Fearless: a Sports Romance

by Avant, Amarie

  “Zariah, you've finally answered,” I cringe as Phil speaks. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

  Not avoidance, I'm just not a fan of looking back.

  “Hey, I'm just settling in. How are you?” I shrug, tearing my gaze away from my weakness, the sexiest, strongest man alive.

  “Good. But I would be even better if you joined me for drinks.”

  “Why?” I arise from my chair and away from Vadim’s shouting.

  He’s baffled, voice contrite while inquiring, “What do you mean why?”

  “We have nothing to chat about, Phil.”

  “You're still angry with me?”

  “Do I sound angry? No, I don’t. You're a very busy man, aren't you? And I'm acclimating myself to LA…home.” What else is there to say? I just don’t believe in wasting my time.

  “So I can't see an old friend?” he coaxes. “What about coffee?”

  It seems the shouting has followed. Vadim passes by me. “Not there!” he yells. “Place the new machine over there, mudak!” he grumbles.

  “Hello? Hello, Zariah. Where are you?” Phil asks.

  On his way toward the cage, Vadim shrugs. “Nothing is done here without prompt.”

  “Gotta go.” I hang up quickly. Damn, this feels like college all over again. During my undergrad years, finding a professor whose teaching style meshed with my learning style was a godsend. I almost feel like a new student, with Vadim as my teacher while shadowing Vassili, I want to know more about MMA, Vassili loves MMA with a passion.

  “So, how long have you trained Vassili.” I ask, curious about the man I can't stop myself from falling for. It's like my first time in court, Samuel was arguing a case. I clung to his every word. Then I went home and researched on my MacBook until my eyes burned, and brain screamed for rest.

  The old man’s eyes take on this distant look. “I was born in Iksha, say forty or fifty kilometers from Moscow. Vadim’s grandfather and I were good friends before he changed occupations and bullied himself into the boss position. I trained him for boxing. We got ‘em a heavy weight title and he was on his way to fighting Sugar Ray before—“

  “Robinson, Sugar Ray Robinson?”

  “The one and only. Then with the death of Stalin, Vassili’s grandfather decided to use his power in other means. The Resnov’s became the Resnov’s a real bratva—brotherhood,” Vadim’s lips rise in a bittersweet smile. I'm submerged in this story completely. The fear of crossing paths with a Resnov doesn't faze me as it usually does, there isn’t the hopelessness of forcing myself not to consider Vassili and ‘family’ in the same construct.

  “I came on to the States. Took on a few boxers. Good ones. You know of The Honey Badger or Figueroa?”

  “Nope, the extent to my boxing understanding is a certain ear biter when I was in middle school and Will Smith playing Ali. Oh, I’m also slightly versed on Mayweather due to a few social media gifs and arguments between him and Fifty Cents from a few years ago, though.”

  He chuckles. “Yeah, that’s all right, Zariah. In the late 1990’s I fell in love with MMA.”

  The glimmer of his eyes tells me that this is the same love Vassili has for the sport.

  “Met the boy when he was fifteen or sixteen. Vassili came into my gym. This little shit was humble to me, which I swear must've been a first for him back then. Vassili is good at the cold shoulder...” Vadim goes off on a tangent about how anti-social his fighter is. “Anyway, when he came in. He had a good head on his shoulder. Only cocky in the ring. Wanted to take off every opponents’ head. I was honored myself, to have the grandson of Anatoly Sr. in my gym.”

  I nod slowly, pushing past the fact that Vassili is related to Anatoly Resnov. Now, I’ve settled for him just not being Anatoly Resnov Junior’s son. Malich is the safer bet. “So Vassili has a match in Vegas coming up?”

  “Yeah, look up The Hauser. H-a-u-s-e-r,” Vadim starts off. Dang, I wanted to ask about submission, but he's already cussing at Nestor. “Don't make it easy on him! Vassili, don’t drop your fucking right, man!”

  I return to my spot, glancing around me. I take a deep, cleansing breath, loving the way that Vassili sported me around early and the tips he gave when we sparred for a few minutes. Don't stop moving or you become an easy target. This isn't easy either way, but I consider Phil and how life would no doubt play out had I given him a chance. He's already assistant director at one of the largest financial consultations groups in Los Angeles. I could see him showing me off. Unlike Vassili, who made me feel good, coaching me and showing me the ropes first, I would be a trophy…Phil’s shadow.

