Until the Bell Rings: An MMA Fighter Romance

by Roxy Wilson

  “Here they come!” Malcolm pointed.

  Two men were climbing into the ring, introduced by the announcers. Mitch Michaels was a mobile brick house, in short black shorts that I thought were a little too close to daisy dukes—hopefully he had a cup on under there or I foresaw some wardrobe malfunction in the future. He was grim and grizzled, with that Neanderthal brow that made his eyes look sunken in. He was tall; maybe just a little taller than Riley Dern, though Dern was just as built, and covered with spiraling tattoos from his wrists up to his neck.

  I opened my mouth, and stared. Riley Dern was looking right at me, a familiar smirk on his lips. He winked.

  He wasn’t just passingly familiar. He was the man at the entrance to Digg’s who’d asked for my number.

  Suddenly, it was real hot in there.

  Chapter Two

  Riley

  I could see her when I climbed into the ring. She was easy to spot; she practically glowed in that purple dress that hugged every sumptuous curve. I saw her staring at me when I stood up inside the ropes—oh, she seemed to be saying, that’s who I was being hit on by. Yes, I thought, the star contender in tonight’s fight.

  Not that Mitch was anything to laugh at. He’d worked his way to this bout just like I had, and he was fierce. My coach, Tully, hissed at me from outside the ring in my corner. “Hey,” he snapped, “who’re you lookin’ at? Pay attention. Head in the ring, Dern.”

  I waved him off. Yeah, yeah. I had one eye on Mitch.

  We’d met before, a few times, outside the ring, and we’d fought once before, last year. It had been early in the season then, and it had been a short match. If he’d gotten this far, then he’d improved. I cracked my neck, and bounced on the balls of my feet. I threw the girl with the pile of thick black curls and smooth, oiled-ebony skin a wink. She must have seen it. She rolled her eyes, and I laughed.

  Mitch snorted, glowering at me from his corner. Whoops.

  Oh well. Let him be angry. It’ll make him stupid.

  I never got angry during a fight. I got focused. I got calm. But I always smiled around my mouth guard. Here in the ring; this was where I belonged, where I was meant to be. Here, I was more alive than anywhere else in the world.

  Watch me dance, baby.

  The announcer went on and on about past matches and weight classes and other stuff that only the audience cared about. I loosened up, and went to find that still place inside. It was there, deep down; but it wasn’t quite as still as it normally was. There was a tiny ripple on the surface.

  Alright, I admit it. I’m a little prideful. Well, a lot prideful. It comes with the territory. I’d never had a woman turn me down before. I glanced at the woman in the crowd, and wondered if it was because I was white.

  But that was basically a joke; I’m everyone’s type, baby. Including Mitch’s; I knew his boyfriend, too, and he was basically a carbon copy of me except not quite as pretty.

  Mitch and I moved to the center of the ring on our respective cues, and bumped gloves. “Good fight,” I told him.

  “Aaron says hi,” Mitch said. “He asked me not to break anything on you.”

  “That’s sweet of him,” I said. “You got pretty far this year.”

  “I been trainin’.”

  I smirked. “Well, better luck next year.”

  Mitch scowled, and the bell rang.

  He had been training. He was faster—a lot faster, even though he’d put on bulk. But he still had the same fire-cracker aggression than burnt him out last time.

  I danced back when he charged, and caught a swift roundhouse on my iron shin. It cracked like someone snapping their fingers, probably loud enough for everyone to hear. Another, and another, always with his strong right leg.

  Then it was jabs, crosses; predictable patterns I knew from training. Guess Mitch was still wearing his pull-ups.

  I don’t always show off during matches. I did this time, a little. I ducked and wove, and gave one of Mitch’s legs a tug when I feinted close and got him to try a front thrust kick. He stumbled forward, caught himself, spun to face me where I had moved to his six pack. His face was red, and he was already breathing hard. Oh, I was sweating—but then again it was hot under all those lights.

  But I saw the woman in the purple dress watching, rapt. She looked worried. It was cute.

