Fearless: a Sports Romance

by Avant, Amarie

  “Malich apologized for being late this morning, Eeyore, or Igor, or whatever he said, his son, apparently has diabetes and was eating a little more than he should at the table. His son’s wife freaked out—Malich loves to talk, he told me how his son’s wife just about has a heart attack as well. The baby was crying, oh and he offered to have us over for dinner.” Her eyes are glossed as she speaks, though not a single tear falls. “Apparently, you’re wrong about Urban Kashtan; it doesn’t have the best shchi. Malich makes the best shchi. So, through our conversation, very open, very friendly by the way. Anyway, Malich apologizes for being late this morning; he had to save his son! Vassili, you lied to me.”

  “I…” The sound of the mirror crashing behind me, stops me from stepping forward to touch her. A few shards and splints prickle into the back of my legs and neck. My phone clatters, coming to a stop next to my bare feet. The screen is cracked. “Okay, Zariah, you assumed about my father, I didn’t correct you.”

  “You’re Anatoly Resnov’s son? Not just a damn Resnov, not married in, or a third cousin twice removed, dang, Vassili, really? Your father is on America’s Most Wanted! Stay away from me!”

  “I’m sorry, baby.” I start to walk as she heads down the hall. Bits of mirror embed in my feet. “Zariah, let me explain!”

  I grit my teeth until an even sharper piece of glass digs into the sole of my foot. “Fuck!” I lift my left leg, grip the shard of mirror. It’s at least two inches and blood pours as I pull it out. I use the padding of my left foot, and run toward the door. The floor is slippery. My left heel slams down, and I almost fall due to the blood. “Zariah!”

  SLAM.

  A trail of smeared blood follows in my wake as I grab a pillow from the couch, placing it over my cock and hurry outside. My girl is already inside of the backseat of a Corolla with the LYFT sticker on the rear window.

  “Zariah, baby!” I toss the pillow at the car as it zooms along the one-way street.

  “Dude!” A bike messenger argues, wheeling by. “Cover up.”

  “Does it look like I give a fuck?” I toss my middle finger and hurry into the house. Back across the warzone with driblets of blood and a long trail where I almost bit the dust. I head toward the bathroom, grab a broom and am careful to stay near the door while fishing for my phone.

  “Shit, I’m gonna fight with an injury,” I grumble, as the iPhone and bits of mirror are swept toward me. It won’t be the first, but being in prime shape is best. I reach down and grab it up. The entire front of the screen falls off. Now I’m tossing the phone, it slams against the toilet breaking into even more pieces.

  I head toward the bedroom. I have to get dressed, I’ll call my doc from one of these goddamn neighbor’s houses, then threaten his ass to get here soon. My heart just walked out of the door, and there is no such thing as letting her go.

  Zariah

  The television is on when I arrive home. My eyes close tightly, dang, my father is home on a Saturday morning. Usually, it was just Mom and me waking up on weekend mornings. We had this routine of IHOP for breakfast, but due to being lazy Saturday morning people, we always got there when the breakfast crowd died down. Dad would be only God knows where. Martin is about five years older than me, so I can hardly recall him choosing home over staying over at a friend’s houses.

  I head toward the staircase, rubbing the tears from my cheeks when I hear footsteps.

  “Zariah, sweetheart?” My dad calls out.

  “Yes,” I reply, in a muted tone so he is unable to tell I was crying. Though my eyes are throbbing from the long cry on the ride home. But I fan my face before heading to the sound of the news. Maxwell is meandering around the kitchen, pouring himself coffee. He grabs for the spoon on the counter, eyes glued to the television.

  “Pay attention to your surroundings.” My attempt to lighten the air doesn’t work as he finally glances over me.

  “You usually disappear for the entire weekend.” Maxwell’s gaze is questioning.

  “We both are ghosts on the weekend. Why aren’t you at Beatrice’s?” It wasn’t until I was sixteen and my parents were separating that I knew my father wasn’t this hero who spent all hours of his life advocating and helping people I always thought my mom was an anomaly. He'd beat her. Save other people. Then I learned he also spent the weekends at his secretary, Beatrice’s home.

