Fearless: a Sports Romance

by Avant, Amarie

  “I’m good,” I glare harder, repeating myself for emphasis, “Vadim, I’m good, okay?”

  “Yeah, you barely got that submission with Cordova and then you go gallivanting down Louisville before the medic clears—”

  “To witness the birth of my daughter?” I laugh. “You're going senile if you don't think I would've rolled heads if I missed it. Every time I speak, I come through, don’t I? I said, the little bitch would be knocked out in seconds. Did I disappoint? I will murder The Legion—like I just said. Do you want to shut your cunt or pray?”

  Vadim shakes his head, laughing. “That's my line, Vassili. I tell you and all those up-and-comers at my gym to shut your cunts.”

  “Can I pray, get my head in the game or are you trying to hold my dick?”

  He steps away mumbling about my choice of words, using prayer and dick in the same sentence. I pull off my cross pendant and place it onto the counter before me. This is a ritual I've done so many times except when I left the cross with Zariah while in Singapore a few months ago.

  In hindsight, looking back, I felt as ready as I’d ever be. My father always told me that I’d have to choose a love. The syndicate or MMA. And there was no question to what I’d choose. But with my family and my love for pounding flesh, I really thought I had found some semblance between the two.

  Contrary to Vadim’s hard questions, I did well. I’d learned how to change a diaper after Natasha’s first shitting warzone. I’d baby proofed the house and she wasn’t even crawling yet. And I split my time, with my rigorous training schedule because Zariah helped me tag team our child.

  Thus, this fight with Louie Gotti, The Legion, starts like any other. I go out, guns blazing. And I mean, my fists, spray like bullets against his face, neck, and ribs. Gotti slams into the fencing. He's unable to ball up, get to the clinch. All he can do is take.

  The referee steps in. Like a dance, I hustle to the opposite corner. One foot before the other, Gotti catches his bearings. There are people first pumping the air, and I know the surrounding arena is in chaos, but I beckon this bitch to me with a nod.

  He fakes right, and goes for a shin kick. Every attempt is blocked. Though his face is a bloodied pulp, I'm tiring him out. When I get him to the floor, I want my signature move flawless.

  Gotti jabs my chin. I issue a low kick. Soon as he comes alive, I slam him into the cage with my hand behind his neck and a knee to his abs. Now, for the take down.

  Ding. Ding. Dingggg! I navigate to my corner.

  Nestor grabs my chin, grinning. “You killing him!”

  “Finish him, good!” Vadim pats my shoulder.

  I toss back a bottle of water, crunch it into my hands, then press it into Nestor’s chest.

  This time Gotti leaps from his seat, as if a few moments have revived him. His cross lands against my ear. Sending a long drumming wave through it. I step back. Feeling comfortable, Gotti comes at me again. This time I move to the side. As he’s side by side with me, my opposite palm presses against his forehead. Timber!

  With the Italian on the mat before me, I position myself for my signature move. My bicep applies pressure to his esophagus and that greedy ass feeling of squeezing until he can no longer breathe takes over. His throat is tightened between the steel of my forearm and bicep. Gotti’s eyes flutter up, and then lock onto mine. The vessels in his gaze pop. What I see next breaks my concentration…

  My boots stepped over piss, water, and vomit, eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room. Sergio’s arms were tied above his head to a beam along the ceiling. There were weights strapped to his dangling feet, stretching his body further. Malich’s guys did just enough to break his spirit, leaving the big motherfucker in tears.

  I took a drag from my cigarette and released smoke through my nose. “I’ve been told you enjoy hitting women. Big piz’da like you can’t find someone your own size to fight?”

  “Please! Please!”

  He started to beg God, yet my heart hardened further. I rubbed a hand over the side of my neck where conveniently, there was a tattoo of an eye inside a triangle. It was a symbol of God's omniscience, His ability to see everything. Yet, I didn’t feel convicted.

  Sergio begged in Italian. He was praying to the Almighty God. I knew every word because Anatoly made learning the language a requirement when I was a child. Every bit of his training was to prepare me for the syndicate.

