by Payton Hart
Cameron aimed a kick at his opponent’s chest, but his opponent grabbed his ankle and tried to yank him down. Cameron used his own momentum to stomp down, bringing his opponent’s arm with him. His opponent let go and Cameron was freed.
Cameron smirked.
The two of them feinted punches at each other for a few blows. Then Cameron dove in for a grapple. He wrapped his arms around his opponent’s legs and tried to bring him down that way. His opponent banged on his head a few times. The first couple of blows didn’t faze Cameron, but the subsequent ones started to get annoying.
Cameron shoved his opponent into the ropes. His opponent kept wailing on him. Cameron continued to try to get the feet out from under his opponent and he didn’t let go.
Unfortunately for Cameron, his opponent managed to get him in a headlock. He brought Cameron up so that they were both standing again. Cameron was still in the headlock. They grappled for a bit, Cameron trying to get out of the headlock and his opponent doing everything he could to keep him there. Including, but not limited to, a knee-jab to Cameron’s solar plexus in order to wind him.
Thankfully, Cameron was only slightly winded. This wasn’t the first (or the last) time he had been hit in the solar plexus. Cameron shoved himself upwards and was pleased to hear the satisfying click of his opponent’s jaw being snapped together. It would not down his opponent, but it was a small victory and payback for the strike he had received.
Cameron kept trying to get himself out of the headlock, but he was at an awkward angle to punch. (Or kick, really). His opponent kicked him in the solar plexus again, and landed a good punch in Cameron’s side. But Cameron didn’t go down. Cameron would not be knocked out. He would hold out until the end, or knock his opponent out. He would win. He also needed to get an advantage.
Cameron backed them up against the ropes again. It was probably a different set of ropes. But it was all a bit disorienting when all he was doing was looking at the ground. He needed to get out of this. His opponent would win purely by getting him into submission.
Cameron finally managed to wiggle out of the headlock. He came out of it and went straight for a double box to his opponents ears. Cameron needed to get himself ahead on the score cards. His opponent buckled after the ear-boxing. Cameron struck him again. His opponent went down.
Cameron held up, keeping his distance. He could not keep beating on his opponent while his opponent was down. There were too many risks of making an illegal move. He stayed just out of his opponent’s reach, so that way he could not be brought to the ground easily for more grappling.
His opponent got up. Cameron grinned. Now was his chance. Another box to the ear. A knee strike to the gut. He ducked out of the way of his opponent’s strike and got in another knee strike. Cuff to the ear. Wrist lock. Box.
In Cameron’s mind, this opponent was every single bully who had gone after Cameron during his childhood. This opponent embodied every one of them, and this was Cameron’s revenge. He wasn’t the little one any longer. He was one of the big boys now. He fought with them. And he would destroy them.
His opponent went down again.
The timer went off.
It was an agonizing thirty seconds as the judges put their heads together and determined the final score. Then, it was announced: Cameron had won the match! He would place first overall for the tournament.
Everything he had worked for up until this point had brought him to this moment. And he was victorious. He had gotten a little worried being in the headlock for so long, but it had worked out in the end. Grinning, he was truly pleased.
He cooled off in the dressing room with his favorite sports drink. As he toweled off, he readied himself to see his fans. They would want to see a tough exterior. They wanted to see the angry fighter that Cameron was. So that was what he would give to them.
The paparazzi came after him as soon as he was out of the dressing room. The paparazzi was awful, with their stupid flashing cameras, and voice recorders to get words from him so that they could spin and twist them into things he never actually said.
“Fuck off,” he told them. He raised both of his middle fingers so that they couldn’t publish the photos either. It was a trick he had learned from actors. When they didn’t want to be hounded by the paparazzi, they would just say and do crude things so that the paparazzi had no material to twist and publish. They couldn’t spin “fuck off” in any other way, nor could they publish it.
His handlers brought him safely through the paparazzi and to fans beyond. His fans crowded at the barricades as much as the paparazzi had, but with less flashy cameras. There were no voice recorders or pens and paper, trying to catch words he said.
“We love you, Cam the Crusher!” the fan girls screamed.
“We want to be you!” the fan boys screamed.
Cameron posed in gruff and menacing poses so they could take the pictures on their phones and upload them to social media sites. It was publicity, and he didn’t mind. He knew the paparazzi were pissed off that they could not get the attention that Cameron gave his real fans. But the paparazzi deserved to be pissed and they didn’t deserve the attention.
Cameron kept his distance from his fans. He truly wanted to connect with them, but he didn’t know how. Cameron only knew how to fight. This was his job, his life-long career as long as he was fit enough for it. This was his life, his very being, and he knew nothing else.
He went up to the stage and accepted his trophy. The paparazzi got pictures of that, but there was no stopping them there. They couldn’t stop every one of the bastards at every single point.
“You need to do this one interview tonight,” his manager told him when he was off the stage again.
“Okay,” Cameron replied gruffly. One interview. He could do one interview.