  Mitch got me in the ribs, twice, before I took the last one on my shoulder and slipped in three shots to his midsection; rolling jabs, one-two-three. He staggered back, and I saw my coach staring daggers at me from under his bushy white eyebrows. Focus, he was mouthing.

  Stop dicking around, was the subtext. I heard him loud and clear.

  Mitch and I started trading blows faster. He got a knee into my side once, but I got him in the kidney, chest, and once on the temple. He went for my thigh with a low roundhouse; I caught it with my own, threw him off balance, and tilted my hips into a side thrust right to his hip. He toppled backwards and had to catch himself on the ropes.

  He wasn’t done, but that strong right leg was taking less weight. He should’ve remembered from last time. I spend long hours conditioning my lower legs for just this kind of tactic.

  He’d trained up his other side, though; that was a bit of a surprise. His left leg wasn’t quite as strong as the right, and I could tell he was still having a hard time balancing on his right leg, but if he’d been able to catch me in the right place with it, it definitely would have hurt.

  Which is why I opened my right side to him, just for a second at a time. Once, twice… get ready…on the third time, like we’d choreographed it, he went for it and I trapped his leg and gave his right ankle a solid sweep. Down he went.

  But Mitch was too big for me to wrestle with. We were going to keep this fight standing up, thank you very much. Plus the foot and fist game was flashier anyway; more fun. If I was going to get horizontal with anyone, it was someone of the fairer sex; and that wasn’t Mitch.

  The bell rang before we knew it. Time flies in the ring. I settled into my corner and accepted a bottle of water from Tully, while Mitch did the same on his end from his coach. Aaron was with him, too. That must have been nice. Sucks Aaron got to see him get whooped, but then again they probably had consolation sex when they got home, and it was probably great. My victory lap was usually someone with a name like Candy, or Cookie, or Sugar.

  “He shouldn’t have been able to get those rib shots in,” Tully grumbled at me from behind, a cold pack in his hand, pressed to my shoulder. “You’ve been slow. Anything cracked?”

  I shook my head. “Nah. Just a little sore. Bruised.”

  “Well, keep him outta your guard,” Tully snapped. “Who are you lookin’ at?”

  “Nobody,” I told him.

  “Shut up. West side of the ring; who?”

  “F3J,” I said. “Do me a favor; the kid next to her, see if he wants an autograph afterward.”

  “Since when do you kiss fanboy ass?”

  “Since it looks like he knows the woman in F3J. Do it, Tully.” I took over the ice pack for him, and held it in place until the bell rang again.

  The match was longer than usual. Three whole rounds. Whoever that shriveled old east-Asian dude who was obviously Mitch’s coach was, he must know his stuff.

  But, his student was still a little too thick. Mitch made the same mistakes in round three that he had in rounds one and two, and they cost him. I caught them, same kick as before and when he took his weight off the back leg to avoid another sweep I planted one foot, threw his leg away, and hit him three times in the head, cross-cross-jab; an old training sequence he should have caught onto after the second cross but didn’t. I figured it was poetic given his stiff form, and I hit him hard.

  Mitch went down. Aaron’s hands flew to his mouth, and I held a gloved hand up for him. Don’t worry, he’s fine.

  He was, but he was down for the count.

  I took the five minutes of continuous praise from the announcer and the crowd, but was impatient to ge
t out of the ring. I could see the woman in the purple dress; she was standing, and applauding, but she already had her hand bag under her arm and a moment later she whispered to the teenager next to her, and then to the man next to him, probably his dad, before she started making her way to the exit. I watched her go.

  “Psst!” Tully hissed. “Ain’t you listenin’? Get outta the ring, idiot.”

  I grinned at him, and hopped the ropes. After a fight some people are worn out. I was a little sore here and there. But I was pumped.

  Instantly, I was swarmed by the VIPs. I scribbled autographs and bumped fists, and caught sight of Tully bringing the boy that had been next to the woman in the purple dress toward us.

  I didn’t make him wait. Instead I made the VIPs hold on just a damn second—they thought payin’ the extra two hundred bucks for a ticket was basically the same as renting me, it seemed like—and turned to the boy when he got there.

