Fearless: a Sports Romance

by Avant, Amarie

  While scanning the red wines, I notice a pale blond. We hardly glance each other’s way, but this is Beverly Hills, everyone is a tad nicer than the rest of the Los Angelenos. Her smile is pathetic, mine is as well. She places a bottle into a cart.

  “Are those on sale?” I ask, since the cart is full to the brim with bottles. We have a wine pantry that needs filling.

  “No.” she says in a thick Russian accent. I turn to give her more attention. “These are all mine.” Her thin lips rise once more in another wry grin.

  “You look like someone.” The words creep out of my mouth just as I think of them. Vivid images of a horse galloping down the passageway and scaring everyone half to death take over. “Are you Russian?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you in Moscow about a year ago? Um, I’m sorry,” I run my fingers through my wavy hair. “It’s just that the last time I was in Russia, I was almost run down by a horse. And a woman, who I swear looks like the spitting image of you, pulled me to safety.” Shit, now I know some folks say ‘all black people look alike’ but damn. I wait for her to confirm my notion.

  The lady huffs. “Couldn’t have been me. I haven’t gone home in years and there’s nothing in Russia for me. Albeit, there’s nothing at my current home for me. Hence, all the wine. Helps me cope with marriage.” She cocks her head to the cart.

  A lump of embarrassment slides down my throat. I glance at the sorrow on her face makes me want to bow out of this entire aisle.

  “My name is Danushka Molotov.” We shake hands.

  “Zariah, Zariah Resnov. I’m actually married to a Russian.”

  “Well, good luck with that. Shit, was that too blunt?” She sighs, “I just, I’m a jaded wife. I wish to God I could leave my husband, he can have all the money, I shouldn’t tell you this. This isn’t your problem.”

  I start to dig into my purse. “No, I came over and bothered you. Danush…”

  “Danny, call me Danny.”

  “Okay, Danny. I’d like to give you my card. I’m actually on baby bonding at the moment. If you ever need an attorney.” I hand it over. “Look, you’re dressed for the cover of Vogue magazine, I’m sure you can afford the best Beverly Hills has to offer, but if you need genuine help, Billingsley Law will do everything they can. I might not be in if or when you call, but I work with a stellar team.”

  “Thank you.” She clutches the card close.

  I grab a bottle of Pinot Noir and head toward the checkout line. I’ve been gone long enough. When I glance back toward the wine section, Danushka is gone. My eyebrows crinkle. She left the cart which had thousands of dollars’ worth of wine in it.

  Vassili

  While Zariah is at the grocery store, I tire Natasha out as much as I can for an afternoon nap. She has a colorful play mat gym where she tinkers a rattle-like contraption and other toy compartments hanging from a dome like structure in the shape of a turtle. While she plays, I wheel out of the room, place up the fencing so she can’t crawl out and navigate as fast as I can to the master suite. Zariah had just washed clothes. There are a few piles on the bed. I fold one set of piles of Natasha’s clothing. Look at the time. The baby monitor registers that Natasha’s laughing at something. Good. I start with Zariah’s undergarments which are next, fold those and place them away. Then I glance at the clock. Shit, I want this room chill but the time is moving too fast.

  I shove my mix-matched socks onto the bottom dresser drawer. Grab a few candles off the top, while listening to the baby monitor. It’s silent. Matches, where are matches.

  I used to keep a pack of matches in my pocket with my freshly rolled cigarettes, but Zariah wouldn’t have it. I place the candles back, and decide to turn the radio onto Zariah’s favorite R&B station, isolating the surround sound to just this room, so she’ll be surprised when she comes upstairs. By now, I’m wheeling around like crazy, drawing a steamy bath. Pulling out massage oils and my biceps are warmly conditioned as I return to the Jacuzzi and turn off the water before the suds can overflow.

  Then I head to the play room. First thing I see amongst the play-mats is Natasha’s bubble shaped pamper in the air. Shit, I should have changed her diaper first. I wheel over as close as I can get to the mat without dragging the wheelchair over to it, reach down and scoop her up as slowly as possible. She coos against my chest while I hold her with one hand and wheel out of her playroom and to her nursery.