The fanfare ended, people began leaving. Cameron found himself faced with one reporter. It was a balding man in his fifties. He looked like he may have once been in the sport, but physical limitations kept him from continuing. Or perhaps that was a mistaken assumption on Cameron’s part.
“What can I answer for you?” Cameron asked.
“Tell me,” the interviewer said, turning his voice recorder on. “What is it that drives you in the fight?”
“The desire to win,” Cameron said simply. This was always his answer to this question.
He could never hope to explain that in the heat of the moment, what drove him was revenge against bullies that he no longer saw. He fought against the bullies of the world in his mind. On the outside, of course, he wasn’t fighting a bully. He was simply fighting his opponent. He never went too far that he greatly injured whomever he was fighting. Sure, there had been some illegal blows in the past, but that happened to nearly everyone. His opponents never truly suffered in the way that Cameron wished the bullies did. Cameron didn’t necessarily want them to, anyways.
What mattered at that point, was that he won.
“Fans are saying that you’ve got a soft heart in there,” the interviewer said. “Can you shed some light on that?”
Heat rose in Cameron’s cheeks. “I confess, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said slowly. “They can think that all they want, I suppose. I don’t feel like I have a soft heart on the inside. I just enjoy the fighting. Its good exercise, and a good way to get out stress and aggression.”
“Would you call yourself an aggressive person?” the interviewer said.
Cameron shook his head. “No. But everyone gets aggressive sometimes. Or they get the feelings behind it. What matters is how they let it out. I think I’m being very productive with my aggression by being an MMA fighter.”
The interviewer nodded. “Thank you.”
“That may backfire,” Cameron’s manager told him when they walked away.
Cameron nodded. He already knew. He had messed up the minute he had said the word aggression. But there was no changing that now. He would have to ride this one out, there was no other option.
&nb
sp; There was another small wave of paparazzi as they left the building. More crude gestures and words rendered anything they captured unusable. Cameron ducked his head to get into the car and allowed himself to be whisked away. It was time to eat a recovery meal, stretch, and then sleep.
Heather, now frustrated, punched at the punching bag to harden her strikes. She alternated punches one right, one left, one right, one left. Then two right, three left, one right, two left, and four right. She stays light on her feet, bouncing with movement. She lets out little yells with some of the punches.
She should have been enjoying herself. At the very least, she should feel better about herself when she left the gym. Or leave with a sense of self-improvement or desire for it.
But Heather didn’t feel any of these things when she left the gym. She just felt inadequate and useless.
She wasn’t a bad fighter, by any account. She was actually moderately good. She placed frequently, and gave other women in her weight class a run for their money. But Heather found no enjoyment in mixed martial art fighting. She never had and she probably never would.
It was at those times, when she was fighting, that she wasn’t clumsy. She was clumsy the rest of the time, though. So, with that vein of thought, she should enjoy fighting more. But as the months turned into years and she continued to not like what she was doing, she began to think that dropping plates, bowls, and running into doors was perhaps preferable. Granted, she did that anyway.
At least MMA covered up the bruises she got from running into things. At least that is when she even did bruise anymore. Body conditioning and bone hardening had lessened those instances.
For the life of her, she could not remember why she was still doing this. Her father had encouraged it. He had even paid for her to get into it. She even made money doing it…
That was why she was still doing it. She was making money. She hadn’t gone to college. Her father had pushed her into this and her naivety about life had allowed her to follow in the direction he led her. Now, when her father did little more than manage a few things and encourage her, it was Heather who still went to the gym every day to train, regardless of any reminder her father might give her.
She found herself trying to get to the gym before her father’s reminders came in. Out of spite and pride.
But she still hated fighting. She hated everything about it. She no longer saw the point in it. She just beat on people for sport. Other people beat on her for sport. It was just people beating other people up, but because there were rules and regulations, it was sport and not madness.
It was still madness.
She wished she had time to pursue something else. But what else was there for her to pursue? She had a high school diploma and a resume that consisted only of martial arts and some community service. Oh, and a tabletop gaming campaign or two. But no employer would look seriously at that last one.
Then, there was the part of Heather that enjoyed the fact that she could just go home and play video games when she wasn’t training or competing. Her meals were planned out for her—everything about them from the time she ate to the food she ate. She had a normal sleep schedule and knew exactly how many calories she consumed and used up. She could not imagine being healthier.
But it still boiled down to the fact that she still hated the fighting and the culture. But she didn’t resent it or the money enough to leave the business. Yet.
Heather watched as Cameron—Cam the Crusher—came into the gym. She wondered if he liked being here because hardly anyone fawned over him at the gym. They were all body builders and martial arts fighters, you have to prove it just to get a membership to the gym. That was certainly a perk Heather enjoyed. There were no whiny teenagers hogging pieces of equipment because of their perceived ease of use. No one sat there on their phone not working out. The only time Heather looked at her phone was if someone texted her, or if she needed to change the song.