  He was star struck, but playing it cool. “Hey. ‘Sup.”

  “Just a little scrape,” I said. “You like the fight?”

  “Yeah, man. You was cool.” He sniffed. “Good fight.”

  I grinned at him, and chucked him on the shoulder. “Thanks. What’s your name? Want me to sign that shirt?”

  “Malcolm,” the kid said. He flinched like he was about to tear his shirt off and hand it to me, his hands coming up to the hem of it, but he chilled off just as quick and shrugged. “Yeah, sure. If you want.”

  I signed it over the chest and then quirked an eyebrow. “There was a lady next you, in a purple dress.”

  “My aunt Zahra,” he said. “This was her first fight.”

  “Oh yeah?” I asked. “What brought her out?”

  “My mom gave up her ticket ‘cause Zahra’s kind of a workaholic. She needed to get out.”

  “Well, your mom sounds like a fine woman,” I said. “And your aunt Zahra seems like smart, beautiful woman.”

  “Oh, you like Zahra?” Malcolm asked. “She’s single, you know.”

  I winked at him. “Malcolm, I think you and I are gonna be good friends. You think your aunt Zahra would mind if I took her to lunch?”

  “Good luck,” Malcolm said. “She’s real busy. I don’t think I ever saw her with a guy.”

  “I’m used to a challenge. What do you think?”

  Malcolm appraised me, and then folded his arms over his chest. “You’ve ever been married?”

  “Nope,” I said. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “Cheated on a girl?”

  I smiled. So, it was an interview. “Not that I was exclusive with.” Which was never, to date.

  “Ever led a girl on?”

  “Once, when I was in high school,” I said. “It was an accident.”

  Malcolm considered this. “Well, you’re honest, I’ll give you that.”

  “So, what’s the word, Boss?” I asked.

  He weighed things a moment longer. “Yeah, okay. She’s always at work. She’s at the DHS center on a hundred-thirteenth west.” After a moment he added, “She goes to lunch about one, and her favorite food is Thai. There’s a place on hundred-tenth and main, but they get real busy; make reservations.” He said all this matter-of-factly, like he was schooling me.

  “Alright,” I said.

  “Be good to her,” Malcolm warned me. There was an unspoken ‘or else’ in there. “She’s a good woman. Like, really good. She helped me out. She’s not really my aunt; she used to be my social worker. You gotta be patient with her, though.”

  I suppressed a laugh. Alright. Well, she’d made an impression on this kid, at least. And quite an impression on me by extension. For a second, I actually wondered if maybe it wasn’t the best idea. I had baggage that a woman like Zahra might not want to deal with.

  Nothing ventured, nothing gained, though. I shook Malcolm’s hand, promised to be a perfect gentleman, and let him go before I turned to service the remaining VIPs. I couldn’t get through with them fast enough. I needed a good night’s sleep.

  After all, I had another match tomorrow at lunch.

  Chapter Three

  Zahra

  Riley Dern stuck with me after the match, and was still there when I woke up the next day to get ready for work. He was cute, and had that air of ‘my shit doesn't stink’ that was just a little bit irritating but somehow managed to make me smile when I thought about it anyway. I didn’t mind letting my imagination run a little while. It was a harmless fantasy and it helped me pass the morning.

  Besides; once I got to work I hardly had time to think, much less fantasize and I was once again reminded why I didn’t have time to date anyone, anyway. My life was more than safe from a smooth operator like Riley Dern, whether I liked it or not.

  As if all those folders spent their nights in my office copulating and giving birth like flies, I noted that my stack had grown almost an inch since I left the day before and arrived this morning.

  Truth was, over half of them would never see a case worker. People got the impression that DHS was a catch-all for DEFACS, Social Security, and Medicare. Each file was someone who had called or come in, filled out a form, given some information, and demanded to speak with someone like me. Elsewhere in the world were individuals with a degree exactly like mine who spoke in shiny corporate offices helping CEOs manage their stress and boundaries and made the kind of money I would never see in my entire life.

  But, those people were sell-outs. At least, that’s what I told myself while I was down here in the muck, trying to make difference for people who couldn’t afford to have a spa-day in the office with a high paid counselor.