  Inside, I head toward the cherry wood baby changing table. My mouth tenses as I glance up at how high it is. There’s no way I can do this while seated.

  Downstairs, we have a convertible station, which isn’t nearly as tall. These days, Zariah has changed most of the diapers, and I feel like shit for it. I’m a man, no bitching out. Cradling her in the football position, I kick up the foot rest and favor my right foot. Don’t apply pressure to the left, you idiot!

  I arise slowly, place Natasha onto the changing mat. The moment she’s freed from my hand, I accidentally apply pressure to my left leg and fire shoots through my knee. “FUCK!”

  Natasha’s plump arms and legs jerk, stiffening and she cries.

  “I’m sorry, beautiful.” I stay standing, taking the excruciating pain. No teeth, all lungs, she cries her little heart. “I’m a mudak, baby, I’m sorry. Just let Daddy change your diaper.”

  No amount of coaxing or blowing roses against her belly will stop her. By now I take the pain like the dick I am, changing her as swiftly as possible. “Natasha, sweetheart, you gotta stop crying, you’re making my head hurt. You’re probably making your head hurt.” Can babies get headaches?

  I grit my teeth, sinking down to the wheelchair with her in my arms, in a fresh diaper and a Thanksgiving onesie. As Natasha cries, I hold her out before me cradled in my forearms. “Listen, sweetheart, Daddy screwed up. But you are my world, I would never hurt you or scare you intentionally.” And then I proceed to have a conversation with Natasha about the bullshit reason why I’m not dancing around with her while walking. “Damn, sweetheart, I used to be the life of your party. I’d do bar lifts and you’d be seated on the floor laughing your little ass off, until you fell back into scattered pillows. About a month ago, I made the biggest mistake of my life, Natasha.”

  Her crying wanes, big brown eyes locked onto mine.

  “You still mad at me? Because your mom is angry with me. Zar tries not to let it show—and nobody in this world takes care of you and I like she does. But I fucked up. All because I love to fight. Now, I love you and your mom the most.” she smiles and I nod. “That’s right, sweetheart. You and mommy are untouchable, my favorite people in the whole world—okay, so daddy don’t like too many people, but you two are at the tippy top of the people I like and love. Then there’s MMA. I told you about it before, do you remember.”

  With my hand at the back of Natasha’s head, I make her nod a little, though she appears to be listening intently. “So last month I messed up. I had this guy right where I wanted him, beating the snot outta him. Baby, I had it set up to annihilate him, no sweat off my back. Then I screwed up.”

  “Coooo.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll get my belt back. When I do, I’m gonna sweep Mommy off her feet, plant kisses on her face… and do things that you are never to learn about. Got that?” I grin. She laughs. “Then I’ll be back at the top. The king of the cage—welterweight class, but the king, baby, nonetheless.”

  “Cooo… gaaa. Dadaaaa…”

  “You are so smart, Natasha. You are right again. Dada will get into the octagon. I’ll probably do a few TKOs first, just to get into the swing of things, then back to my submissions. Killing ‘em softly I always say. There’s a delicacy about it, not everybody can place someone in to submission. Shit, not everybody can knock a fighter out in one hit either. It was 2014 and the man’s nose was big, so I had to correct that shit, baby.”

  Natasha laughs. I start to tell her about another fight. “Seems to me you prefer a good knock out to submission. One day, I’ll teach
you, Natasha, you’re young now, so everybody loves the brutal, cocky way when young. There’s just something about that damn cage, sweetheart…”

  “Are you serious?” Zariah stands at the nursery door, hands on her thick hips. “You’re glorifying and telling our daughter how awesome the UFC world is, right now? At this instant while sitting in a goddamn wheelchair—damn, I just took the Lord’s name in vain. Never have I ever! My shoulders hurt, my feet hurt. And to top it all off, I met a woman about an hour ago—after placing a mountain of groceries in the trunk and the backseat mind you because there weren’t enough workers at the store to come out and help. Oh, about the woman, her name was Dana… Danas… Danny!” She grumbles. “She made me realize how much I miss working.”

