Don’t You Dare: A Bad Boy MMA Fighter Romance

by Claire St. Rose

  Alice grabbed her brushes and placed her headphones in her ears. She selected a playlist of several pieces of classical music, as she attempted her best to focus her energy. The sounds of the violins and the swelling drums were soothing, but she found herself further lost. Her brushstrokes felt off—almost too gentle for the vision she had in mind.

  She stopped, switching her music to the playlist Micah had put on her phone a while back. It was a list of tracks he listened to before he went into a match. It was a mixture of the thumping bass in hip hop and the steady drums of rock. She found herself swaying to the pulsing music, her head nodding with the beat. Her hands steadied as she attacked the painting. It was unlike any painting exercise she had ever done. Instead of diligently filling in the colors, she splattered and spewed paint carelessly. The red, black, and golds mixed and mingled further as lines became even more blurred.

  Hours passed, yet Alice remained content at her easel and chair. Her music had drowned out the sound of Caroline and Jace waking early in the afternoon to make their breakfast. She had even missed the messages from Micah checking in from his practice at the gym. Instead, Alice had become transfixed on finishing the work she started.

  Alice jumped. The room of her bedroom door swung open. She removed her headphones, as Caroline stood waiting for her response for something she had said.

  Caroline repeated, “What are you doing here?”

  “The last I checked, this was still my apartment. I’m here for my day off.” Alice was in no mood to have to justify her presence in her own bedroom. “That gonna be a problem?”

  Caroline walked further into the room, looking around at the bed and covers. “As long as he isn’t here.”

  Alice fumed. “And what if he was? He’s as welcome as Jace—or whatever random dirtbag you brought home last night.” Alice had never been this bold, especially with Caroline. Her roommate was the sassy, outspoken one with the tongue that couldn’t be controlled. Alice had seen her wordy mouth get her in trouble in the past. But now the scene was flipped as Caroline backed out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

  Alice listened for what Caroline had in store next. But, instead of coming roaring back, she could hear Caroline mutter something to Jace and grab her high heel shoes. The sound of the clips of the heels grew louder as she walked the length of the apartment’s old wooden floors. And then, without warning, the two left the apartment, slamming the main door behind them.

  Now completely alone, she returned to her painting and the blasting music. She added more black and red, pushing the paint hard into the edges of the canvas. As she contemplated her next move, she stepped back to take a look at her hours of work. Drips of watery paint were running down the side of the easel and pooling at the floor. The mess stained her small blue area rug.

  She cursed when she noticed the mess she had made on her own floor. Alice ran into the kitchen, grabbing a handful of paper towels and napkins soaked in water from the sink. On her hands and knees, she carefully soaked up the colorful liquid from the rug’s fabric. The water cleared the black mess quickly, but the red and gold dried paint had refused to budge.

  As she threw her paper towels away, she searched the apartment for something to protect her rug even further. She found a stack of old newspapers in the trash and a handful of junk mail on her dining room table. As she went through the envelopes, looking for anything that could be trashed, she noticed a yellow post-it note standing out from the white of the mailers. The masculine handwriting was messy and illegible, but Alice could make out most of the note:

  David Sumpton

  MMA Backstage

  555-542-2149

  Johnny Spears

  Fighting Chance Press

  jspears498@fcpress.com

  D. Meyers

  555-577-9911

  The pit in Alice’s throat grew larger and larger, as she glanced at the papers the note was stuck to. There were printouts of images of Micah. In one of them, he was surrounded by young groupie girls, another one showed him leaned in close to the girl she had seen on television after his last match. The captions read, “Micah: MMA’s Newest Playboy.”

  Further in the stack, there was a yellow envelope containing more images. Alice dropped the stack as actual photographs of her at the Invitational match fell to the ground. The photos were taken as she attempted to sneak into the locker room pre-match. She could spot herself looking tense as the security guard to let her in. In the corner of the image, the press had begun to circle in as she waited unknowingly. A small card read: “Thanks for the tip. -- D.M.” It was dated for yesterday.

  She quickly and carelessly placed the pictures back in the envelope along with the card signed by the MMA journalist. Unsure what to do with the evidence, she placed it in her purse for safekeeping, though she was fully aware that the damage had probably been done. The fallout would soon follow.

  Someone had betrayed her, and she was almost certain she knew who it was. Jace’s face popped up in her mind, as she remembered her last conversation about the man. Caroline herself had said that his plan was to sell her and Micah out to the press. Now, she had the cold, hard proof that the couple had abused their relationship with her. Jace had made a buck spilling secrets. She could only imagine what he had to say about her and Micah.

  Furious, she returned to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. The bedroom windows rattled from the force. She stood in the center of the room, shaking violently in rage with her hands clasped tightly in fists. She spotted her black cell phone discarded on her bed. She walked over, grabbing the phone and turning the screen off of its sleep mode. Her first thought was to let Micah know what had been done. But she knew that it would only push him further away from her.

