A Dom and His Warrior

by Xenia Melzer

  “And from Miami, Florida, Leeland Drake!”

  The crowd erupted in applause, not because people already knew him, but because most of them were already drunk on alcohol and violence. Leeland stepped out into the blinding light of the arena. For a brief moment, he allowed his gaze to flicker toward the first row to his right, where he knew Jonathan, his parents, and his friends from Whisper were seated. Leeland met Jonathan’s eyes for a moment, and the love and encouragement he saw there was all he needed. Taking a deep breath, Leeland sank into his warrior headspace, tuning out the sounds of the people, centering on himself, concentrating on his opponent. Carlos Scamander was already in the cage in his corner, staring at him, no doubt trying to assess him like he was evaluating Carlos.

  The cage was closed, and it was only Leeland, Carlos, and the referee on the canvas. Leeland noticed some blood on the mat from the previous fights, but it didn’t really matter. After this night, the canvas would never be used again. For each fight night, an individual canvas was painted and afterward thrown away. It was a custom in the UFC, one that seemed ridiculous at first glance, but which Leeland understood perfectly. Getting bloodstains out of any fabric was a bitch. It was also a matter of money. The logos of the sponsors were painted on the canvas, and as they changed, so did the fabric on which the fighters competed. A quick glance to the ground while he made his way to the middle of the octagon showed Leeland the logo of Smash! in one of the corners. Samantha Jones would be happy.

  He met his opponent in the middle of the cage, and they shook hands. Carlos had a firm grip but didn’t try to make it a contest, which earned him a few merits in Leeland’s book. He despised nothing more than men who tried to make a point with their strength alone. Then the referee raised his hand and stepped back. The fight was officially on.

  Leeland brought his hands up quickly and sidestepped Carlos’s attempt at getting him in a surprise attack. The man was even faster than Leeland had anticipated, and he wasted no time going after Leeland with a volley of blows Leeland managed to block, but which he would definitely feel later in his lower arms. Carlos was obviously trying to turn this into a boxing match, which would be to his advantage. Leeland had no intention of allowing that—couldn’t allow it if he wanted to have a chance at winning. When Carlos went for a right hook, Leeland ducked under it and landed a firm blow to Carlos’s ribs. Carlos retreated in surprise, and Leeland used the moment of distraction to strike twice with his left leg on Carlos’s thigh in order to upset his balance. It worked, and Carlos stumbled backward, trying to get out of Leeland’s reach before he could get another leg kick in.

  To defend himself, Carlos was now forced to use martial art techniques, which gave Leeland an advantage. They traded more blows and jabs, the fight waging between boxing and a mix of karate and tae kwon do. Leeland managed to get Carlos a few times on the head and was sure it had to hurt—just like the punches Carlos rained on him. They were evenly matched, and the whistle marking the end of their first five minutes came as a relief.

  Leeland retreated into his corner, where his ojisan was waiting for him with water and a slew of instructions.

  “He’s quick, so you must be quicker. You must take control of this fight, Leeland. Don’t let him revert to boxing so much. He’s too strong. Force him to fight with martial arts. Now go!”

  Leeland shook his head. One minute wasn’t enough to get good tactical advice or recover sufficiently. Nothing his ojisan had told him was news, but he did feel exhausted already. Five minutes could be damn long against a determined opponent, no matter how hard a fighter had trained. There was a huge difference between training in the relative tranquility of a gym and being out in the lion’s den of the octagon. At least he didn’t yet feel the bruises forming everywhere Carlos had hit him. There was too much adrenaline coursing through his system.

  They met in the middle of the cage again, and Leeland thought he could detect a certain wariness in Carlos. He wasn’t the only one who felt the strain of the fight.

  The referee raised his hand, and their violent dance began anew. Leeland ducked sideways under one of Carlos’s straight punches and kneed him in the kidneys. Carlos stumbled forward, regained his balance far more quickly than Leeland had anticipated, and countered with a spinning back fist Leeland couldn’t completely evade. The force of the impact had his ears ringing, and it was only his excellent reflexes that saved him from subsequently getting hit by a spinning back kick.