  “Her daughter was sick,” he says.

  I nod and turn around to leave.

  “Will you be gone in the impending weekends?”

  “Probably not.” I hurry down the hall before more tears can wet my face. I slip into the bathroom to apply a cold towel along my skin, and decrease the heat. I then step out and realize I haven’t told my dad that the studio apartment I applied for has approved me to move at the beginning of the month. “Dad,” I call out.

  He’s leaning against the counter, tone low. “Amp up the cruisers in my neighborhood.”

  My curiosity piques as silently I wait for him to speak.

  “Yes, rotate each hour. Zariah appears fine. If anyone eyes Resnov around my house, take him in. I don’t give a damn if that Russian scum is skipping along the sidewalk, chewing gum.”

  I head up the stairs, my first instinct is to call Vassili. Yet another sob unsettles my heart. On the way home, I’d ruminated over how I brought up Malich Resnov at The Red Door. He never denied. Never even missed a damn beat!

  Like a wet rag, my body slams down onto the mattress. I plant one toe at the other heel and kick of my boots, contemplating both Vassili’s father and his uncle. Malich is the lesser of two evils. In the beginning, just the surname shook fear into my bones.

  Grabbing a pillow into my arms, I squeeze my face into it, stifling a loud scream. Why did I fall in love with a man who has Russian Mafia in his genes! With each curse of anger, I’m reminded of how I separated myself from Vassili over the years in college. He was the deepest addiction ever, and like with Phil, I had a reason never to look back. A big-ass reason.

  And then our paths collided. There was no saving me.

  Sounds of arguing perk my ears. The sun isn't shining into the balcony like before. I must’ve fallen asleep.

  The voices are woven in titanium, each order pristine. I rub a hand across my forehead, pushing back mounds of sweated-out tresses, and pulling myself off the bed.

  “I came to the front door out of respect!”

  I gasp, Vassili is in my house. I open the bedroom door and hurry toward the stairs.

  “Fuck your respect, Resnov. Step outside and walk back to your car.”

  “Or what? Those cops rough me up? I told those mudaks to do their worst, guess they backed off out of respect to your neighbors?” Vassili argues. Then his hard voice tapers out with feeling. “All I’ve asked is to speak with your daughter, please. We can chat man to man once you’re ready.”

  My dad’s voice is louder now, “I’ll never allow—”

  “Dad!” I hurry down the stairs, glancing between them. Outside there are three cruisers lining the curb. Damn, I’m the cause of this. I gasp, noticing a bandage around Vassili’s ankle and heel. He’s wearing Nike slides. “Your foot.”

  “I’m good.” Vassili’s weary eyes meet mine. “Zariah, please talk to me. Mr. Washington, you have my word, if I piss her off, I won't be any more trouble.” There’s an undercurrent of finality to his statement, offering my father the end of us.

  My father’s eyelid twitches. This isn't a good enough bribe.

  “Can you?” I point to the staircase. Vassili bites his lip, nods, and heads toward me. The back of his hand grazes across my cheek, his rough knuckles reminding me of home. Momentarily, my eyelids surrender to peace.

  He then starts up the stairs. I stay put.

  “Dad, you cannot intervene in my life.”

  “You’re my child, Zariah.”

  “True. For over two months, we’ve skirted a few issues, so I am somewhat to blame. Hell, today, is all my fault.”

  “All your f
ault?”

  I shake my head. “No more involving your friend’s down at the police station. I apologize you felt the need to bully Vassili. He isn't like—”

  “You mean to tell me that he was adopted by those barbarians?” Maxwell scoffs.

  “No, Vassili just doesn't repeat the cycle.” I snap. My glare speaks volumes, but I'm livid at the thought of my father using his power to harass Vassili. So I dig in. “He's like Martin, independent, choosing not to follow the mistakes of his father.”

  The underlying truth hits him hard. The snake isn't quick to strike back. Just like him, my grandfather was a peace officer and a wife beater.