  But what about me? she thought. Shouldn’t I be the angry one? After all, this is his job to be a celebrity surrounded by hot, slutty women. This isn’t my life! I never asked to be put into this position where I am trying to juggle keeping him happy and keeping our relationship alive.

  She threw her phone back on the bed. She wasn’t going to be the one who told Micah about the photographers or the fact that her roommate’s scummy boyfriend exposed them. He could figure that out on his own and she would deal with the fallout later. For right now, she wanted to concentrate on herself.

  She pulled her laptop out from under her bed and logged in. The desire to do something drastic came over her fast and strong. She began a web search for apartments in her area. Knowing her price range, there wasn’t much she could choose from. But if she was ever going to be independent and her own woman, she had to do this. She had to get out of the shadows of her roommate and her famous boyfriend. Building a new life away from them was her best and only option.

  She went through listing after listing. Her head spun from all of the information, the pricing, the details. Yet, the thought of it alone lifted her spirits. She made lists of things she would need to buy and the amount of money she would need to save to make her own space possible. But she knew that if it came to buying her own couch and television versus not moving at all or delaying a move, she’d rather live without furniture. Her new priority would be on her happiness.

  A buzz came from her bed sheets followed by a loud ring. Micah’s face popped up on Alice’s caller ID lists. She pushed the ignore button and waited for it to go to voicemail. He called again and again. Each ring took Alice out of her apartment searching bliss, but she was dead set on keeping this moment to herself for as long as possible. When the phone rang for the fifth time, she decidedly turned her phone completely off for once and for all.

  Micah was alone tonight to figure out what he wanted. She was not about to give in again to his beck and call. After all, his freedom had mattered so much that he had effectively begun shutting her out after the last match. He had played around with her emotions and had left her feeling like she was 100 percent responsible for his happiness.

  She loved him. She loved him with the deepest parts of her heart.
She loved him wildly, madly, passionately. However she felt like him, it didn’t change the fact that he was still the fighter. His career was on the rise, and she had to play a background part in the acts of his life.

  She would love him. She knew she could not let go and leave it all behind so quickly. Instead, she would love him while still being her own person. Like the paint on the pages, she needed time and focus. She needed her own colors, her own paint strokes. So if she was going to be a supporting role in the life of her famous fighter, she was going to do it her way, on her terms. No one, not even Micah himself, was going to stop her from finding out how to do so.

  Chapter 19: The Alley

  “Hi! You’ve reached Alice. I’m unable to come to the phone right now, but if you leave me your name and a brief message, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

  Micah slammed the cell phone down on the side of the wooden bench he sat upon. It was his fifth call to Alice that day and she still had yet to call him back or answer his calls. He looked through his texts once more—nothing. It had been radio silence for the last two days since she had returned to her apartment.

  It wasn’t like her to be unavailable, much less unavailable to him when she said she would be. Her perky voicemail message just made the scenarios about what was going on or where she could be even more personal. But he knew that he didn’t have the time to figure it out on his own, at least not now. The second session of his practice was waiting to begin, and he had to find some semblance of focus before he went into the public.

  He slipped off his sweat pants, revealing his training boxers. Slipping in his mouth guard and placing on the fingerless gloves, he headed back out to the ring. His sparring partner for the day was there, stretching and limbering up for the fight. Coach Dean was leaned in over the boxing ring ropes, chatting away with a man in a dark suit and tie.

  As soon as they spotted him, the journalists took notice. Their photographers’ cameras were on standby and their laptops were open, waiting to take notes. He slipped in the ring and began reviewing the drills he was about to practice. The two men would run through takedown maneuvers, flip overs, and then end with a pseudo-MMA sparring match based on tomorrow’s opponent’s weaknesses and strengths.

  Micah moved to the side to stretch and prepare. But as he was about to get ready to go back in, a reporter approached him. “Micah!” he said jovially. “What does it feel like knowing that you will face eighth seed, Rory Callahan? Think you have a shot?”

  Micah started at him blankly then turned towards Dean, who was still preoccupied with the man in the suit. Instead of giving an answer to the journalist, he let out a groan and a grunt. The man took the hint, sinking back to his seat.

  But as soon as the first journalist fled, another, a blogger for the MMA organization’s website, approached him with a big grin. “Micah! Can you talk about your practice today? What do you plan on doing to train?”

  As Micah tried to ignore him, a photographer ran up, snapping a picture with his oversized camera, sending flashes of light into Micah’s eyes directly. The fighter’s tension began to speed up, mixing with the anxiety he was already feeling about Alice. The blogger repeated his question, louder and more persistent.