  A little while later I notice the big guy who was also with Nestor and Vadim during Vassili’s match the other day in Long Beach. Yuri, yeah his name is Yuri. He's dressed in a coal colored suit that’s draped as perfect as can be over his belly. The cut and fabric are expensive, shedding a good amount of his pounds.

  He sits next to me. “You're the girl Vassili went slumming for last week.”

  “Slumming?” I cock my head. “I’m not a little-ass girl. My name is Zariah Washington and—.”

  “Trust me, I know.” He touches my shoulder. “No harm either, I mean slumming as in my kazen fought in Long Beach. He gave a nobody a moment of shine just so your girls could get you to attend.”

  “Oh… So Vassili is your cous—“

  “The motherfucking champ is what he is, girl.”

  I realize that him calling me ‘girl’ isn’t used as an insult. It appears to be a Russian thing, Vassili and his coach have done it. I guess when Yuri added the “slumming” part I took offense.

  Yuri says, “Vassili is a title fighter in UFC. Already got himself a few belts that he ain't ever giving up. He will defend the welterweight belt in Vegas. Then it's off to Brazil again.”

  “Vegas. Brazil?” I cock an eyebrow. I haven’t searched him in a while. Usually, I would glance over his Facebook fan page in the past when I missed him. But I would just imagine his voice while glancing at his photos. How big of a champion is he?

  “Yup. No local shit… I guess only to impress.”

  “Does he do that often? Impressing women?” Dang, the question ran for an exit before I could consider how jealous I sound.

  “Nah. We’re blood, he’s my best friend. But I'd go bat shit crazy if Vassili tried to impress women all the time with these stunts.” He laughs so loud that Vassili glances over here. “It was the first time. And it wasn't easy for me to secure that fight. Champ or not, the opponent was ecstatic about the chance and bragging rights just to lose to Killer Karo. The other guy… well the other guy who was supposed to fight, had trained for months, shitted at least ten pounds to make weight and then.”

  The hair on the nape prickles. If the other man who was supposed to fight practiced anywhere nearly as hard as Vassili, he probably didn’t want to pull out of the fight. I would've refused. “What happened to the other guy?”

  “What the fuck you doing here, Yuri?” Vassili asks. Sweat dripping down every muscle of his delicious body. “You got shit to do.”

  “Why you hounding me? Can’t I watch my kazen practice?” Yuri grunts, pulling his hands on his knees. Before the big man arises, he whispers to me, “So much for being friendly.”

  “Did I say you could talk to her?” Vassili stares the shorter, heavier man down.

  I’m speechless. Even after the cat calling when I arrived earlier, Vassili didn’t treat the members of the gym anywhere as rude.

  “I’m your kazen, Vassili. No, I am your brah! Closer than any of your brothers! Why you hounding me like this?” Vassili places a hand on his shoulder. Yuri shrugs him off. “Man, don’t touch me!”

  Again Vassili has a stiff arm on his shoulder, this time he pulls Yuri closer.

  “I should shoot your ass,” Yuri argues, patting his waistband while unable to get away from the grip as he grimaces in pain.

  Are they really cousins? I swear I saw a glimpse of a nine millimeter in Yuri’s b
lazer as Vassili yanked him a few steps away. There’s been never-ending gusts of cool air from the air conditioner above until this exact second. It’s hot and stuffy and anger radiates off Vassili. They exchange words in Russian.

  Yuri huffs, heading off, not offering another look in my direction.

  Vassili glances down at me. The deep frown is erased from his chiseled face. “Are you o—”

  “So no introductions?” I arch an eyebrow, standing up.

  “That's my cousin, Yuri. No introductions, sweetheart.”

  “Vassili, you were being an asshole. We were talking about you. That is all.”

  “I’m positive that you were. He’s a good cousin and my best friend. I'm also not that jealous, so I know he wasn't flirting. Besides, it's an honor when any man looks at you as long as they don't touch what's mine.”

  “Okay…” I wait for more. So far he's open about it and I believe he wasn't being an overbearing boyfriend.

