KAGE (KAGE Trilogy #1)

by Maris Black

  I recalled Kage’s words about smelling the fear, and I thought I knew exactly what he meant. On TV, the action was sterile, just another sporting event with rules to follow and some exciting action to watch. But when you were here watching from mere feet away, it became real. It was a transplanted street brawl, with real people and real injuries. It was one guy trying to beat the shit out of another guy, and someone was going to lose. Someone was going to have to limp home with a broken ego, possibly even some broken bones or scars.

  It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once, and as I watched through eyes stretched wide, my teeth dug painfully into my bottom lip, I thought maybe I was already addicted.

  I decided to try to get some action shots of the fights, but it became clear soon enough that my photos were not going to be anywhere near Sports Illustrated quality. Cell phones were great for taking selfies and posting them on social media sites, but if I was even going to try to pretend to be a sports reporter, I’d have to have a good digital camera. That would be a perfect gift to ask my parents to get me for my twenty-first birthday coming up in a few weeks. Until then, I’d just have to make do with blurry fight shots.

  I was particularly interested in chronicling the fight between two Brazilians— Kage’s future opponent, Davi Matos, and some guy whose name I didn’t bother committing to memory. Honestly, I didn’t care about Matos beyond getting his name right for my assignment. Somehow I’d gotten locked in on the first guy I’d come in contact with in the world of mixed martial arts, and now everything was about Michael Kage. Already my brain was trying to figure out how to spin this whole project to focus on him, and he wasn’t even fighting.

  After Matos finished wiping the floor with the other Brazilian, I got an uneasy feeling. The guy was impressive. It made me nervous for Kage, who had the demeanor of a fighter, but whose face looked entirely too pretty. If this match was any indication of things to come, Kage would probably be the one limping home when it came to fighting Matos. Maybe this fight would scare him enough to back down.

  I scanned the crowd for him, but there were too many faces to sift through. I couldn’t find him— couldn’t see if he was scared.

  After watching two more fights, I’d come to the realization that I knew virtually nothing about mixed martial arts fighting. Sometimes Braden ordered a keg on pay-per-view nights, and we watched the fight and got smashed. I’d always been an armchair spectator, more concerned with keeping a full beer in one hand and my girlfriend’s ass in the other than what was going on inside the octagon.

  I could recognize a few submission moves, knew the basic kicks and punches like anyone would, but the rest of it had flown right over my head. Fighting just wasn’t my thing. I was more of a ball man, myself. Give me a basketball, football, baseball, soccer ball— hell, even a tennis ball— and I knew what I was doing. But fighting was foreign territory for me. I felt bad for the thoughts I’d had earlier about Layla, about how she knew nothing about the sports she cheered for, because tonight I was no better.

  As the last fight was ending in a knockout, I began to make my way out of my seating area and into a stream of people madly dashing for the door. I knew the parking garage would be mayhem within minutes, and I wondered where Braden and Miranda were. Then I realized I didn’t have to wonder, because I had one of those newfangled communications devices in my pocket. I pulled my cell phone out and texted Braden.

  “Where are you?”

  Nothing. He probably couldn’t hear the alert on his phone in the noisy arena.

  I noticed reporters from the press seating area were all moving in the same direction down a hallway off the main lobby, so I followed. They led me to a large conference room with a hand-written sign on the door that read Press.

  Yep, this is my stop.

  I hovered for a few minutes outside the press room so that I could at least listen to the questions other reporters— real reporters— were asking the fighters, but I was afraid to go in. I was also afraid Braden was going to leave without me.

  “Don’t ditch me,” I texted, belatedly wishing I’d driven myself.

  I opened the browser on my phone and googled Michael Kage on a whim. There were a couple of social media profiles, a headshot of some unknown actor, and several unrelated results that made me scratch my head that they’d even shown up in the first place. Apparently, Michael Kage was not a household name in the world of mixed martial arts, and learning that left me inexplicably disappointed. Guess I thought I’d met a celebrity.

  I leaned against a wall and studied a couple of fighters who were in my line of sight, looking the worse for wear after having recently beaten someone senseless, or having been beaten senseless themselves. Davi Matos came near, and I just stared.

  Like Kage, he had an undeniable presence. He passed so close to me, I felt the air stir, but his eyes never lighted on me. Thank goodness. That guy made me nervous. Up close, his face looked like it had been through a meat grinder. Apparently his opponent had gotten off a few damaging shots before he got submitted.

  The two lady reporters who had snubbed me at the beginning of the night stood in the group inside the room. One of them kept yelling questions out of turn, like she thought she was in the movies or something. I rolled my eyes.

  I turned my attention back to my cell phone, getting ready to call Braden.

  “Learning anything?” said a voice from behind me, and I spun around to come face to face with Michael Kage.

  I startled, looking guiltily up at him and shoving my cell phone behind my back before he could see that I’d been researching him. “What are you doing?” I said, for lack of anything better. My heart had sped up again. Something about this guy really had my ticker going wild, like his very presence caused an adrenaline dump in my system.

  “Getting ready to go eat. I’m starving. Any nice places around here without a long wait?”