  Leeland shook his head to clear his mind. His vision suddenly seemed to become more focused, and his thoughts turned into a sharp, predatory thing that had only one goal—winning. Back when he was active, this had happened to him in almost every fight, this transformation into a fighting machine, but it had been so long, Leeland had forgotten the eerie clarity and frightening calmness that came with it. He was no longer thinking about what he did; he simply moved. Blocking, ducking, punching, striking—it all flowed together in perfect harmony. But Carlos was strong, stocky, he could take the blows Leeland dished out. He needed a different tactic.

  The second blow of the whistle couldn’t pry Leeland from his trance, and his ojisan took one look at his face and knew better than to tell him what to do.

  The third round started. Carlos seemed to be getting tired, or desperate, or probably both, just like Leeland. But unlike Leeland, he was acting recklessly in his eagerness to end the fight with a knockout. Reckless opponents made mistakes. Leeland had already realized he wouldn’t be able to knock Carlos out, not in the few minutes they had left, and he didn’t want to find out who the three judges saw as the winner. It was time to end this.

  Carlos came on to him with a wide swing of his left arm. Leeland sidestepped and saw his chance. He let himself fall and swiped Carlos’s legs from under him. While Carlos was still falling, Leeland twisted his body. His legs closed around Carlos’s upper body and brought him down in the side-control position known from wrestling. Leeland usually avoided going for ground-and-pound since his opponents were normally heavier and stronger than him, which made it difficult for him to control them. But Carlos was in his weight class. He might have a few pounds on Leeland, but not enough to make a difference. All Leeland had to do now was squeeze Carlos’s upper body until he submitted or the referee ended the fight.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Carlos tapped the canvas once, submitting to Leeland. Leeland breathed a sigh of relief and loosened his hold on Carlos. His thighs were on fire and he wasn’t sure how much longer he would have been able to keep the other man under control. They both got up, and when the referee declared Leeland the winner, the shouts of the crowd turned into a roar. Leeland felt a fresh wave of adrenaline surge through his body.

  He had won his first fight.

  LEELAND LET the scalding water in the small shower of the changing room wash over his body. The adrenaline from the fight and the rush of his victory were slowly starting to fade, and his body took the opportunity to remind him of every blow and punch and hit he hadn’t been able to duck. It sucked and wouldn’t get better until it had gotten a lot worse. All Leeland wanted was to go back to the hotel, soak in the tub there, preferably with Jonathan, then fall into bed and sleep for a week. Unfortunately he still had some PR to do. Nothing major—he wasn’t famous enough for that—but a small press conference with a few bloggers and a journalist from Fox for the fans. While Leeland washed his hair with his favorite shampoo, he started remembering all the things he had tuned out after the fight. The way his family and friends had risen from their seats when he was announced the winner. The pride on his ojisan’s face. The satisfied smile on Samantha Jones’s lips. The silly little victory dance Peyton did on top of his seat. Leeland grinned. He knew Peyton had bet some money on him, a hundred dollars, to be precise. The odds had not been in favor of Leeland, which meant Peyton was going to collect a hefty sum, and many other people would hopefully reassess their habit of snap judgments. One could always dream.

  With a sigh Leeland turn
ed off the shower, slung a towel around his slim hips, and exited the stall. At the locker he had been assigned, he quickly dried himself before getting out his cocoa body butter. After a fight there was nothing better to soothe his nerves. While he massaged the pleasantly warming butter into his skin, enjoying the subtle scent, he suddenly heard somebody clearing their throat at his back. Leeland turned around to see Carlos standing there, he, too, only wearing a towel. Since most of the changing rooms were connected by doors, Leeland assumed Carlos had come from the neighboring room. The man definitely didn’t know where to look, if his beet-red face was any indication. Leeland furrowed his brows. Because of his lifestyle, he didn’t have a problem with nudity, but he didn’t want to make the other man uncomfortable. Since he was already done with the body butter, he snatched his silk boxers out of the locker and put them on, as well as a dark red button-down he was supposed to wear for the press conference. Once he was clothed, Carlos seemed to relax a bit. He looked Leeland in the eye and extended his hand.