  “I won't argue with you, Zariah,” he kisses me rough on the lips.

  Hands slamming against his rock hard chest, I push away. “You're being an asshole, I don't like it.”

  “I'm being an asshole? Just to bring you up to speed, I told ‘em to stay away from you or I would break his fucking jaw. Then there'd be no talking to you or smiling at you. No Resnov, besides myself, is to address you.”

  “You said that to your cousin?” I place a hand on my hip and then realize, this isn't just family. Any other man ducking, dodging and keeping his family away from his woman would be suspicious. To add into the fold, Vassili introduced me to so many people. He joked about hurting them, but it was met with equal amounts of humor and fear as we walked through Vadim’s Gym earlier. But to threaten his own family? I'm baffled.

  Then it dawns on me. Oh yeah, to keep me safe from the Resnovs.

  “Look, Zar, I don't need none of my family giving you doubts about us. Let's just get outta here. My practice time is almost up.” Before I can respond, Vassili’s mouth descends onto mine. This time, the kiss is succulent. His teeth tugging at my bottom lip, and every thought fades from my brain.

  ###

  After Vassili wipes down his sweat, we make our way outside. Vassili jokes about forcing me to run back to his house.

  “Boy, I will hop on the back of somebody’s bicycle. You better be glad I'm willing company.” I retort as we pass a sunglass and incense boutique. Ronisha and I used to come to Venice beach just for the knock off Versace glasses. Five dollars goes a long way.

  For a moment, I’m melancholic for the past until Vassili argues, “You hop on someone’s bike, and I'm liable to…” He slams a hand against his thick forearm. “Knock them off and bloody their fucking nose. You can get someone knocked out. It’s your choice.”

  “Whateva, Vassili.” I chuckle and bump my shoulder against his. The fighting has gotten me aggressive and hungry. “Can you buy me a taco?” I pat my empty pockets.

  Vassili’s hand glides into mine as we step into a line of the taco cart. “Mexican corn with mayonnaise, yummy, I can use one of those too.”

  He gives me a disgusted look, though, but I know he’s halfway joking.

  “Boy, starvation is a form of torture. I've worked out enough, and you don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “You hardly worked out, Zariah. Every punch came with a complaint. Your back kicks were sloppy.”

  “Ha! I tried my best. You were checking out my ass anyway—”

  “Excuse me,” a high-pitched voice calls out.

  We turn around, Vassili looking very far down to meet the gaze of a young Latina. Can't be no more than nine or ten. Her hair is in two ponytails, baseball cap, and an extra-large Karo Sport tee; typical tomboy.

  “Yes, sweetie.” I smile

  “Hi!” She tells me and then all of her attention is on Vassili. “Karo, can I have your autograph?” She lurches forward somewhat, being bumped from behind. My heart warms as a boy with a handful of curly hair steps from behind her. The toddler’s hair is designed in a Mohawk just like Vassili.

  “That's my dumb brother,” she glares down at him for bumping into her awkwardly. “He's always standing in front of the TV trying to do your moves.”

  Their father stands behind them, giving her shoulder a tiny squeeze as her brother pouts. We step out of the taco cart line.

  “Of course, sweetheart.” Vassili squats down, resting his bulging forearms onto his knees. He's now closer to eye level with the girl. It’s the little things that makes my heart lurch.

  “Aw, thanks, Karo,” the father says, the fluctuation of his tone just as excited as his daughter’s.

  “It's nothing,” Vassili responds.

  She thrusts a binder into his face and he laughs while taking it and her pen. “I just knew we would see you leave the gym today.”

  “That so?” he asks, scrawling a K and then it’s all indecipherable chicken scratch from there. He glances up at their father, and mouths Vegas.

  The guy’s eyes pop out. He nods.

  Vassili then returns his gaze to the young girl. “Wait, I just thought of something awesome. I've got extra tickets to my upcoming match in Vegas. You think your parents can take you?”

  “Totally!” She speaks for her dad. “You're gonna destroy Hauser!”

  “I will give your family tickets if you can do me a big favor.”

  “Yeah! Vegas. Yeah, yeah! Anything!”

  “Good, good. All I ask is that you stop calling your brother dummy.” He hands her back the paper and pen. “One day, he will grow big and strong. He will defend you, girl.”

