It’s a weird response to what I just did, but weird breaks me out of my own mind for a second. “Huh?”
“It’s a simple question. Have you ever tried box breathing?”
“What’s that?” I ask. A waiter starts to come over but Lucas puts his hand up with such quiet authority as if to tell the guy that this isn’t the time. He walks away. Lucas looks right back at me, never getting worked up at the crazy girl standing across from him.
“You’re having bad anxiety right now. I can see it all over you. I’m not an anxious person, but it happens to me pretty bad right before a fight. Matt introduced me to this breathing technique called ‘box breathing’ and it always works. It’s when you breathe in for a certain amount of time, hold your breath, then let it out for a set time also. You repeat it a few times until your anxiety goes away.”
“And that works?” I ask.
“It helps,” he tells me. “Look, it’s not going to cure you of feeling anxious completely, but it’ll take the edge off. Like popping a Tylenol for a bad headache. It’s something. Can I show you?” he asks.
I realize when he asks me that, I’m still standing. I was fully ready to rush out of the place like a lunatic, but I sit back down and try to maintain the kind of eye contact that he’s making. His look is really intense, and it freaks me out and intrigues me at the same time. I’m not even sure what I’m feeing anymore, but I know that I really don’t want to leave. “Of course.”
“Do you mind?” he asks holding his arms out over the table. He wants me to take his hand, and the fact that he’s asking me makes me calm down. I don’t answer him in words—I just put my hands into his. The first thing I notice is how big they are—and how I expect them to be rough, even though they’re not. He holds on to me and never looks away, almost like we’re not sitting in a public place, but like we’re alone somewhere together. He’s giving me the kind of intense attention that’s off putting at first, but once I get used to it my heart starts racing in a good way.
“So, what do we do now that we’re holding hands at this diner?” I smile but he doesn’t, just keeps on looking at me.
“Watch me. Do what I do. Inhale for seven, hold for five, exhale for eight. We’re going to do that four times. Like this.”
He does the entire thing with me, four times in a row, exaggerating his inhales and exhales for my benefit. By the second time, I feel my heart slowing, and I feel my whole body calming down because of it. By the fourth time I’m totally relaxed, and I don’t remember why I was so nervous in the first place.
“Wow. That’s a nifty little trick. Who showed you that, again?”
“My trainer, Matt. I call him Master Splinter.”
“Like the Ninja Turtles?” I ask. He smiles when I do.
“Yeah, exactly. He’s just like that wise old rat. Knows all sorts of crazy shit, but all of it works. If he tells me to do something, I just do it, no questions asked.”
“You get it also? Anxiety, I mean.”
“Just before a fight. Right before. When I’m in the back getting my hands taped and am warming up. Otherwise I’m as calm and collected as a person gets. And once the fight starts all of it leaves me, and I’m totally relaxed.”
“Relaxed? The words ‘fight’ and ‘relaxed’ don’t really go together, do they?”
“Maybe not for most people,” he says. “But for me they’re one in the same. Maybe relaxation isn’t the right word—it’s more like a sense of total calm. It’s just like when you’ve been meditating for a while.”
Mediation? This guy surprises me with everything he says. “You meditate?”
“Every night. My mind isn’t right without it. Helps me keep this calm all the time.”
“Okay, we’ll revisit that, because you might be one of the most interesting guys I’ve met in a long time, but back to the fighting thing for a second. How is fighting like meditating? If I knew I had to fight someone, I’d be shaking uncontrollably and trying to run out of the cage.”
He laughs. It’s a deep belly laugh, and it’s such a great sound. I don’t take offense at all even though he is technically laughing at me. “I don’t think it would be a good career move for me to do that, but trust me, I felt like it once or twice when I first started out.”
“But still, how can you be calm when you know that you could seriously get hurt?”
He thinks about my question. Really thinks about it—almost like he’s never quite had to articulate the answer he’s about to give me before. “It’s hard to explain, but to me fighting isn’t about violence or being violent. I know that’s hard to understand if you don’t do it.”