  “Good fight. Congratulations.”

  Leeland smiled and took the offered hand. He could tell Carlos was serious.

  “Thank you, man. You didn’t make it easy for me. You’re superfast.”

  Carlos blushed a bit at the praise. “Not fast enough, apparently.”

  “Says the man whose blows I’m going to feel for the next week.”

  Leeland kept his tone light. Even though they had just met and beaten the shit out of each other, he liked Carlos. Carlos opened his mouth to say something but was cut short by an angry voice coming from the connecting door.

  “Carlos, stop stroking your opponent’s ego by whining like a beaten dog! Get your ass dressed and out of here, pronto!”

  Carlos rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mason.”

  A huff sounded from the door before it was forcefully closed. Carlos shrugged.

  “Sorry about that. Mason is my stepdad and kind of—driven. He sees me as this huge talent who’s going to be famous and rich and is pissed that I lost my first fight. After he saw your pictures, he couldn’t stop bragging about how I would wipe the floor with your sissy ass. He can be kind of an asshole.”

  Leeland grimaced. “Don’t sweat it, I get that a lot. I mean, I have no illusions about my looks. It is what it is. For what it’s worth, I enjoyed our fight.”

  Carlos turned around. “Really? Because I did too. I know I’m not supposed to talk to the enemy, but I don’t like all this alpha male bullshit posturing.”

  Leeland laughed out loud. He started to like Carlos more and more. “Seems like we picked the wrong sport, then.” He turned serious again. “How about we exchange phone numbers? We can keep in touch and share our training-induced misery.”

  Carlos groaned. “Don’t remind me. If I have to eat another plain chicken breast, I’m going to scream. And don’t even get me started on the almond butter. Whoever thought that was a good thing to add to an athlete’s diet must have been a sadist or out of their mind—or both. What I wouldn’t give for a pizza with extra cheese.”

  Leeland put his hand on his mouth in mock consternation. “Are you crazy? The bad carbohydrates! All that grease ruining your muscle definition! What are you thinking?”

  Carlos managed to look contrite despite the amused glittering in his eyes. “My apologies. I didn’t know I was talking to the food police. Of course there’s nothing better than steamed vegetables and plain brown rice. I mean, who wants to have their meals actually taste like something?”

  “Not me. I abhor everything sugary or with fat. Give me the veggies and the chicken! And who doesn’t love a delicious protein shake topped with spinach? The color alone makes my mouth water!”

  They both giggled. Leeland took his phone out of the locker, swiped it open, and held it under Carlos’s nose. “Your number, please.”

  With a faint smile, Carlos typed his contact info in. When he got the phone back, Leeland sent his own contact to Carlos’s number.

  “Let’s keep in touch.”

  Carlos nodded. “I’d love that. I was so nervous about all this, but meeting you, I can see the bright spots.”

  Leeland bowed. “Thank you. Now for the less pleasant part. I do believe we have a press conference to attend.”

  Carlos’s shoulders faltered. “Don’t remind me. I mean, why do they even want to talk to me? I lost!”

  Leeland put a hand on Carlos’s shoulder. “But next time you might win. Today everybody has seen what a strong fighter you are. See it as groundwork for your career.”

  Carlos looked directly at Leeland. “Thank you. That actually makes sense.”

  Leeland snorted. “Put a red circle in your calendar. I rarely make sense.”

  “To me, you do.” Carlos turned in the direction of the connecting door, holding his towel with one hand. “I’ll be in touch!”

  Leeland watched him go, happy that he had made a new friend. Since Carlos would be interviewed first, he still had some time to blow-dry his hair before it was his turn.

  WHEN LEELAND left the locker room, he was immediately crowded by Samantha, who did nothing to hide her glee while she ushered him toward the interview room.

  “Leeland, you were great! This is wonderful! I listened around a bit, and people are already taking an interest in you. Nobody expected you to win, so now they’re curious.”

  “I’m glad things are working out for you.”