Cam started his workout by going over to one of the mats and limbering up. Heather continued to watch him as she pretended to beat the stuffing out of the bag. She added a few kicks in between her punches to shake things up a little.
She wondered what went through his head. He was so aloof. He had a brutal exterior that was for sure. But Heather hadn’t missed the article released all over the place that morning saying that Cam thought everyone was aggressive on the inside and mixed martial arts was a productive way to release the aggression.
She could agree that mixed martial arts was a good way to release aggression, assuming that it wasn’t the cause of the aggression—as was the case with Heather frequently. But she wondered if that was all he saw in people, or thought he saw in people. Did he truly think that everyone was simply aggressive inside? Or was that the interviewer twisting his words.
Nevertheless, he had won a big championship last night. Heather was almost surprised to see him in the gym.
“Congrats,” she called out. They were all of five people in the gym. She didn’t feel weird speaking out to him.
He looked at her and she thought she saw the faintest traces of a smile on his lips. “Thanks,” he said gruffly. He studied her for a minute, as if trying to see if he remembered her from somewhere. No recognition sparked on his face. Heather sighed. She should not expect anything more from the state champion. He would surely go onto the next competition soon. That was probably why he was back in the gym today.
Cam turned away first, going back to limbering up. Heather aimed a couple more punches at the punching bag and then went over to work on keeping her core built up.
She found herself upset that Cam hadn’t really noticed or recognized her. The logical part of her brain reminded her that he probably saw loads of people in any given day and probably only remembered the names of his immediate family, close friends, and handlers if they stuck around long enough. He probably also had had too many concussions over his career. Heather knew she had sustained a few.
But the less rational part of her brain wished that he would notice her. It might provide some sort of consolation for staying put in this life path. More than being in the one element where she wasn’t clumsy. More than having a career that didn’t have her sitting sedentary at a desk for eight or more hours a day.
Then, because it was in her nature, she rammed her foot into a piece of large equipment. Her gym shoe only caused her foot to bounce back, and thankfully there wasn’t any pain. It would have been worse to run her shin into something.
She hoisted herself up onto the equipment to do some leg lifts. Those would be followed by sit-ups, then extensions, then trunk-twists, then a five-minute plank. Or more if she could manage it. It was important to have a strong core.
But were the abs worth it? Was beating people up worth it? Were they worth the concussions?
Was quitting worth the argument she would have with her father?
Those were the thoughts that plagued Heather as she worked out. When she finished up, she went home to shower. The gym was re-caulking the showers in the girl’s bathroom, which meant there were less operable showers at the moment. Not that it mattered, Heather didn’t mind driving home sweaty, just so long as she got to shower right when she got home.
She told herself she would sit and do nothing else besides play video games and eat at the requisite times for the rest of the day. Anything to get her mind off of fighting.
She had a regional meet coming up that she really didn’t want to be thinking about.
Cameron received the expected amount of flak from his comment the previous night. He got labeled as someone who assumed everyone was aggressive and there were numerous articles labeling him as cold and unfeeling behind his already brutal exterior.
Cameron wasn’t sure where to begin to correct the misplaced assumptions, if he would bother to correct anything at all. His true fans would not leave him. And everyone else would stay away. Cameron wasn’t out to make enemies.
“Cameron!”
Cameron turned to
see the owner of the voice. It was another MMA fighter, Brenton. He was known as Brawler in the ring.
“What’s up, man?” Cameron asked.
“What’s this you talking about everyone being aggressive all the time?” Brenton asked. “I pride myself on being a loving and caring individual and here you are saying that all of us are just aggressive people who fight because of that.”
“That wasn’t what I meant…” Cameron mumbled. What he wanted to continue with was that he meant that martial arts, or other forms of sport fighting were a good way to let out aggression, but there were of course other ways to do it. But he wasn’t sure how he could articulate that in a way that would not further entice Brenton’s anger.
Maybe he didn’t mean that people were aggressive at all. Or that not all people were aggressive. He frowned, not even knowing what he meant about it anymore.
“I don’t even care what you meant anymore,” Brenton said. “The damage is already done thanks to you. Now I have an image to repair. You best be glad I’m a weight class above you otherwise you’d hear my aggression being let out loudly as I beat up your face.”
Cameron’s eyes darkened. That was bully talk. But going up against Brenton wasn’t a smart idea given how much Brenton outweighed Cameron. It would just be another case of big guy picking on the little guy.
There had to be a better way to deal with him.
Brenton wrinkled up his nose at Cameron, spat on the ground, and then went to go work out on his own. Cameron kept his distance.
Maybe he needed to find a new way of fighting the bullies. Or, in the very least, find an additional way to fight them. Cameron might be proving Brenton’s point if he took out his anger at Brenton at some other dude in his own weight class.
Cameron finished his workout and then called his manager on the way home. He described what had gone on with Brenton, and asked if there was anything he could do to fix what he’d said earlier and make the media quiet down about the whole thing.