  “Okay, then you should go back to work.” My tone is calming as Natasha turns her head and wiggles around in my lap to see her mom. Our baby is all smiles, but Zariah is seething.

  “Go back to work? How? I have to help you, Vassili.”

  I laugh softly. “Nah, you don’t have to help me, sweetheart. I ain’t an invalid.”

  “Humph! Whateva, Vassili. Whatever you say. I bet the moment you finish rehab it’s back to the ring. Is it back to the ring?”

  “Nah, the cage. And yes, I’ll return.”

  “Good for you.” She turns in her heels and struts away.

  “Come back here. We need to talk,” I call out. Inside venom courses through my veins. I can’t stand up, grab her, and take her over my knee! With Natasha in my lap, I wheel like crazy to our room. “Aye! We need to talk, Zariah!”

  She’s turning up the music and changing to a more upbeat pop song.

  My pupils almost pop out of my motherfucking eyes. “Zar, Zariah…”

  She starts for the bathroom, kicking off shoes, and unbuttoning her blouse. “Guess I should thank you for drawing me a bath. I just dragged in a thousand bags while you’re chatting happily of MMA! You are so in love with that game aren’t you? I could understand if you got into a car accident, Vassili, but you’re going to be in a wheelchair during Natasha’s first portraits for Christmas, all because of a game. It’s a game!”

  I push forward before she can step inside the bathroom and shut the double doors. My right toe swipes inside of her calf. That’s good enough. She stops and turns around.

  “What the fuck is your problem?” I mouth quietly. “It’s that time of the month—I take that shit, because … because you cop an attitude onces a month. But, you need to calm down.”

  “Or what,” she reaches forward and places her hands over Natasha’s ears. Our baby wiggles, and tries to paw her away. “Will you screw the anger out of me? We haven’t screwed in a month, Vassili. It would’ve been nice. Thanks for the bath, but after hearing you so jovial in your talk about fighting, I just can’t. Not tonight. So again, I appreciate the bath.”

  I grab her wrist. “I am going to return to the cage, Zariah. Maybe not tomorrow, but that shit is inevitable, and I know that you know that.”

  “I have sat back and taken you to the doctors. I know you’re preparing for rehab, but … but I can’t. I swear to you, I can’t, Vassili. Yuri had to stop me the other day from getting onto social media because of your being on some list. Later on, I went back and I looked at the damn list of fighters on the top ten worst MMA leg injuries. The sight was gruesome. I know you break a finger and a damn toe after every other damn fight, but… that list. Vassili you made top eight. The worst ones, I can’t see that happen to you. I refuse.”

  “Oh, don’t give me that shit. So you saw some dude with a broken fibula or tibula or something.”

  “Yes! And I won’t see it happen to you.”

  “And it won’t! Zar. You are too sheltered, sweetheart. Shit is gonna happen but I won’t top that list, okay?”

  She straightens up. “I refuse to see you top that list. How about this. It’s Natasha and I or the cage. You choose.”

  “Don't do that. Don't fucking do that.” I glance down at our baby, who is excitedly eyeing us both. “I can’t even believe you’d say these things while I’m holding Natasha! Natasha is my princess. You're my queen so you know that the answer will always be the two of you!”

  “Somehow,” she mumbles. “I doubt it.”

  Zariah walks into the bathroom and pushes both doors closed in our faces. My eyes are burning.

  “Baabaa, daadaadaaaa.”

  I can’t even offer my child a smile. “Listen, Mommy is angry with Daddy. I won’t let her go, sweetheart. I know what it feels like to be brought up in a broken home. And that shit won’t happen. I will not allow it.”

  Zariah

  That must have been the worst night of my life. In truth, I went off. It was a combination of menstruation cramps, not living my dream career, and the ‘Top Ten worst MMA leg injuries.’ I almost puked while watching each one because I was too damn dumb not to watch. Had to see what these men go through for their love of fighting. I spoke with Samuel about it, as I value the love he and his wife model, he told me that people oftentimes argue in their marriage. It’s all about coming back together after a fight, not allowing those feelings to propel us further apart. So I must’ve wallowed and apologized, and Vassili didn’t use the shit I slung at him in our argument at all as I’ve seen occur in other people’s relationships. He simply accepted my apology.