  She flashed him one of her quick, professional smiles, all red lipstick and blindingly white teeth and completely devoid of true empathy. “It does. If it goes on like this, it’s going to be a breeze.”

  Leeland didn’t comment on that. He was simply too tired to deal with Samantha apart from the few words he’d said. He wanted Jonathan and sleep, but he couldn’t have either until later. They had decided that for the time being, they wouldn’t broadcast their relationship, which meant Jonathan had already left for the hotel. His ojisan and Greg would escort him back there as soon as the journalists and bloggers were done with him.

  They reached another nondescript door behind which the interview would take place. A table with microphones was set on this end of the room, facing several rows of ugly plastic chairs where three bloggers, two male, one female, were sitting. A little to the right, a man in his forties was standing next to a camera with the Fox emblem at the side. Since Fox had bought the exclusive rights for the UFC fights, they had created a channel that solely focused on MMA. Those rights were about to run out by the end of this year and would be open for renegotiation in 2018, but those were things Leeland was only marginally interested in. Leeland sat down in front of the microphones, took a sip from the water bottle somebody had placed there for him, and waited for the questions to begin. The man from Fox went first.

  “My name is Graham Carter from Fox. Mr. Drake, how do you feel after this spectacular win?”

  Inwardly, Leeland winced at the stupid question as well as the way it was phrased—there was nothing spectacular about his win. Carter was simply fishing for some slights against Carlos. It was a typical interview tactic, one most of the testosterone-driven alpha males in the UFC embraced wholly. Leeland assumed that after a fight it was simply easier to let the hormones do the talking—and a lot more entertaining as well. It just wasn’t his style.

  Leeland gave the man his most dazzling smile. “To be honest, Mr. Carter, I feel sore. Carlos Scamander throws a mean hook.”

  Amused, Leeland watched the hint of confusion on Graham Carter’s face when he didn’t give him a rant about how he’d obliterated his opponent. To his credit, it didn’t take long until he overcame his shock.

  “Yes, he does indeed, as the videos of the fight show.” Carter hesitated a moment. “From your biography, I see this wasn’t your first fight, yet today was announced as your debut?”

  “I can see how that might be confusing.” Leeland knew he sounded condescending, but he couldn’t help himself. He was tired and wanted Jonathan. “Today was my first fight in the UFC, so it was a
debut. I did compete during high school and a bit afterward, but solely in martial arts. And I think you’ll agree with me when I say the UFC is something very different indeed.”

  Carter nodded. Leeland could see him preparing to ask the next question on his sheet when the female blogger chimed in.

  “Hi, Mr. Drake, I’m Leandra Donnell, I write for my blog Male Mysteries Explained. Most of my readers are female and not well versed in the world of MMA, which is the reason I’m here. If you had to explain the UFC to them, what would you say?”

  Leeland perked up. An interesting question! He hadn’t anticipated that.

  “Well, Miss Donnell, if I had to explain the UFC, I’d say it’s a perfect place for men to vent their anger and frustration in a safe environment. It’s also the place where different ways of fighting—boxing, wrestling, and martial arts—come together in an aesthetic and inspiring way. My fight against Carlos Scamander today is a perfect example. He comes from boxing, I come from martial arts, and in our fight, we combined both styles to create something new. If it weren’t for the blood and all the bruises I can feel forming on my body, I’d almost say it’s like a dance.”

  Leandra Donnell gave him an almost flirtatious smile, obviously satisfied with his answer. “So you don’t see Carlos Scamander as an opponent?”

  “Oh, I do. That’s what the UFC is all about. But I also see him as a partner, as somebody I can learn a great deal from. The appeal of MMA is that the fighters get a chance to explore and expand their skills. In every fight we have to come up with new moves, as do our opponents. That way it’s never boring.”

  “Beautifully put, Mr. Drake. Thank you very much.”

  Leeland smiled at her before he turned his attention back to Carter, who fired his next standard question.

  After another twenty minutes, Leeland was finally allowed to leave. His ojisan called a taxi, and together with Greg, they went back to their hotel.