“A little,” I say. “You are using violence.”
“That’s true, I’m not going to deny it. Fighting is violence, but I guess what I’m saying is that the violence is a byproduct to me. I don’t train every day and put my health at risk because I want to hurt people. I don’t want to hurt anyone, and I sure as fuck don’t want to be hurt myself.”
Listening to him is fascinating. Not only is what he’s saying something I’ve never even considered, but I’m also lost in his eyes—sitting this close to him I can see the deep blue of them—so deep it’s almost hard to tell that they’re blue at all. His face is relaxed but those eyes are always intense—always with a fire burning just behind them, and every so often I stop listening to his words and just lose myself.
“So, if that’s true, then why fight? What is it that makes you go to train everyday if it isn’t the danger and violence of it all?”
“To me, a fight is a metaphor—it’s symbolic of the struggles that we all go through every day, only it’s a more condensed version that lasts a few minutes. A fight is about testing yourself—seeing who you really are when faced with the ultimate kind of adversity. It’s the purest form of self-expression that there is, and its problem solving with dire consequences. I love it all—the rush of knowing what it means if you make even one mistake; the struggle to stay motivated; the battle against yourself when your body and mind want to do nothing but quit. I love it all. The violence is just a side effect of all of that.”
It’s hard to impress me, and even harder to challenge my ideas, but Lucas just did both. I have to be honest—I always thought that fighting was a dumb man’s activity — I wouldn’t have called it a sport even though everyone else does—but now I’m seeing that there are layers to it that I never considered before. That’s how I’m starting to see Lucas—as a man with layers. Interesting.
“You just blew my mind, you know that?”
“I’m glad. I like to surprise people in any way that I can. And by the way, I didn’t come from a bad background. My parents have been married twenty-five years, I grew up middle class, and up until a few years ago I had a regular job while I trained. I’m nuts—all fighters are in one way or another—but I’m not some fucked up kid from the wrong side of the tracks, if that’s what you were thinking.”
“Kind of, yeah. I’m sorry for stereotyping you before. And even though you said not to apologize, I’m sorry that I was rude to you. You didn’t deserve that.”
“‘In the sun, in the sun I feel as one.’”
“Huh?”
“Nirvana,” he says. “All Apologies. You saying sorry about eighty times just reminded me of that song. My mind makes weird connections sometimes.”
“Which do you like better, the original or the MTV Unplugged version?”
“Look at you! Maybe I’m not the only one who can surprise people. I’ve made two pop culture references in a short time and you caught them both. I love it.”
“Why thank you.”
This whole thing is unexpected. I love the way it’s going, but I’m also starting to realize something that I didn’t want to admit to myself the first time I saw Lucas—I’m attracted to him. I felt it the first time, but I wouldn’t let myself really feel it. Since the incident, I haven’t allowed myself a lot of feelings, especially towards guys, but sitting here with him,
having a good time and listening to him, I think he’s fucking hot. And not only do I want him to keep talking, I want to touch him again.
Lucas waves the waiter back over and we order our food finally. A short time later, the waiter drops off our food and we start eating, our meal punctuated by amazing conversation. We talk while we eat—mostly me asking more fighting questions, but avoiding anything about his last fight or him getting knocked out. I hit a sore spot last time when I threw that in his face, and it’s not something I want to revisit just yet and take the chance of ruining the nice moment we’re having. Instead, he asks me a question as our meal is winding down.
“Can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer it if you’re not comfortable.”
My heart starts to beat a little faster—not like before, but faster than normal because I think I know what he’s going to ask me. But he’s been really open with me, so I’m going to be open with him. “Ask away.”