  “Lou’s is only a few blocks away. They’ve got a killer cheeseburger, and they’re quick.”

  “Cheeseburger.” Kage laughed, showing those rampant dimples. “You’re funny, college boy. I meant something a real man would eat.”

  He took a step closer. One step closer than propriety dictated.

  “What’s the matter, you don’t like cheeseburgers? That’s downright unpatriotic.”

  Instinctively, I took one step back, reclaiming my personal space. But Kage stepped forward again and gave me what could only be described as a look of challenge. This time, I stood my ground.

  “You don’t get a body like this by eating fast food.” He said, patting his belly. There was so little give, he might as well have been hitting a suit of armor. “How’s your project coming? You got everything you need?”

  I shrugged. “I wish I could have gotten better photos. The action shots are blurry. I need a new camera if I’m gonna be doing this kind of stuff.”

  “Wanna take one of me?” He grinned and crossed his arms over his chest, plumping up his biceps. I fumbled for my phone, quickly switched to camera mode, and took a picture. Then he struck another pose, this time with his usual face that looked like he was ready to whip some ass. It was shocking to see him change like that, as if he’d slipped into another personality and back again.

  “I appreciate you helping me out,” I told him. “If you want to know the truth, I’m a little starstruck right now. I’ve never met a real fighter before.” I bit my lip nervously. “Would you mind taking a selfie with me? It would make my roommates so jealous.”

  “Yeah?” He raised a brow. “Well, I’m all for making people jealous.”

  We leaned in close to each other, and I held the phone out as far as I could to capture the image. The two well-dressed thugs who had been flanking Kage all night chose that moment to step out of the shadows. “We need to go, Kage,” one of them said. “Plane’s leaving in less than two hours, and we still have to stop for food.”

  “Fuck.” Kage rubbed a hand irritatedly over his eyes. “Alright, let’s go. Catch you
on the flip side, college boy.” He turned to go, his friends leading the way. But just at the last second, he glanced back over his shoulder at me with a cocky smile and graced me with another of his little winks.

  Jesus, that guy was something else.

  “It’s Jamie,” I called after him, watching his back disappear into the crowd. “Hey, where can I see you fight?”

  I don’t know if he heard me or not. The three of them disappeared into the crowd as if they’d never existed, leaving me wondering what the hell I was going to write for my project, since I’d spent all night trying to bond with a fighter even Google had never heard of.

  3

  SOMEHOW, I pulled an A out of my project. Between the bits Kage had told me, the stuff I could learn from the internet, and getting to watch the fights in person, I was able to craft an interesting and informative report about how fighters prepare for upcoming matches.

  My roommate Trey, an art major who wanted nothing more than to get into a good film school, recorded a video of me doing a mock newscast. I flipped through the photos and video footage I’d shot of Kage that night, but I didn’t use any of them. They seemed too personal. Instead, we used a few of my grainy action photos along with some actual tournament footage found online. I created a makeshift news desk out of the kitchen table, and Trey hung his green screen behind me, then superimposed a newsroom background on it during editing. The end result was enough to put every one of my classmates to shame.

  “You looked very professional in your video, Mr. Atwood” Dr. Washburn told me after class. “I wouldn’t have thought you owned a traditional suit.”

  “Only because I was a pallbearer in my aunt’s funeral last year.” I admitted. “Not much opportunity for formal attire when you’re a college student.”

  “No, I suppose not. Especially when you’re an underachieving college student.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Not the underachiever speech again. I would have thought you’d be tired of that by now.”

  “I never get tired of encouraging students. Not if I truly believe in them.” He rested a hip on his desk and crossed his arms. “Jamie, I see you languishing away, settling for mediocre, and it makes me want to give you a swift kick in the pants. Because when you put your mind to it and really call up that passion that’s inside you, you’re capable of so much more. I want to see you get fired up about something. This project was the first thing I felt like you’ve really put your heart into, and it was a refreshing change.”

  “Doc, no offense, but I’ve been hearing that same speech since I was in the first grade.”

  “Well, maybe it’s time to listen to it.”

  I turned his statement over in my head. On the surface, it sounded like a platitude, but he did make a good point. If I kept hearing the same thing coming out of different people’s mouths, maybe there was some truth to it.

  “Look, Jamie,” he continued. “I’d be glad to stand behind you in any kind of recommendation, review, reference, referral… whatever you need—”

  “Does it have to begin with an R?” I interrupted with a grin.

  Dr. Washburn rolled his eyes in annoyance but didn’t miss a beat. “However… in return I want to see you putting out some real effort. Take an active part in shaping your life. Partying and video games may be good enough for your friends, but you deserve more than that, and all you have to do is reach out and take it.”

  I nodded, at a loss for what to say. The man seemed so earnest, I was actually beginning to believe what he was saying. But my mind was also full of doubts.

  “You know, I was lost at that MMA event,” I admitted, stuffing my hands into my jeans pockets and giving a sheepish grin. “I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. Half the stuff in my report just came from research after the fact. At the event, I looked like some idiot who had found a press pass on the floor, stuttering and scared to speak to anyone. It got me thinking that I’m in the wrong major. What if I’m just no good at it?”