  “Listen.” I clasped my hand against the back of his neck, bringing his tear swollen gaze to mine. It was time to cut in before he compelled to the Holy Spirit again. “I believe in God too. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll pray for your soul later. But tonight you either go…” My cigarette pointed up and then down. “I can’t see further than your death, but your death is inevitable.”

  I tuned out his cries, burning the cigarette into his chest. My eyes locked onto Sergio as my powerful left hook slammed into his jaw. His chin instantly flopped to his chest.

  “You killing him with one punch, Vassili,” the doctor, Yuri had requested to be here, spoke up in Russian.

  “Nah, but you can bring him back to life.” I nudged my head toward Sergio. This big mudak was knocked out with one hit.

  The doctor stepped forward. He stabbed the syringe of adrenaline into Sergio’s heart.

  “Ahhhh,” Sergio gulped, like a fish out of water.

  I clasped his jaw. “Stay awake, I’m not ready for you to die just yet. And if you stop breathing, my doc will bring your ass back to life. You think you can hit girls and go out easy, eh?”

  He makes this noise that sounds like he’s drowning, before spitting up blood.

  I chuckled. This time my hands slammed against his ribs, like my fists were never-ending fireworks. The doctor readied another syringe. The goons joked about me not killing him too soon yet. And I beat Sergio until his fucking eyes dimmed for the last time…

  One second, the Italian’s gaze had faltered, and the next, he’s pinned his elbow into my ribs. Though, I’m a man professionally conditioned to this pain, I keep fucking seeing Sergio through Gotti’s gaze. He twists his arm around, and flips his body backward, until his legs are positioned around my left leg, locking my leg forward against my chest, calf twisted sideways.

  My mind continues to see Sergio dying before me. Until the crowd is hushed. A searing pain roars through my left leg as my team cusses in Russian.

  “Otpustit! Sdavat’sya!” Vadim and Nestor shout. I no longer see them, but their voices are blaring through some imaginary speakers.

  They’re telling me to tap out. Let go.

  Why the fuck are they telling me to tap out? Why the fuck is Sergio praying so loudly?

  POP! The sound of my knee joint cracking is heard throughout the quiet arena…

  ###

  My entire body is desensitized while sitting on the examination table, leg in cast. The hot sweat against my skin has salted, cooling over. The pain drugs coursing through my veins has numbed the hurt temporarily, but this shit is still in my brain. The filling of sinking and of failure.

  I’m a failure. There’s a second L to my name and my belt.

  “Your patella is fractured,” the doctor tells me.

  “For how long?”

  “Six to eight—”

  “How long?” Zariah cuts, tossing my question at me. “Vassili, you can't even hold Natasha standing up right now, and your only question is for how long. Damn, I can pretty much guess your query is to get back into that cage and…” Zariah stops speaking abruptly and steps out of the room. The blinds along the window of the door bounce back and forth as the door is harshly closed.

  Heat prickles across my skin as I rub a hand along my face. Vadim’s arms are folded. He has no words for me either.

  Every time I blink my belt is being snatched away from me.

  “Unfortunately, holding your daughter should be held off, unless you’re seated.” The doctor reiterates. He'd just explained the how to bullshit. “For now, you’ll use a wheelchair.”
/>   I gotta get back in the cage! “When do I get physical therapy?”

  “We will talk crutches next month. But I'll see you next Tuesday. Nevertheless, there were a few more things your wife must be aware of regarding proper care,” the doctor makes his exit.

  “What happened?” Vadim breaths heavily.

  “I lost.”

  “You didn't think to tap out, Vassili? I screamed that shit to you, man! You didn't even shout for the excruciating pain. Just held your gaze and your gritted teeth as if you're so fearless. As if you are invincible. The crowd was silent, don't tell me you didn't hear me shouting: Tap out. Tap out. Tap. The. Fuck. Out. How many times has Nestor—”

  “I AM THINKING!”

  “— placed you in a ‘knee bar,’” he continues right along. “Just for you to get the picture and A, fix the situation or B, tap the fuck out.”

  My finger points to the door. I shout, “I just looked like a bitch! I need a moment.”

  “Really, you need a moment? You’re an idiot.” He pokes me in the forehead. “Tell me what happened? Vassili, you gotta tell me what happened. One way or another, I’m your coach, we have to work on this. Was it all a show of balls?”