“Before our lesson, Matt told me that you were a special case—that you’d been through some stuff. He didn’t tell me anything more than that, but I was curious what that was. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
I don’t want to. I don’t want to tell anyone. Not you, not even my therapist, but there’s something about the way you look at me that makes me want to tell you everything—to give you everything that you ask me for. I can’t deny it any longer. It’s time to start opening myself up again. But not just yet. I lean forward, just like he did before, and give him the kind of intense eye contact and attention that he’s been giving me the whole time. That’s when I decide to be as bold as he is when he steps into that octagon.
“I’ll make you a deal.”
“A deal?” he asks, raising his eyebrows up and smiling. “What kind of deal?”
“I’ll tell you all about it, but not here.”
“Where, then?”
“Tomorrow night, when you take me to dinner. I’ll tell you then.”
“When I take you. . . oh.” He stops. He looks genuinely shocked, like he didn’t expect me to say that to him. I love it. “It’s a deal. Go easy on me, okay?”
“Never,” I joke. “You’re tough. You can take whatever I have to give.”
“Should I wear my cup?” he jokes.
If it were up to me, Lucas, you wouldn’t be wearing anything.
“Nope,” I tell him. “I won’t do anything below the belt that you don’t want me to.”
Chapter Thirteen
Lucas
I’m finally falling asleep. It’s the first time in a long time that I’ve slipped so soundly away from the chaos and stress of my day. As I close my eyes there’s only one thing going through my mind—Mila. It doesn’t make sense. I should be thinking of other things, like the upcoming fight that could change my life forever. Those are the things that normally run through my mind when I’m alone at night.
Tonight though, it’s only her.
No gym stuff, no career concerns, no stress whatsoever. Instead, those things are replaced by a dream—or maybe a memory—of this afternoon. It starts the same—her asking me to take her to dinner tomorrow night, and me almost shitting my pants at what this hot woman was saying. At first, I was shocked, then happy, then a little worried about dating someone right as I’m about to go into the most important training camp of my life.
But I could not say no to her. No fucking way. No chance.
When it really happened, I gladly accepted, told her how surprised I was, and left a few minutes after that with a promise to see her tomorrow night.
But dreams aren’t reality—there are no rules when I dream, and I prefer no rules.
In my dream version of our encounter, we don’t leave separately. I take her by the hand and bring her to my car. She gets in, not a word spoken between us, and we drive back to my place. There’s no communication along the way except for her putting her left hand high up on my leg, close to the rapidly developing hard-on that’s making my pants feel a little tighter than they are.
Next, we’re inside—and, once we are, she loses all inhibitions—she’s not the timid, scared woman who first spoke to me during lunch at the diner, she’s a hell cat—a confident, sexy ass woman who knows what she wants. And what she wants is me. Once the door to my apartment closes, she’s all over me, and I’m all over her. It’s hard to even tell who initiates what—it’s more like two bodies smashing against one another in the most passionate way possible. Individual sensations disappear, and they’re replaced by an intense feeling of wanting to be inside of her at all costs. My cock is rock hard, pushing into my pants, and she claws against my back as we kiss mercilessly.
I grab the back of her hair and pull her back, just to let her know that I’m in control of her body. She doesn’t fight me—she lets me take control and pull her head back just enough so that our lips are an inch apart. I can smell the sweetness of her breath, and she’s trying to lean into me again, but I hold her in place until I’m ready. With my other hand, I reach underneath her dress and tease the outside of her pussy with my middle finger. She’s soaking wet. I can feel her drenched panties just sitting there, getting in my way, so I move my finger around the side until I feel nothing but the warm wetness of her, and that’s when I tickle her clit.
She gasps as I make contact, moving my finger in small, strong circles. Her body collapses, and I let go of her hair because she isn’t fighting me anymore. Now she’s mine, taking all the pleasure I’m giving to her, letting me control her body and mind like I’m supposed to. I reach down even lower, and slide my finger as deep inside of her as it will go. I feel her whole body tighten as I go in, sliding in and out, and using my thumb to encircle her clit as I do.