  Dr. Washburn laughed. “Welcome to the world of real journalism, Jamie. The stuff you see on TV may be tied up with a pretty red bow, but you have no idea what hell someone may have gone through to get it that way. That’s where the talent comes in. You work with what you have, do your best, and learn as you go.”

  “You really think so? I was feeling like such a fraud, like a cheater or something.”

  Dr. Washburn leaned forward and put a hand on my shoulder, peering up at me through his glasses. “You did fine. You taught everyone in this class some things today, and you entertained us in the process. That’s what journalism is all about. Educating and entertaining your audience, using whatever you can get your hands on, however you can get it. Within reason, of course.”

  A light suddenly came on inside my head. It wasn’t about being perfect; it was about getting the job done. With his simple words, it felt like Dr. Washburn had just opened up my entire future for me, and I couldn’t help smiling all the way home after our talk.

  I FLOATED through the end of school with a kind of euphoric confidence, earning straight A’s on all of my final exams. Several times, I thanked Dr. Washburn for what he’d told me. I don’t know if he’d understood how profound his words were when he said them, but they had really made an impact on my attitude. I was starting to realize that my outcomes were dependent on and directly related to the amount of effort I put in.

  “What’s got you so fired up about school?” Layla asked me over lunch the day before our last exams. “You seem different. I’ve never seen you so concerned about your grades before. You’re not going all nerdy on me, are you?”

  She was teasing, I knew, but it rubbed me the wrong way. Suddenly I was that little guy in elementary school again— the one with glasses and a book in his hand. The one who joined the football team to seem more like the other boys.

  “Everything is not about sports and partying, you know. Some of us have aspirations.” I picked at my spaghetti with my fork, dragging the overcooked noodles around on the plate.

  “I have aspirations, Jamie. I’m not just some air-headed cheerleader. I’m going to be a school teacher. That’s an important job.”

  There was hurt in her eyes, and I immediately felt guilty. I reached over and slid an arm around her narrow shoulders, pulling her into a one-armed embrace. “I’m sorry, Layla. I didn’t mean that you don’t have aspirations. It’s just… I guess I just don’t like being called a nerd. I heard it enough when I was a kid. Do you really think I’m a nerd? I play basketball.”

  “Of course not. I was only joking.” She rested her head on my shoulder. “You’re like what Dr. Bayne would call a renna… renna...”

  “Renaissance Man?” I supplied the term begrudgingly, because knowing it just further solidified my nerd status.

  “Yeah, that’s it. That’s what you are.”

  But the whole conversation over lunch left me feeling unsettled. Not because I thought I was a nerd, though I guess if I was honest with myself, I had to admit it was something I’d always been worried about. What really bothered me about the exchange with Layla was that it had felt so strained, and it wasn’t the first time. More and more over the past few weeks, I was getting the impression that the two of us were drifting apart, with only a gossamer cord of desire still keeping us tethered to each other.

  “Do you love me, Jamie?” She asked suddenly, lifting her head from my shoulder and searching my eyes with her own. I knew what she was searching for. I was also sure it wasn’t there. The knowledge made my stomach roll.

  “You’re my girlfriend,” I said lamely. “We’re together, aren’t we?”

  She just kept looking at me like she was waiting for something better to come out of my mouth. Something with emotion. It wasn’t going to come, though, and we both knew it. And if by some miracle I’d been able to get the right words to cross my lips, she wouldn’t have wanted them anyway. Not if they were coerced and only half true.

  Instead of giving her what she thought she
wanted to hear, I squeezed my lips together and looked away. I took the coward’s way out. But then she surprised me— no, a better word would be shocked. She shocked the shit out of me with what she said next.

  “I’ve been talking to someone else,” she said quietly. “For a while.”

  My head snapped back around, and I was suddenly able to look at her. “What?” I could feel how wide my eyes were, and how indignant my expression was, even though I had no right to be indignant. “Another guy? You’ve been cheating on me?”

  My brain struggled to process the words. My pride told me I must have misheard.

  Layla pulled away, surprisingly calm as she folded her hands into her lap and regarded me with a sober expression. “I haven’t cheated on you, Jamie. I wouldn’t do that. But… I’ve thought about it. Well, not about actually cheating on you, but about going out with this other person. You and I are just—”

  After a few drawn out seconds, I whispered, “Over?” I looked into her eyes. “Are we going to be able to stay friends?”

  “I think so.” She smiled wistfully. “You don’t seem too upset.”

  My heart was beating fast. I felt like I should say something profound, something to make it all okay, but it wasn’t okay. We were breaking up, and it was awful because I didn’t seem to want to fight to change that.

  Dammit, why can’t I just be a good boyfriend? I need to do something.

  “Maybe we could—” I began slowly, but Layla cut me off with a resolute shake of her head.

  “It’s okay, Jamie. I understand you don’t want the same things as me, you know? That’s why I just needed to move on. I may seem tough, but deep down I’m just a girl. I can’t help it. I want the fairy tale.”

  “And this other guy… He gives you the fairy tale?”