  “I was…” I stop talking as Zariah returns to the room.

  “Where's Natasha?” I ask.

  Her tear-stained eyes turn toward me. “I drove here, Taryn and Yuri met me in the parking lot when I called. They're sitting in the car with our child…our child that you can't even pick up!”

  “I'm sorry.”

  “Vassili, it's a game,” she softens. “I know how much it means to you, baby, but there is life outside of the cage. I am shocked right now, so I will be a bitch until this crap sinks in.”

  Vadim steps out of the room now.

  Another image of my belt passes before my eyes. I slam my palm into my forehead. “Fuck!”

  Zariah leans against the wall, next to a poster of the human body. Eyes red and cheeks wet as a river.

  I can't even stand up and go to her. There’s nothing for me to say that will soothe the hurt I’ve caused her.

  “You chose not to tap out. I watched every second on Pay-Per-View,” she murmurs, head to the ceiling. “The scariest thing I've ever watched, but I didn't even have the power to look away. Gotti told you to tap out. I could see his lips moving. He told you to tap out. I screamed so loud, Natasha started crying. I swear she cried herself to sleep during the hour drive here. Gotti told you to tap out,” she whimpers. “Did Nestor? Did Vadim? Were they shouting in your corner?”

  Lips set in a line, I nod.

  “Then why?” she asks the question that the entire MMA world would like to know.

  I rub a hand across my mouth. “Remember that mudak who touched Ronisha?”

  Fresh tears wet her eyes. “No amount of trying can stop be from thinking about what I asked you. That was over nine years ago, baby.”

  I glance down at my hands, my hands have failed me. “I was winning the fight. I had that bitch pinned to the ground.”

  “You did. Talk to me, Vassili. What happened?” Zariah steps before the examination table, stroking my hair.

  “I had Louie, The Legion, Gotti right where I wanted him. There was fear in his eyes. I was lining that bitch up for the triangle choke. He’d become my next submission—fucking easy.”

  “Easy,” Zariah murmurs, doing wonderful things to my hair. She coaxes the fence around my emotions to fall. The instant I lost my belt, I broke.

  I huff, “Yeah, easy. Then I saw Sergio through him. Never did I give a fuck about Sergio. I would kill him again. A few years ago, his mother passed. I sent the family a check. I'd been too bitter, didn't give a fuck about him when he died. When I heard of her death, I learned that Sergio’s mother lived in a bad neighborhood, she’d been going blind before her death. The motherfucker was the woman’s only son. I’m not even aware if he’d been a good son to her, helped her out or whatnot like how it should be. But on the chance that he had, I’d taken him from her and this didn't sit right with me, Zariah. Not to say that I would go back on my actions, there are few things in this life that I regret. But, I've never been a murderer, baby, not until that day he died.”

  Zariah

  My heart is ripped to shreds. The words are lodged into my throats to tell Vassili that it's time to retire. To change his occupation. To become someone safer for our child’s sake. For us.

  The second he mentioned Sergio, shame clings to me as I move closer toward the examination table. My body is weak, and I hardly have the strength, but know I must. I have to be the strength for him. Mentally as he copes with Sergio. Physically like the doctor told me just now. He talks of attending Sergio’s mother’s funeral, and my heart crumbles.

  My hands glide through his slick waves and I kiss his forehead, softly placing my fingers along his jaw, careful not to touch one of his bruises. “No, you’re not a murderer, Vassili.”

  I want to place the blame on me. Say I pushed him to it, however, my husband isn’t the type to sidestep his role in things. A thick silence ensues, and I pull the hair along his nape. “Vassili, look at me.”

  His hardened features soften as his dark gaze seeks mine. “You are a good man, and I love you for it. Oh baby, we will always have each other.”

  And we that’s exactly what we do. I feel like those years before Vassili and I came back together during my undergrad prepared us. He was my rock, catapulting my confidence when I began at Spellman. Pressley Prep prepared me, but sinking my teeth into education in a college setting was still different. And for those first few years, I had Vassili. Can’t shake my head enough at how dumb I was for pushing him away.

