the phone rang next. Fine.
"Why are you ignoring me?" Leah said after I answered the phone. "Where are you?"
"The field. Hanging out with Max. Want to join us?"
"Max from the gym? The one you've talked about?"
Max's eyes darted to my phone and his eyebrow quirked. My fingers found the sound buttons and tried to turn the volume down, but Leah said, "He's a hottie, right?"
"Well, Leah, I'll see you soon." I cleared my throat and hung up.
"So, you've talked about me, eh?"
"Of course. You're my training partner."
He smiled.
I punched him in the arm again, but his hand clasped over mine, pressing it against his arm. Max's smell—sweat, an underlying scent of hard work and determination, an almost tangible endorphin waft, and all together that thing that made Max smell like Max—engulfed me. It already felt like his adrenaline had reached out and teased mine to surface.
I blinked, and his strong jaw and the dark pools of his eyes came back into sharp focus.
My embarrassment at my zoning out started to creep away when I recognized the cloudy look in his eyes, which were staring at my mouth.
It meant a lot hearing his confidence in me. Not because of whatever this thing was pulling me toward him, but because he trained with me. He worked with me, he saw me. Even if he didn't make me want to jump him, his confidence in me would still matter this much.
Oh God. I wanted to jump Max Estrada right here in the freaking field.
I could do this. I could fight. Maybe I could win. I
could at least not freeze, and I could still have my fighting life, still have my gym, still have Max.
And I could keep my damn pants on.
Maybe.
"Max," I said.
He made a noise from low in his throat that I took to be a 'yes'.
"You still want to get that pie?"
He leaned forward, pressing my hand tighter around his bicep, which tensed and flexed under my skin. My finger grazed over the hollow near his brachial artery. His pulse pounded away under my touch. His eyes were on my mouth. His legs moved in, touching the sides of my arms. The sun beat down, warm heat trailing along my exposed neck, but chills ran through my shoulders, prickling my skin. He leaned in more—
Buzzing came from his pocket. Worst timing ever.
"Now, it's your turn," I said.
He didn't move. The phone kept making noise.
"Go on," I said. If he came any closer, I would quite possibly roll him over and get kicked out of school for indecent sexual activity.
The phone silenced only to start ringing again for the third time. Max didn't budge.
"Max, maybe you should get that? Something could be wrong?"
I reached forward, slid my hand into his pocket—a low groan came from Max, God, why did he have to make that noise right now, right here—and grabbed his phone. I handed it to him.
Immediately, I wished I hadn't.
He shook his head, and cleared his throat. His eyes stayed on mine as he pulled his phone out, and left my hand bare to the breeze.
He would be off the phone in a minute, I told myself, and then I would kiss him. I didn't want to lose my training partner, but I didn't want to lose this—whatever the hell this was—either.
His lips were so close. So freaking close.
"Hello." His gruff voice caught me off guard, and my hand squeezed his arm.
Oops.
He cleared his throat again, and repeated the words. "Hello."
His face fell.
Whoever was on the phone was as loud as Leah was, but the words were rushed and I couldn't make anything out but a female voice in what sounded like distress.
"Nicole. Slow down. Nicole, I'll be right there." Max's face tightened, and he jumped to his feet. "I have to go," he said, already turned. A second later, he sprinted away.
What had just happened?
Leah stalked toward the field, her head looking over her shoulder and probably at Max's ass as he ran away. I gathered my books and stood.
"Where'd your friend go?" she asked when I met her at the edge of the field.
"I don't know. Something to do with his ex, or I thought ex, girlfriend. I don't know what they are."
"Hold up," she said, and linked her arm through mine. "Girlfriend? Either I've been reading what you have told me wrong, or he's a player."
"What are you talking about?"
My nose wrinkled at the insta-chemical wash it got when she turned her head. Sure enough, new low-lights streaked her hair.
"You tell me things about him and what he says, and I just assumed he's into you."
"Why would you do that?" My mouth gaped and I glared. "You always try to find romance in everything."
She stopped walking and glared at me. "You poor, poor girl. What would you do without me?"
"He's not into me. Obviously." I shook my head. Had I misread him that bad just now? I had to have, otherwise why would he have bolted?
She shrugged.
"And he's not a player," I insisted.
"But he has a girlfriend?"
"I don't know. They've apparently had an on-again-off-again thing for years. I thought they were broken up."
"But he just ran off to her?"
I nodded and my chest ached.
"It sounds like she still has her claws in. I wouldn't waste my time."
We stopped at a streetlight and waited for traffic to pass. Topic change time. I didn't need Leah analyzing what happened before I could even put it together.
"I have a fight. Officially. In six freaking weeks."
"You have a fight? That's great. I'm so proud of you!"
The light changed, and we strode across the crosswalk.
"And, Tori," Leah said. "Don't give up on Max because of what he is. You haven't said it, but I know that you didn't want anything with him because he was a fighter. Now, on the other hand, do give up if he's a player."