  Time and again as I worked my way down the pile, however, sorting them into ‘follow-up’ and ‘refer’ and ‘possible insane—refer to psychiatrist’, I caught myself remembering how I’d felt when Riley asked me for my number. Maybe I should have given it to him…

  The hours between eight o’clock and one o’clock passed quickly, and lunch finally arrived. I put my phone line in message mode to keep it from forwarding to my cell. Boundaries—I talk to clients about them all the time and I take my own advice. Lunch was the one hour a day I kept to myself, just for me.

  Except this time, to my surprise, someone thought they’d just barge right in.

  “You have a visitor, Ms. Monroe,” Marci said. She looked either scandalized or like she had a juicy secret.

  “I’m about to go to lunch, Marci,” I told her. “Tell them they can come back at two.” I picked up my bag and slipped my feet back into my flats. I don’t work in shoes. Not since we finally got the state to replace the carpet in here; high pile, brand new. Probably courtesy of the new marijuana tax. God bless the ganja. I got less PTSD cases, too.

  “I don’t think he’s here as a client,” Marci said. She bit her lip. “I think he’s here to take you out.”

  I stared at her blankly. “Tell him to wait a minute, then,” I said, “and I’ll be right out.”

  “Okay!” Marci piped gleefully. She went to tell him that.

  I went out the back door.

  Anybody that would have taken me out to lunch or that I would have gone to lunch with would have called ahead. I don’t meet strange men just because.

  I circled the block, and then headed for my usual spot. I was a good three blocks gone when I heard someone call my name.

  “Zahra! Hey, wait up!” I paused, and put my hand in my bag. There are plenty of people in the world who know my name and that I wish didn’t. Hazards of the job.

  But this wasn’t someone I’d made a judgment or recommendation against; instead, it was none other than Riley Dern jogging down the sidewalk toward me. I let the pepper spray in my bag go, and folded my arms over my chest while he caught up.

  “The girl at the office said you’d be right up.”

  “I was,” I said. “Right up out of there.” I gave him a suspicious look. “Are you stalking me? How do you know where I work? I’m not famous.”

  Riley chuckled, and grinned that shit-e
ating grin of his, proud of himself. “I asked Malcolm. He gave me a short interview on your behalf. He’s quite the young man, and seems to think you hung the moon.”

  Malcolm. Little scamp. “Is that so,” I mused. “I might have a word with Malcolm about giving strange men my schedule. What else did he tell you?”

  “Well, it was in confidence, you know, so…” Riley winked. “I didn’t get a chance to see you after the match last night.”

  “I left specifically to avoid seeing you after the match,” I told him. “I figured some girl with food for a name was probably waiting for you and I didn’t want to disappoint.”

  For some reason, this made Riley laugh out loud, a deep, rich laugh that made me giggle as well. It hadn’t been that funny. It was a dig, not a joke. I knew Riley Dern’s type.

  “There was, actually,” he said when he recovered. “I sent her packin’. She had nothin’ on you.”

  “Well I’d be flattered, I hope,” I said. “I don’t know what she looked like, though.”

  “Trust me, I’ve got good taste.”

  I looked him over. T-shirt, hoodie, jeans, track shoes. Well. Somebody dressed to impress, didn’t they? Not that I was all dressed up, but then I wasn’t expecting to try to get with anybody. “Did you just come from the gym?” I asked politely.

  “Yeah,” Riley said. “I train six days a week. Took the afternoon off, though. Entirely worth it, even if you send me away.”

  “What if I do send you away?”

  Riley shrugged. “Well…you could. I’d come back tomorrow. Better dressed.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “And if I send you away again?”

  “I’d have lunch catered for the whole office,” he said. “I just won a match; I’m flush.”

  Well, he was persistent, I’d give him that. But I still wasn’t sold. And the clock was ticking fast.

  “You don’t like to take no for an answer, do you?”

  “That feels like a trick question,” Riley said, sly and suspicious. “I think of it more like—I’m willing to get shot down a few times if it means I get to have just one lunch with a beautiful woman.”