  “Twenty-five and just as naïve as the day I first held you close.” He sighs. “Resnov has you believing he isn't in the family business? Independent you said. Let's add intelligent. Has to have stellar strategy, mental conditioning and reasoning. MMA champion. Beloved fans for days but no, no illegal activity the department or the feds can pin on him.”

  “Now, that you’ve analyzed Vassili and me, Dad, you’re overdue for a self-assessment? Maybe I've embarrassed you today, I've disappointed myself for overreacting. But if you run and then lose the election, only you are to blame. Not me or whoever the fuck I choose to love.”

  Two steps at a time, I hurry up the steps and enter the bedroom. Vassili is seated at the edge of my bed, chewing on the nail of his finger. The despondency in his gaze crumbles my heart.

  “I'm a mudak,” he says.

  “No, you're not. I cried myself to sleep this afternoon.” The air between us thickens. He hates when I cry, and my words have made it worse. I step before him, wedging myself between his legs and run my hand along the chocolate curls at his nape. “While I slept I had time to think. Babe, my mind has gone around and around, wishing you were a man of any other name and association. I just finished arguing with my dad, it took all of this to realize you are more than a Resnov. You add value to the name and I love you for who you are.”

  “You don't hate me for lying?”

  “I placed us in this situation by continuing to have reservations, Vassili, all I have now is happiness and my trust in you.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. “Can you see a future with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Marriage and children, Zariah, I won't continue this …”

  I plaster my mouth along his. “I love you, Vassili. I would marry you in a heart attack. How many children would you like, I'd gift them too you.”

  Vassili kisses me longer. “A boy and a girl, that’d be good.”

  I sink down next to him. “We have to be on one accord. No assumptions or confusions.”

  Vassili clasps my inner thigh. There is power in his touch. It offers strength and consolation as he offers the rundown of Malich and how he is the connect for Anatoly’s business, delegating “roles.” I force myself to listen without judgment.

  “The Red Door isn’t even a drop in the bucket. Just another avenue for Anatoly to interest me in the family.”

  “He's paranoid about Malich?”

  Vassili scratches the scruff on his jaw. “Yeah. I almost snitched on Malich, but he was looking out for my business. The bartender who served me the very night I brought you along was doing more than gambling on my matches. That cunt was scheming at my lounge.”

  “Has Malich…” my throat clogs.

  “Baby, it’s the Resnov way. Playing lenient when there's a lesson to be learned can come back and fuck us, the family, in the ass.”

  “You said, us. Be honest.” My hands flex in discomfort. “Are you involved? Aside from owning The Red Door, which holds legal repercussions as well.”

  “No.”

  I squirm in my seat. Yeah, I had placed Vassili in the position to lie to me about his father, but his facial expressions never give anything away. So I’m beating the dead horse. I ask, “Have you ever engaged in any syndicate activity?”

  He's quiet for a moment. Then he looks me in the eye. “No.”

  “Ronisha’s ex aside, have you—”

  “That motherfucker is the only one who’s died by my hands, Zariah.”

  “Okay, I feel like crap for what happened to your foot.”

  “I'm good.”

  I snuggle myself into his strong arms. The underlying fear I had for the Russian fighter fading into oblivion.

  Zariah

  T-Mobile Arena, Las Vegas, one week later

  The last conversation I had with Vassili this morning included him laughing at me heartily. And I mean he rewarded me with a killer smile, the one he reserves for key moments.

  Cocky bastard didn't respond to my worry for his heel. The cut in his left heel isn't fully mended, though that wasn't reason enough for him to laugh, at least I don't believe it was.

  The daze I have lived in for much of the undercards, leading to the main event evaporates.

  The announcer mentions Karo and I have to plug my ears with my fingers. The surprisingly diverse crowd of all ages is roaring while I recall the news segment of Vassili and Hauser’s promotional conference in New York last Friday. My study textbook had fallen to the floor as my eyes glued to the television. The reporter’s questions egged them on, though the two didn’t need help. Hauser mocked about Karo’s “hurt” ankle, since Vadim had him wear an ankle brace to cover the bandage along the bottom of his heel.