I wake up, drenched in sweat. It’s a feeling I’m used to after I’ve done two hours of training at the gym, but not one I usually experience at one a.m. in my own bed—at least not alone! But when I look at the clock, reality hits me and I realize two things—first, training camp for my title fight starts today, and I need to get some fucking sleep. And two, tonight I have a date with Mila!
The next eight weeks is going to be interesting.
Chapter Fourteen
Lucas
Training camps suck. No way around it, and anyone who tells you different is a liar.
They’re the grind of all grinds—requiring discipline on a level most people aren’t capable of.
I grab a large coffee and make the drive to the gym. He’s waiting for me when I walk in ten minutes past when we agreed. He looks like the principal of a high school, tapping his watch and giving me the judgmental eye like I need to get the fuck to science class, asap.
“I think my watch must be fast because I have 9:10.”
“Don’t be a dick,” I say, feeling a little grumpy from the lack of sleep and the caffeine not quite doing enough to make up for it.
“Don’t be late. Conduct yourself like the champion you want to be.”
Training camp changes everyone, including Matt. He becomes less like Master Splinter and more like General Patton—a task master who gives no fucks about excuses or personal issues unless they’re extreme enough to warrant interrupting our goals. Sleeping badly doesn’t meet that criteria.
“I’m sorry, you’re right.”
“I know I’m right. And Lucas, camp is twelve weeks this time around,” Matt says.
“Twelve? I said I wanted an eight-week camp!” I yell, my frustration getting the better of me.
“I know you said eight, but twelve is what you’re getting. You took a hard hit and were knocked out cold, Lucas. You may think you’re ready, but you haven’t trained hard for a fight in over a year. I don’t want you to push too hard too fast and blow this shot.”
I know he’s right and I box breathe to get my temper back in check before I say something stupid. I look at Matt and he has a look in his eye daring me to challenge him. I don’t.
“Is George here yet?”
“George has been h
ere for almost an hour. He got here ahead of time to change and warm up. Let’s not waste his time, he’s doing this as a favor to you. He could be making a lot of money doing seminars the next few weeks.”
“Shit. Alright, I’ll go change, give me five.”
“Three. And no more.”
I run and throw my Gi on in the back. George is one of my best training partners—a true stud. He’s not a fighter himself, but he’s one of the best Jiu Jitsu players on planet Earth. The guy submits everyone, including in the open weight division, which is for anyone, no matter how big or small. First time I saw him was on a YouTube clip where he choked out a guy who outweighed him by fifty pounds at least. I bring him in whenever I need to work on my grappling, and what’s even crazier is that he does this for free.
That’s what no one realizes about training camps and fighters—we have to pay for everything. We pay our coaches, our training partners, everyone. But I don’t make enough on my fights to do that, so I developed some great relationships with top guys who fly out and help me for free if I agree to do the same for them for their fights.
As I get changed, I hear my phone ring in my bag. I stop dressing for a second, even though all I need to do is tie my belt, just to see who it is. When I see a number and not a name I actually know that it’s Mila. It’s a text, and all it says is, “Looking forward to tonight. Thanks for lunch yesterday.” That part is cool enough, but the blushing smile emoji at the end is what I really notice.
I decide to not mention any of this to Matt—he has a thing with instructors dating or messing around with anyone who comes to our gym. It’s a big no-no, and even though Mila isn’t really a student per say, it’s still not somewhere I want to go with Matt—especially when he’s in training camp mode and his sense of humor dies a little more each day. I text her back with my own emoji, then hit the mats.
George is looking like a killer—the kid is only twenty-four and has a murderous look on his face at all times. He’s actually a really cool guy, but on the mat, I don’t want a cool guy, I want a trained assassin who’s trying to submit me every chance he gets. That’s the only way I’ll get better, and there’s no way I’m losing this fight to that roid head. Not only do I need to get that loss back, but I’m also fighting for clean fighters everywhere. The icing on the cake—the thing I can’t afford to think about yet, is my career after I win. I want that meeting that Wes had with Sean. I want the call up. I want to be in the UFC.
The Savage Gentleman Page 7