  So I am right at his side, when we head home. I don’t think the situation sunk into Vassili’s mind until I pull into the driveway. Our sleeping baby, is in the convertible car seat. Never in my husband’s company have I had to strap in Natasha or heft around the heavy car seat. Yet when I get out to help her, his jaw clinches. He rubs the back of his neck, “Wish I could help.”

  “It’s okay,” I mumble. It would be easier to take Natasha from the car seat, but wake her when she sleeps and heads will roll.

  Over the next couple of weeks, we have our highs and lows. The good times are marked with me cleaning the house and laughing at Vassili as he wheels Natasha around, to Vassili’s Spotify which has “Tell Me When To Go” by E40. The rap song is blaring through the surround sound speakers that were installed in every room of our house, just the way Natasha likes it. Our five month old is seated in his lap, with one arm around her, Vassili tilts the wheelchair, popping wheels in the hallway as I straighten the kitchen after breakfast.

  Lord, as boughie as I was, I messed around and married a ghetto ass white boy. “Vassili, if you ‘ghost-ride the whip’ with my baby, I will kill you! Turn that old ass song off.” I shake my head, laughing all the way and not nearly as hard as our baby is. There’s drool drizzling down her chubby jaw.

  The music cuts. I grab the copper skillet from the island and place it into the foamy dishwater. Just as D’Angelo’s “Brown Sugar” comes on. “Heyyyyy!” My hips sway as I step toward the hall again. He had to have changed the station.

  “What is this?” Damned his typical-ass Russian accent, although sexy, he feigns disgusted while placing his hand over Natasha’s ears. “My baby can’t listen to this.”

  She wiggles and squirms, loving the music. She loves all music.

  “Humph, all the uncensored rap, and she can’t listen to one of my old favs? Whateva, Vassili, sounds like Natasha likes it. And your other baby loves it.” I walk over to them and kiss her forehead before smooching his lips. “I prefer this to gangster rap and rock music, FYI.”

  The moment I start to sashay into the kitchen, the song cuts as D’Angelo croons about his eyes being the shade blood burgundy.

  “You know what?” I turn around, placing my hand on my hip. Vassili smiles through his eyes as I point a stiff finger at him. “I could have you l
oad the dishwasher, boy. You talk all that teamwork, and act like you’re my coach. So this would be a good time to assert my coaching skills, but I’ll play nice.”

  That was a good day. There are many of those, which ultimately outweighed the bad as Natasha transitions from the army crawl to hustling around like she’s training for the baby Olympics. I help Vassili get around. At least, I argue to him. “You can’t—”

  “That word’s not in my vocabulary, sweetheart,” he retorts, ready to slide from the wheelchair to the plush carpet in Natasha’s playroom.

  “So you’d rather fall onto your ass.” My toe snaps the wheel into lock.

  He grunts his appreciation.

  “Hey, we’re running low on food.” I shoot a thumb over my shoulder. “I’ll go stock up on groceries. Our subzero refrigerator and pantry were stock full before the fight. The two of us always do the big grocery shopping together, when not having a taste for this ice cream or that glass of wine.

  He glances around, the hopeless feeling weighing to his broad shoulders. “I’ll just get Natasha tired out for the night.”

  I nod and smile. We haven’t screwed since Louie Gotti became champ. Either I’ve tried to give Vassili head and he would have just taken his pain medication, which causes drowsiness. Or I’m running after Natasha, which causes an equal amount of drowsiness too.

  ###

  At Whole Foods I speak with a representative about grocery delivery service. The prices are ridiculous. Though we have more than enough money in the bank and The Red Door is a consistent stream of income, I wouldn’t feel comfortable paying for such a luxury until I start working again.

  I find myself meandering down each isle, slurping a green smoothie, and talking to rich old white ladies who either visit the grocery store—donning every sparkling diamond they own—out of loneliness or for the samples. After learning about a pink-haired woman’s villa in Italy, where she plans to spend Christmas this year, besides learning about that, I learn that the holidays are right around the corner, with all the cranberry sauce out. I head up the wine aisle. Damn, I don’t wanna go home yet… The only time I leave the house these days are to transport Vassili to rehab and a few ‘mommy and me’ classes.