  My man’s response rings in my ear, clear as day, ‘I usually put my opponents to sleep, but in Vegas, I’m gonna crush your head in!’

  The two teams had to stop them from blowing up on each other right there.

  “Are you ready for WAR?” The announcer screams, bringing me back to the present. Bright lines shine down on Hauser’s bright red curls, his tan chest is full of freckled splotches and jacked muscles.

  Taryn leans into me and flicks her hand toward the undercard, “Girl, he isn’t even intimidating. You’re a Russian bull, baby, Hauser is going down.”

  Oh Lord, Yuri must be just like Vassili harping ‘bull this and bull that.’

  Vassili

  After a quick prayer, I kiss the cross pendant, before placing it with the rest of my gear. Thanking God for strength is always the last part of my routine of warming up. I then arise from my knees. Adrenaline surges through my veins.

  “Vy gotovy, are you ready?” Vadim's eyes lock into mine.

  “Da!” I reply with a nod.

  He along with, Nestor, who has my belt draped over his arm, and the rest of my crew follow me along the corridor toward a door, which reads ‘To main stage.’

  The vibrations of my opponent’s music bang against the doors as Nestor open it.

  With the change in music, it's my cue to migrate toward the octagon. A camera crew is right before me. I start out with my people behind me. The camera man pacing backward, tracking my every step.

  The lighting is dim, my vision is tunneled and targeting the cage. This motherfucker talked his way into a fight. Now it’s time to break his neck.

  This is personal.

  It's always personal when a motherfucker is gunning for what belongs to you.

  At the entrance, I hug my team, and pull off my pants. Then I stop while the cutman places Vaseline onto my face. Next my gloves are checked before I enter the cage.

  While Hauser poses himself to look hard, I place my hands behind my back, head tilted in disinterest. That bitch isn’t intimidating anybody but himself.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is our main event of the evening, Sanctioned by the Nevada Athletic Commission.” The announcer, mentions the three judges and the referee’s name.

  The announcer reviews the undercard’s bullshit stats first before mentioning me. I nod, jumping in place, that’s right, I’m the champ, bitch!

  We touch gloves and a rush of adrenaline pounds through my ears. On my toes, I reach in for a quick jab. He punches my chin as I jab for his nose.

  My body is on fire, ready to kill him. But I’ll fuck with him first. This fight will last all of three
minutes—just so my fans get a little show first. I fake the takedown, and come back with a right hook. Hauser kicks my left ribs. Shit, I’ll feel that later. But it’s all about baiting him now. He reaches in, jabbing my nose.

  He extends his arm in a cross. Blood trickles down my mouth, I bait him. My hook claiming the side of his ear.

  “Stay on him!” Vadim shouts in Russian.

  Then I catch him with a left, right, left. Blood squirts from his nose. My fist hits the cage as Hauser drops to the mat. The referee is on me, but I already step back.

  I gesture for Hauser to get back up. His eyes are spacey. Those dilated pupils catch my taunting while the referee checks on him. Hauser’s gaze hardens, connecting with mine again. He clinches the ground. I step back to my corner, not taking my eyes off him. Get up. So I can bring you the fuck down again.

  The referee says something inaudible. In a second, he rolls over and scrambles to his toes. The arena applauds this peace offering.

  We come to our toes, hands up, chins down. I let him feel me out. Hauser low kicks toward my shin. I toss a cross punch to his face. It’s met by air. Then it’s all about control again; gauging his strength. Hauser reaches low and punches me in the chin. He’s got his swag back. Now once I bring this bitch to the ground again, there’ll be no complaining. He's had his chance, but he's going down.

  This motherfucker begins to feel good about himself, tossing a cross then he goes for a shin kick. I reach low and catch his foot. I yank and bring us both onto our backs. We are foot to foot. As we are ascending, Hauser’s pupils almost pop out of his eye sockets. Cornered animal. Yeah, he knows the drill. By the time we hit the canvas, I've wrapped my arm around his ankle, securing it at my armpit. My free arm locks down his shin, before he can wiggle away. Hauser’s free foot kicks at the opposite side of my ribs. The least amount of pressure is applied to his calf—