  I almost smile so hard I cry. Vassili points to the gym while shaking the man’s hand. “Go speak with Nestor. Get yourself tickets for the family, backstage passes too.”

  “Oh, man, thanks, Karo, thanks,” the guy says, hyperventilating. He starts to ramble, “I've been watching you since … since day one. I saw your first fight in Pasadena. Man, I'm always telling my daughter not to call her brother names. I love you, dude. She's my mini me and my boy is her mini me.”

  I smile at him. The father, his daughter, and young son love Karo.

  “You've got yourself two little fighters,” Vassili says, and the man finally lets his hand go.

  “Okay, kids let’s go get those tickets!” the dad says.

  “Kill me, Karo! Kill me!” The toddler finally speaks. Gone is the frown and shame of his sister calling him a bad name. He giggles while turning to catch up with dad. “See? I told you I would say it!”

  “Ugh! You're wrong, dum…you're just wrong, okay?” the little girl squeaks, stressing each word.

  Vassili winks at her. “You’re doing good, girl,” he calls after her since she didn't taunt her brother.

  “Did that toddler just ask you to kill him?” I ask as we step back in line.

  “I plead the fifth.”

  “Good idea. In any other circumstance, I may consider defending you, but not if you easily implicate yourself.”

  “The saying is Kill ‘em Karo, kill ‘em. It came from a dumb-ass health drink commercial I did as an up and comer. The crew wanted to solidify my Killer Karo brand. Vadim was the one who used to always say it first. They ruined it, though.”

  “I really like your coach and Nestor,” I add, determining that the hard warning he gave Nestor was nothing compared to the look he had for Yuri, who hurried away. We move up a pace in the ever-growing line.

  “This line is too long. Can you make tacos?”

  “The best you'll ever have. My mom and I were taco Tuesday loco. We had our favorite little hole in the wall when I was in college. Tacos, margaritas and karaoke. Nobody could tell me that I wasn't Lauryn Hill when my favorite song came on. I probably cracked a few mirrors and broke a good number of glasses while singing “Killing Me Softly.”

  ###

  We never did end up eating tacos. Returning to Vassili’s home was filled with sex in the shower. A first for me and he delighted in my firsts. Then Vassili bei
ng as nosey as he is, asked me about all of my bills. I’m still in a daze that he paid off my student loans. I argued my way out of him fronting the bill for an apartment and even a brand-new car since my high school Mercedes gave up the ghost sometime back in Atlanta.

  Now, we’ve debated about dinner, in the most embarrassing situation of all, while seated at a restaurant and are walking out of a Vietnamese Pho in Brea.

  “You want soup?” Vassili says, guiding me toward his Mercedes truck. “I’m from Russia, I’ll feed you the best soup.”

  “No, Vassili. I don’t want any damn borsch.” I press back on my heels, but my argument is futile. Though the Pho didn’t rival that of a place I often frequented in Berkeley, it was good, and it would have filled my belly had I gotten in more bites before Vassili stood up, frown on his face, and placed more than enough cash on the table to close the tab.

  “You’ll try rassolnik or schi.” He opens the passenger’s door for me. “Get in, Zariah, I can pretty much make you do anything.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re a bully, Vassili. What the hell is ras… rassol-nick and sh…”

  “Schi is Cabbage soup, Rassolnik is,” he offers one of those rare, sexy smiles, “Kidney-pickle soup.”

  I reach over and pop his arm. “Dang it, Vassili, if I had consumed real food today, instead of juicing, I swear, I would vomit all over your boots right now.”

  His square jaw juts toward the passenger’s seat.

  “You really are an asshole.”

  Vassili rubs his middle finger against his eyebrow, through the dusk of late evening, he subtly offering me the bird while closing the door. I laugh. How have we transformed into an old married couple, who alternate from arguing to nurturing to laughing and deviate back toward arguing again? My arms fold and I offer a scowl while he navigates onto the 101, heading toward the Dodger Stadium. He exits toward Franklin Avenue.

  “How much further before I waste away?”

  “I’d never let you go hungry, Zariah. You had your green machine a few hours ago. If you’re hungry for anything…” He moves his right hand toward his pants. “I’ll satisfy that craving too.”