Fearless 2: a Sports Romance

by Amarie Avant

  Yuri eyes me in curiosity.

  “The Red Door, fuck, keep up.”

  At the stoplight, I GPS the location to FTNT (Fight Nite) Radio Station, a local subsidiary of the Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC). With talk of an impending match between myself and Alvarez, although I’ll make the mudak sweat before I sign that contract, FTNT has invited me for the afternoon.

  “Maybe we should eat something before we—”

  “Nyet, we’re late enough as it is. Tell me something.”

  “Something,” Yuri barks back, annoyed over lack of getting food.

  “How do you manage me, yet are unaware of various timeframes of the shit that you’ve scheduled?”

  “I can’t think when hungry,” is his snappy reply.

  ***

  An hour later, we’re in the break room of FTNT. Long tables are stationed throughout, with more food than even my cousin can consume. With fingers shining with chicken grease, Yuri pats my back. “You are my favorite.”

  I shake my head.

  “Eat,” he says in Russian.

  “I’m going on in a few minutes, and I had a shake for breakfast. Gotta have my mind clear. You know these piz’das love asking about old shit.”

  “Do them like you did Alex Brown.” He mentions one of the most famous television sports commentators. It never fails that motherfucker comes at me with something that Yuri or I previously told the producer was not to be discussed.

  They all do it.

  I’ll be asked about Gotti, if there’s enough time. How do you feel about having your belt snatched away by Gotti? Why the fuck didn’t you tap out? Yeah, something dumb like that. I can do this.

  A young Japanese woman with a microphone in her ear and a clipboard in hand pops her head in. “How’re the sliders?” she asks Yuri with a wink.

  The mention of the tiny cheeseburgers got us in here. Not sure how I’m gonna get Yuri out, unless he eats it all while I’m on the radio. He traded in and up for barbecue wings and tacos.

  “Good. Good,” I tell her since Yuri is polishing off more food and unable to speak.

  “We’re ready for you, Karo.” She grins at me.

  I head to the door. Yuri washes the food down with a coke. “I’m getting nervous,” he says.

  I flip him the bird and head out. The reverse psychology he just attempted crashes and burns. But I take a deep breath and head into the studio.

  Inside, there’s enough gadgets and contraptions to overwhelm and keep Natasha busy for days. I’m introduced to the radio personality, Lizelle “Black Zombie” Jackson. He’s Atlanta born and breed, and at age 40, this is his new normal, cauliflower ears and all.

  “Killer Karo, I’ve waited too long to have you in the building. I’ve been a fan of every match, every match.”

  I nod my head. “Last time I saw you, you were taking down the War Machine.”

  “You saw that?” His voice is heavy with surprise.

  “Live.” I nod.

  “Bruh, it was him or me.”

  “Close match.” Shit, I’m warming up. They like when you say more. I’m not there yet.

  “Yes, sir, close match. It takes guts not to tap out to any old submission hold. Most of these young bloods will…” he taps the table, “soon as you touch them.”

  I chuckle at that.

  “Look, I’m not one of those motherfuckers that just spring shit up, but can I ask about Gotti? You’ve probably explained it a thousand times before, but my fans want to hear it from your mouth. Will you give me that?”

  “No problem.” I respect his gumption. Lay it on the table from the start. I prefer that to a weasel popping it in without asking.

  He explains how long the show will go and that it’s satellite radio, no censorship. It seems like only a few minutes have passed, but the Black Zombie alternates from presenting a commercial, to introducing my arrival.

  “What up ATL, it seems every time we talk I’m introducing someone great. But truly, truly, I tell you we have greatness in the building. None other than Vassili Killer Karo Resnov. So, hit those chat buttons. Call in. Leave us a question. I promise to give you all the deets on Karo, past, present, and future.”

  We chat for a while about my younger years. Surprisingly, Black Zombie has my stats down.

  “Karo looking at me like I’m a creeper or something, he didn’t know. I’m a true fan. I’ve been representing way before Juggernaut was put to sleep. That ankle lock submissive on The Hauser—still the talk of the town. He had a big mouth, you shut that shit down, and tore into that leg!”

  “I remember that.” Still not many words, but fuck it, I actually like this guy.