I rolled my eyes. Max was far from a player, but I couldn't shake the irritation that hit me when he ran off to Nicole. If he really was done with her, as Shane said, why did he do that?
I pulled out of my phone.
I could settle this. I could keep one foot in this world while the other went into the world of fighting. That way, if I bombed enough that I couldn't fix fighter-Tori, I wouldn't have to work so hard to have a life outside of fighting. Creating an entire new life had been hard enough once.
And I could distract myself from Max and his possible girlfriend.
Sender Trevor:
So, date?
Reply:
Yes. Tomorrow night.
#
"Megan 'the Wild One' Tiffs."
Jeff scooted the stool over so I could read the screen.
Megan Tiffs
5-0-0: win-lose-decision
Summary: takedowns
1 TKO, 4 submissions
135 pounds, 5'8
Based off five fights, she used submission/grappling eighty percent of the time, her striking twenty percent. She won the five fights, and none went to decision.
Her takedown rate was one hundred percent successful.
Shit.
My mind reeled. The best way to fight a grappler was make them box, but even my takedown defense had gotten crappy the past few years.
"Breathe, Tori," Jeff said. "I know she looks rough on the ground."
"That's where I suck. The ground."
"It's the only in I could get you, Tori." He stood behind me, looking at the computer screen over my shoulder. He patted me on the back.
"All right. We need a plan."
"I want you to watch her fights. Then, the next two weeks we are going to up your ground training and takedowns. At the month-out mark, we'll see how that's progressing and make a plan. And really, she's just got a solid wrestling background. Okay boxing. But nothing else, so her movement won't be confusing."
"She's going to want to take the fight to the ground. She'll know I like to keep it up."
"I know. So, we'll either decide to make a plan to keep it up or, depending how the ground training goes, if you are going to take it to the ground."
I nodded.
"I'm going to start Shane working a circuit." He patted me one more time and then headed toward the dojo.
"Max isn't here?"
"No. He's late," Jeff grumbled as he walked away.
The first video was already loaded on the computer. I pressed play.
She had a weak jab. She used it as a way to measure distance, as most of us did, but she rarely threw it for contact. Her cross was a little better, but her rear foot moved out weird.
No wonder she always took the fight to the ground.
I made mental notes as I watched.
Weak jab. Bad pivot on cross. She dropped her guard when she kicked, leaving her face exposed, and her weight distribution looked off. She kept too much weight on her back leg, so I could guess she didn't kick much.
That said, her takedowns were amazing. Swift, quick. Once her opponents were down, she controlled the fights. From top and her back. Her technique for locks was solid.
I warred with myself as I watched.
Part of the time, I watched and thought what I would do in that situation. Like, I used to think when preparing for a fight. Find the weakness, the pocket, and make the strategy.
Yet, every time she got someone in a lock, my panic welled up and my brain ceased making decisions.
As her last fight loaded, I grabbed the stack of notes Jeff had to the side. The fi
rst page had information about the fight.
Most of the fights were already matched, and I didn't recognize some of the fights. There were four names on the bottom of the page:
Brian Holmes
Andrew Johnson
Max Estrada
Will Bennet
"Jeff?" I jumped off the stool and hurried into the gym. Jeff stood near the bag Shane worked on.
"Yes?" he answered.
I went to his side and quietly asked, "Is Will fighting at this fight?"
"It's a possibility, but you don't have to see him. We can avoid him."
Yeah, right.
Jeff's eyes narrowed, and his hand stopped scratching his chin. "Are you going to be able to do it?"
He never would have asked me that years ago, and I hated that he asked me now.
"Yeah. It's fine," I said, and headed back toward the desk.
Holy crap, did I have a long six weeks ahead of me.
Chapter Eighteen
"Crap," I said, looking at the clock on the wall. "I don't have time to go home."
Max said something, but I was already running toward the front desk to grab my bag. Thank God, I had suspected this would happen and brought my things. I slipped into the bathroom, this time careful to avoid cramming my Achilles tendon into the base of the toilet.
I stripped off my damp clothes. I washed my face, wiped the splashed water off the mirror, and started applying makeup.
For normal girls, my make-up job would have taken five minutes. For me, just applying the damn eyeliner took ten, and the mascara and cleaning up the black specks under my eyes took another ten. I plugged in my curling iron for the first time ever.
I reached into my bag.
No dress. It must have fallen out. I opened the door a fraction, and peered into the room. Empty.
I opened it a bit more, enough to slide through. My bare foot went out, my bare leg following. Another step.
Max's voice.
Crap.
I moved back. The doorknob rammed into my ass. Shoving the door harder, I fell back into the small bathroom as Max rounded the corner.
Searing heat scorched against my butt, and shot hot arrows through my skin.
"Ouch!" I yelped and jumped.
The curling iron flipped off the counter, bunged by its cord, spun, and hit me in the leg. I yanked the door open, my back to the room as I jumped out of the bathroom and out of the way of the flying piece of metal.