  Over the next couple of months, my husband completes rehabilitation. Every increase in his strength, he equates to his queen and his princess. We have arguments, but none of them parallel in comparison to that night.

  When Vassili returns to Vadim’s Gym, Natasha is nine months old, and I silently pray that God keeps my husband safe as he spars with Nestor. Yuri is shouting about how good of a fighter his cousin is, in that accent, all I want to do is laugh about how he says cousin, but I’m nervous.

  Taryn bumps her shoulder against mine. “Girl, everything is good. Now, give me that baby so you can go cheer your man.”

  I chuckle. When I grab Natasha by the underarms to hold her out, she pulls against me. “No!”

  “Oh hell naw,” Taryn says. “How many times have I snuck you candy when I watched you while your mom and dad went on a date. I have blown off many Friday nights for your little cute self.”

  Natasha shakes her head.

  “Oh, Natasha,” Yuri turns to her. “Taryn and I took you to Disneyland—”

  “You took my baby to Disneyland?!” I snap.

  Taryn grumbles under her breath. “Boy, why?” She gives him an incredulous look; for a super-rich girl, her attitude can switch up in a minute.

  He shrugs. “It was just a few hours while you guys were at the Bruno Mars concert. But… uh…”

  “Vassili and I haven’t taken her yet,” I pout.

  “Look on the bright side.” Taryn grins, “You aren’t worried about Vassili now. You can just take out all that rage on Yuri.” She sinks back into the foldable chair and laughs her ass off.

  Yuri says something in Russian. Natasha’s eyes widen. Somehow, I believe my baby understands. Her dad says certain things in Russian too, that shit pisses me off.

  “Good, Good,” Vadim shouts as they work on a few standard routines. I glance toward the cage. “Tell Nestor if you feel any pain.”

  Vassili says something in Russian. Here we go again. I narrow my eyes at him, and he winks at me.

  “He just said he’s a pussy, and will do,” Nestor laughs while blocking another hit.

  Vassili fires on him, crosses and hooks. “Don’t say that word in front of my baby!”

  “Okay!” Nestor does his best to block most hits, and although he’s wearing head gear, he stumbles around.

  “That is good!” Vadim grips the cage while, from the outside, “Now, no horsing around, Vassili.”

  Natasha climbs down my leg. She’s started to stand on her own. She holds onto the edge of my skirt and begins to move around to see her father.

  “Vassili!” I shout. She starts to walk.

  “Vassili!�
�� Taryn and I screech in unison.

  “Oh shit, oh shit,” Yuri says. “My Godbaby!”

  “She’s walking. Go Natasha,” Vassili says, as he and Nestor pump a fist in the air.

  “Next year, I want you in my cage, Natasha,” Vadim adds.

  “No she won’t,” I quickly say, while laughing and cheering. She falls down. I hurry to catch her, and Vassili picks her up before I can. Damn, he got out of the cage and down here in a second.

  “Taryn did you get this on camera,” I ask her.

  Her eyes brighten. She gives this idiot look. I shake my head. My friend still doesn’t have a job, she still lives off her father and Yuri as well. I glance at him. He shrugs. Damn, these two are a match made in heaven. He loves his exotic Asian and black girlfriend, and she loves his dumbass.

  “Oh no, we didn’t take a picture or anything.” I pout.

  “Don’t worry, I got it.” We all glance toward the weight section.

  Sergy, the three-headed monster adds, “I got video.”

  He hands over his phone. Within an album full of selfies, there is a short clip of Natasha walking. “Way to go, Yuri, when I send my mom, all she will hear is your cussing ‘Oh shit.’”

  Sergy nods. “I didn’t get it when she first started, but I got a couple of steps, the way you were all shouting about it, I thought I should. Vassili, I’ll text it to you.”

  My husband nudges me softly as I thank him. Vassili knows damn well that every time I cross paths with Sergio I’m still a little embarrassed about how I came in and cussed him out. I’ve never cussed anyone out so badly besides my husband, but that’s a part of marriage.