  “The beef you two had during promotions, I swear it was priceless. You’re one of the few young bloods who doesn’t talk shit without backing it up.”

  “I had my days.”

  “Shit, you have 25 TKOs, 10 subs and 2 losses. I only have one problem with that, Karo.” He pauses for effect. “What took you so long to get with the submissions? Those TKOs under your belt had folks shitting bricks, but the subs! Man, the submissions! Oh, look here, Arnold from Decatur, he’s agreeing with me. When you started really getting into submissions, the world…it was a more beautiful place.”

  I laugh with him. “I was a hot head back in the day. I always thought power was in here.” I punch my fist into my left palm.

  “Karo, buddy, they can’t see you. But I’m telling y’all, there’s some serious bromancing going on here. The question screen is lighting up like no other time before. There’s no way in hell we can take them all.” He pauses to read one and I take the lead.

  “So, anybody want to know where I’ll be fighting soon?”

  “Shit, yeah. Half these calls are about you taking down Alvarez, and this is his hometown. I’ll have him on the show in a week, hope he isn’t listening now.” The Black Zombie chuckles again.

  “I might be fighting him,” I say, not all that interested. “I’m ready for Karsoff.”

  “Yesss, I see where your head is at. Karsoff is a few steps away. We need you to get that belt back. Karsoff, if you’re listening, I bet Karo can have you to bed by—”

  “Damn, have him to bed? That’s a little bit much.”

  “Then lay it all out, Karo. How will you take down Karsoff?”

  “He has a big mouth, but I shouldn’t. Should I…” I joke.

  “TKO? Come on, Karo, you’re better than this.”

  We laugh like two drunk motherfuckers drinking Resnov Water.

  “Then I’ll hit him with a triangle choke.”

  “Old school?” he says, processing it slowly. “Simple. Classic. You might want to bash his head in, KO ‘em as your old MO. He’ll be studying all the ways to get out of the triangle choke. Although, it will shut his mouth real good…”

  ***

  After the show, The Black Zombie and I chat for a while longer. I get his address in order to send him some of my beloved vodka, and Yuri takes the keys so we can head to Ms. Haskins home. I glance through my phone. Zariah has texted me nonstop throughout the broadcasting.

  ZARIAH: Aw my baby is playing nice for the first time ever!

  ZARIAH: He’s right, that ankle lock was gangster.

  ZARIAH: He should be your hype man, I swear he was auditioning to be one of your hype men.

  ZARIAH: I miss you already…

  I chuckle at her messages, and call her up.

  “Beautiful, I’ll be home late tonight. You still sleepy?”

  She yawns on key. “Yes, all day. But that won’t stop me from waiting up for you.”

  “Don’t wait up, girl. I’ll wake you.”

  “I bet you will. Get to the airport with plenty of time, Vassili.”

  “I love you, Zariah.” I turn away from my childish ass cousin, and my voice lowers as I reply, “Nyet. I love you more, krasivaya.”

  I hang up. Yuri makes kissy faces and I wave him off. “That’s how you are with Taryn…” and in your case, you
shouldn’t be…

  ***

  The housing track that Zamora Haskins lives on is full of summertime action. Kids roam big front yards, and get into some gold old-fashioned summer trouble.

  There’s a mixed-race boy, wide shoulders, running a scrimmage. He stiff arms everyone on the opposite team, and makes a touchdown.

  “Yuri, I’ve gotta fucking have myself a son, soon.” I grumble, considering Zariah’s recent agreement to get pregnant for me again.

  “Maybe you only have girl?” He reaches over to flick my ear, but I catch his hand, twisting it swiftly. “I’m driving, piz’da!”

  “Who’s the cunt now?” I let his hand go in enough time for him to switch gears and turn the corner.

  He parks in front of a tan home with slate stone. Having only visited on a few occasions, I’m sure Zamora’s cooking kept him from his usual forgetfulness.

  Ms. Haskins opens the door with sunglasses on. Who wears sunglasses in the house? Yeah, it’s hotter than back home, in St. Petersburg, will ever be. But she could’ve slipped the shades on while stepping out.