  Micah had had enough. “You know what I’m trying to do?” Micah lowered the tone of his voice, but sped up his words. The rest of the journalists leaned into hear what he had to say, their computers ready to take his quote. “I am trying to get fucking ready for this fucking match. But since I cannot work out without playing a game of twenty questions, I guess I’ll just answer your dumbass questions!” Micah was now screaming, spitting with rage, as the blogger slowly backed away.

  Another photographer snapped a photo from his seat. The sound of the click and the pointed light triggered everything in Micah. Like an animal, he shouted viciously and incomprehensible. His sparring coach and partner ran to his side, holding him back and talking him down.

  It was only then that Dean appeared ready to scold Micah. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? I thought you understood that we have to play nice to the press, give them what they want.”

  Micah’s breathing was still off the charts. He paced the small space his coaches allowed him to have, as he was shielded from the eyes of the press pool waiting on the bench. “You’re gonna ruin everything, you stupid twat,” Dean continued. “You either play this game, or you don’t.”

  Dean stared at him waiting or a sign of comprehension. Micah stiffly nodded, realizing that Dean was ultimately right. The journalists, while annoying, were doing their job. This was an open to the public practice and an invitation to the media to see him work. He couldn’t just drive them away because he was having a bad couple of days with his girlfriend.

  The mood eased up as seconds passed. The coaches set him free, allowing him to once again return to a spot to stretch and shake out his frustrations. This time the journalists or photographers didn’t leap to bother him. They had enough to write, apparently, as they typed away furiously on their keypads. Micah watched as Dean stepped out the ring and joined the group—assuring them that Micah was not as crazy as they were likely planning to portray him.

  The fighter turned his attention back towards his actual job. His first move to practice was the double leg takedown, a very basic and simple move for Micah whose first love was the wrestling component of MMA. His sparring partner would go in to reach for his shoulders, just as he had practiced thousands of times before, but instead of being able to find an empty space for him to move in and pull the man to the ground, Micah was stuck feeling as if he was trying to pull down a large wall.

  He attempted it again and again. Each time, it became even harder to find any ounce of strength to get the man to even move an inch. Micah could hear Dean and his sparring coach in the background yelling at him, giving him directions. It was insulting and infuriating, yet Micah couldn’t seem to get past it.

  He moved on to single leg takedowns and hip throws in hopes it would be easier, or at least hoping he would be able to reclaim what he had lost in the time spent working on the first takedown. But his sparring partner continued to remain the unmovable mountain unable to fall no matter how Micah approached him. Each attempt became more painful, as Micah’s body crushed under the weight of both the pressure and the depth of the challenge.

  Micah circled the ring in frustration, slapping his fists against his chest. A million sounds and images ran through his head. The clicking of the keys on the laptops, Dean chatting wildly with the men in suits, the photographers’ digital cameras chirping away all beat like an off-beat drum. All Micah could do was attempt to drown it out, to find focus again. He called his sparring partner forward again, ready to try to get his groove back.

  As he snatched the leg of the man, a sound of a cell phone going off, the same ring tone as his, filtered over the gym’s sounds. Micah stopped in place, releasing his grip, and looking around for the source. His first thought, Alice.

  “Hey, Dan! … No, nothin’. Nothin’ at all. Just at the gym.” Another fighter passed by his ring, silver cell phone plastered to his ear. Micah watched the man walk away towards the door and outside the gym. The reporters studied Micah as he was in his transfixed state, unsure of what to make of the man who could be distracted by something as simple as a cell phone beeping.

  Micah jumped out of the ring, unable to take another minute of it. Dean followed, throwing out explanations to the journalists as he walked. “He’ll be back. Just taking a short break. Give us five minutes, guys!”

  Micah sped up, heading towards the locker area. He opened the metal compartment, grabbing his bag and the pile of clothing. Dean whispered to him in a panic, “What the fuck do you think you are doing?”

  “I’m leaving,” he said flatly, pulling a brown V-neck t-shirt over his head. “This isn’t working for me today.”

  “Excuse me?” Dean demanded. “What the fuck do you mean, ‘this isn’t working for me?’ You’ve got ano
ther two hours here, you smarmy son of a bitch.” Dean practically jumped in the air, wildly throwing his hands around, as he gestured to the crowd gathered around Micah’s former ring.

  Micah looked Dean directly in the eyes with a ferocity that even scared the coach. His voice sounded like a thump with each syllable. “I. Don’t. Care.”

  As Micah grabbed his things to leave, Dean stood firm, calling out, “What do you expect me to tell them, huh? You looked like shit out there, and now you’re leaving. What do you think they’re gonna be writing about tonight?”

  Micah stopped just in front of the door. “I don’t know, Dean,” he admitted, his back still turned to his trainer. “Tell ‘em I’m injured, or I’m sick, or that I’m a pussy. I really don’t fucking care.”