  Instantly, I’m floored at the idea that a man placed his hands on my wife’s mother. I place my hand on the roof of the door, and get out of the car.

  “Hi boys, I didn’t think you’d make it by.” She hugs us and invites us in. “Yuri, your cookies—”

  “Oh, Ms. Haskins. You didn’t!” He’s somewhere between 350lbs and six-foot-three, yet sounds like a kid in a candy store as we all head to the kitchen.

  She moves faster than a rookie’s knees lock up after a busted nose. Zamora removes mittens from the drawer and opens the wall oven. “Isn’t your flight home soon?”

  “A little later,” Yuri offers. “Allow me,” he adds, taking the mittens from her. Shit, we Russians can be nice when we want, and we sure as fuck are gonna figure out why Zariah’s mother is flighty and shrugging off people. She’s one of the most genuine people I know—and I can only count the rest on one hand.

  At a loss of what to do, Zamora Haskins still hasn’t removed the sunglasses from her eyes, yet continues to chatter. “I wish Zariah had come with you all. I know we just came back from vacation, but I have missed time with my baby girl.”

  “Can you do me a favor?” I finally speak.

  “What is it, Vassili? Why aren’t you guys eating these cookies? Sheesh, you aren’t even mentioning healthy eating when I make the peanut butter cookies.” She’s her usual chatty self but something's off.

  “Please.” I gesture to the shades. “Remove those.”

  Her head tilts somewhat. Zamora touches the shades, as if she forgot they were on.

  “Please, I’m worried about you,” I tell her, wishing to God I could look her in the eye, so she understands I’m real.

  “Worried?” Zamora waves a hand. “You are a good man, Vassili. That’s all that I ask.”

  “And I will continue to be a good man.”

  Yuri places the cookies on a marble block on the counter. Her gaze slides back from me to Yuri.

  “What’s the name of the guy?” he asks.

  “He didn’t mean anything by it.” Her tone is hardly audible. She turns away from us, passing the time by removing a spatula.

  “Ms. Haskins,” I speak up.

  “You’ve started calling me Zamora, Vassili.” She purses her lips. Embarrassment creeps up her throat as she leans back against the counter. “Will you tell Zariah?”

  “If it happens again. But we need his name. And I would like to see your face if you don’t mind.”

  “She’ll be disappointed in me.” Ms. Haskins’ lips bunch together as she gingerly removes the shades.

  Fuck, she isn’t sporting a typical shiner. Her eye is swollen completely shut.

  Yuri’s face is to the ceiling. He strides away for a moment, huffs and then comes back. I’m shocked still. Though I’ve witnessed my father and his goons beating on my mother and sister a thousand times, this shit kills me every time. This world is fucked.

  “He was angry at me for Brazil, and then I forgot to tell him I’d be in California the weekend after for cutie pie. He thought we weren’t serious—I wasn’t serious enough about us. Like I had been traveling with someone— another man.” She speaks to the ground. And God, if there isn’t something in me that wants to hug this woman and tell her thank you for striving as long as she did.

  I blink and realize that Zamora Haskins-Washington is not my mother.

  But fuck it, she birthed the love of my life and I have too much respect and too much to thank her for anyway.

  “We won’t tell Zariah. What is the man’s name, please?” I speak through tensed lips.

  “Matthew Overstreet.”

  ***

  Mr. Overstreet works at the Commerce Trade Center. The woman in the lobby said he always leaves his office around 6pm. A quick check of his Facebook account indicates that he hits Crunch Time Gym at 6:45 promptly, only to leave an hour and a half later. He’s a man of routine and he loves to catch the female trainers in his selfies, though he doesn’t get too many likes from his friends because he doesn’t have many of those. A regular old douche bag is what he is.

  It’s a quarter past eight pm, and I have to hand it to my cousin. I underestimated his capabilities because with his assistance, I’m seated in the back of Matthew's car, hands clenched tight. Yuri is in our rental, parked a few rows away. I contemplate on my mother. She gave up on Sasha and me, leaving us with one of Anatoly’s bitches, but earlier today, I recalled the time she had more than herself to care for. She’d taken up sanctuary, when I was a tot. Most of the time, I keep the woman who birthed me from my mind. Why not? She gave up. But I begin to fixate on the past. Darkness surrounds me and life in Russia pulls me under…

  The lights flash as Matthew hits the alarm button. My stone sculpted outline is lit up and instantly drowned back in darkness. He slides into the front seat, without realizing that when Yuri got into his car earlier, the music was playing. It’s not now.

  He shuts the door, and his finger is poised for the ‘push to start’ when I speak. “Don’t.”

  Matthew’s shaky hand yanks away from the button. He grabs for his keys to hit the alarm. I snatch them first. Stiff as a board, he leans back against the driver’s seat, eyes closed. I settle into the middle seat in the back again.

  “Go ahead, Mr. Overstreet. Turn around. You’re thinking I will rob and not kill you if you don’t see me.”

  He lifts up somewhat and tugs out his wallet, tossing it over his shoulder in my general direction. Without so much as moving a muscle, I listen as he stutters, “There’s at least four-four hun-hun… hundred. I… I can take you to the bank.”

  “Money is the least of my concerns.”

  “Oh-kay.” His shaky response is hardly audible.

  “Turn around, Mr. Overstreet. I’m here because you touched the hair on the head of someone I love. Have a good look into my eyes. Know my motherfucking face, because if you ever see me again—” I cut myself off. I’m not Yuri, shooting them, bagging them, and tossing them ain’t my thing. “Turn around!” I bark.

  “Okay, Okay!” His stiff neck cranes awkwardly, and moments pass by as he believes that the lapse in time will result in me having a change of heart. When he makes eye contact, my glower pierces through his, where he can’t seem to choose an eye to connect with.

  “You like to hit women, Mr. Overstreet?”

  “No!” The word expels from his mouth without so much as a stutter. “I love Zamora, I’d never hit—”

  “You’re lying to me. Isn’t it a universal norm that people hate liars?” Damn, I sound like my wife, “universal norm.” “Have you seen me before?”

  His eyes close then he nods. “Yes, sir. You’re a fighter.”

  “You piss yourself?” I ask. “C’mon, I smell fear off my opponents in the cage. I can smell piss, too.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You are sorry.”

  My fist slams into his fa
ce. The crush of my knuckles against bone tells me that his forehead will always and forever be indented in that precise spot.

  I get out of the car, and zig zag around the cars to the lane Yuri’s parked in. The driver side window zips down.

  “What the fuck you doing, kazen? We can’t just leave the body,” his voice lowers.

  “He’s alive.”

  “Should I?” He starts to open the door.

  “No,” I shake my head. “He won’t hurt a fly in the future. I’m sure of it.”

  “But that mudak touched your mother in law, Vassili,” Yuri replies through gritted teeth. “Put him down!”

  “And now they have matching eyes. Or in his case, his face is—”

  BEEP. BEEEP. BEEP!

  My narrowed eyes turn toward the Chrysler. That fool is slamming a hand down on the steering wheel.

  “Oh, should I manage the situation?” Yuri snarls the sarcastic line that I’m usually telling him. Then he goes off in Russian about “getting it over with.”

  “I’ll handle it!” I cross back to where Matthew is parked.

  Through the rolled-up window, his eye that isn’t swelling widens. He slams his hand down onto the steering wheel again. I try the door. It’s locked.

  “Open up,” I tell him.

  He sounds less like a pussy when shouting, “Fuck you!”

  Seriously, does he believe a door will double as his savior?

  My fist slams through the window, glass shatters down around my feet, and Matthew ducks as even more shards spray toward his face.

  A woman who so happens to be walking by with earphones, jumps. Must’ve noticed me from her peripheral.

  “Don’t mind us. He beats women,” I tell her.

  She jogs off to her car.

  Matthew dives for the passenger seat when I reach through, grip his muscle shirt and yank him through the window.

  “You wanna act like a bitch, huh?” With my left hand snatching the collar of his ultra-tight shirt, I yank him toward me.

  There’s no fucking way Matthew’s gonna run from this ass beating. My right fist sprays like bullets against his face. My target is crushing his skull in where I had just smashed his forehead before. Then I jab at his neck and ribs. Matthew slams against the trunk of his car. He’s not as heavy as before. I realize I’d been holding his entire weight.