Consumed: A MMA Sports Romance (9 page)

“I don’t know,” he says.
“I don’t think my mom knew, or if she did, she didn’t want him around. I never
really met the guy.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell him.

“Not much anyone can do
about it,” he says. “That’s just the way it is. I hope you can forgive me for
being so distant when we’ve been trying to get closer.”

“I wish I could be mad at
you,” I tell him, “but I can’t. I haven’t really gone into my past, either.
I’ve been telling myself it doesn’t really matter, that where I come from isn’t
who I am, but I can’t sit here and judge you when I’m doing the same thing.”

“Okay,” he says. “What
have you got?”

“Do you know that rich
couple, they’re always in the news,” I tell him.

“There are a lot of rich
couples in the news on a pretty constant basis,” he says.

“Chuck Butcher and May
Weese,” I say.

“Oh,” he says, nodding.
“They’re the kind of people who are rich because they’re rich, right? What
about them?”

“Well,” I say, fidgeting
with my hands, “I don’t call them Chuck Butcher and May Weese.”

Mason turns his head a
little to one side and peers at me, asking, “Why not?”

“I call them dad and
mom,” I tell him. “Well, they prefer ‘father’ and ‘mother,’ but you know what I
mean.”

“So when you see all
those commercials about the one percent that’s destroying the world and
everything in, on, and around it, they’re talking about your parents?” he asks.

My mouth comes open and I
take in a breath, not sure how to begin to respond to a question like that.

“I’m not…” I stammer.
“That’s not…”

“Whoa,” he says, putting
his palms up toward me, “I was just messing with you. So, you’re a rich girl,
huh?”

“My parents are rich,” I
tell him. “I’m going to college and studying to be a nurse.”

“On your parents’ dime?”
he asks.

“I don’t think that’s
relevant to—” I start.

He puts his hands up
again, saying, “Another joke.” He says, “I’m sorry, this is bringing out the comedian
in me.”

“It’s not that big a
deal,” I tell him. “They’re not in my life that much anymore.”

“It wouldn’t be a problem
if they were,” he says. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m done with the walls
and all that.”

I’m not used to this kind
of forthrightness. I almost don’t know what to say.

“Thank you,” I tell him.
“I’m glad it wasn’t the other thing.”

“Oh hell no,” he says.
“You’re way too high on the sexability scale to break up with like that.”

I half-scoff, half laugh.
“Charming,” I smirk.

“You wanna go out and do
something?” he asks. “Or, if you want, we can stay in. I don’t think we have to
worry about getting interrupted.”

“Let’s stay in,” I tell
him.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll make
us some dinner.”

“Hey, Mason?” I say.

“Yeah?” he answers.

“I’m in, too,” I tell
him. “Should we make this an official thing?”

“That’s kind of what I
was hoping for,” he says.

We’re still different and
some elements of his past and present continue to make me a little nervous
about what may be to come, but I feel better having talked to him. Whatever
that means.

What it means for the two
of us right now is that we’re going to have dinner together and we’re going to
talk and we’re going to stop worrying about all the whys and why nots.

That sounds pretty good
to me.

Chapter
Nine

Spoons

Mason

The first night of the
championship and I don’t know where my newly-official girlfriend is, apart from
the fact that she’s not here.

This isn’t her scene, and
I get that. I really do. Still, I’d kind of hoped the tournament aspect might
catch her interest.

No time to think about
that, though, as it looks like my fight’s about to start.

The two guys in the ring
are superheavyweights. They’re actually the only two in that weight class who
I’ve ever seen show up.

The one with his hair up
in a man bun is local and, at about three hundred pounds, I think he first came
here in hopes he could stay the only super in the group and never have to
actually jump in the ring.

A few months later, the
one with the bald head and the Dick Cheney look of contempt showed up. He’s
from out of town and he’s pretty solid at his game.

Man bun doesn’t stand a
chance.

Soon enough, angry bald
guy wins the fight to the boos of the local crowd and Logan pats me hard on my
bare back, saying, “All right, do you know anything about this guy?”

“I was hoping you did,” I
tell him.

“Well, they wouldn’t have
put him in the match if he wasn’t tough,” Logan says uselessly.

“If you’re not going to
offer any decent advice, would you mind leaving me alone so I can get my head
in the game?” I ask.

He pats me on the back again,
hard enough that the sting pulls me out of my thoughts a moment while I
consider slapping Logan right here in front of everyone.

Mitch, the only guy here
who actually wanted to announce the bouts, walks to the center of the group
while they drag man bun out to wallow in his shame.

“Next up,” Mitch calls
out above the volume of the crowd, “we’ve got two guys in the featherweight
division.”

I don’t know if he says
anything more than that or not. I don’t know if he says my name, but when he
points to me, I raise my hand. When he points to the other guy, he raises his
hand.

We’re touching gloves
now, and I try to catch him off-guard with a quick right, but he dodges it.

He counters with a knee
meant for my gut that I manage to block with my forearms, and I kick his
stationary leg. His foot comes down and he quickly catches any balance he may
have lost.

The guy’s not bad, but
he’s leaving himself open.

I shin kick his right leg
again, aiming for the same spot, but he moves and the blow is deflected up his
leg.

He’s a striker. I like
that.

I can do the Greco-Roman
wrestling thing and jiu-jitsu, but I’m much more comfortable on my feet.

He tries giving me a
straight punch to the sternum, but I turn and counter with a hard left to the
side of his face. If he’s dazed, though, he’s not showing it.

I step back, keeping my
feet moving. I can hit him, but he’s got good stamina and a strong jaw. If he
can get me to wear myself out before I can knock him out, he might just win
this thing.

He comes at me with a
flying knee, but it’s mostly for show and I easily sidestep the strike.

I give him a hard knee to
the gut and he doubles over just enough for me to land a solid right uppercut
to his jaw, snapping his head back.

He’s unsteady now on his
feet and I’ve got this if I just stay smart and don’t let him dictate the pace.

I throw a halfhearted
left hook and he takes the bait, leaning in to strike me from the other side,
but I duck the blow and hit him right in the mouth with a right.

He stumbles, landing on
his knee at one point, but he’s back up and his face is a deep red, his eyes
narrow, focused.

He throws a left and a
quick right in succession, and then comes at me with a calf kick that I move
right into, expecting him to go from the other side.

My leg comes a little off
the ground, but I bring it back down just as quickly, using it as my pivot and
my other leg comes up and around, cracking him against the side of the head and
he’s down.

I’m on top of him,
throwing blows, but the ref stops the fight.

It’s not cockiness that
has me laughing as I get to my feet and the ref lifts my hand in the air. It’s
the pure love of adrenaline that comes from knowing I just kicked the living
crap out of this guy.

Three to go.

I’m almost expecting some
beautiful scene like you’d see in a Hollywood sports movie where everyone comes
in and lifts me onto their shoulders in a celebration of mirth, but if
anything, they just want me to get the hell out of the ring so the next fight
can get started.

I make my way back into
the crowd and wave at Tom as he checks on the other guy.

I’m not going to need his
services tonight. The guy barely touched me.

I take another look at
the crowd, hoping to see Ash off standing in some corner away from everything,
but she’s not here.

That’s okay. She may not
love this part of my life and she may never want to come to another match, but
at least she hasn’t tried to tell me I can’t do it.

That would be a problem.

I grab my new bag and
slip out the front to get some of the cool night air and D gives me a knuckle bump
when he sees I don’t have a scratch.

“Didn’t even touch ya,
huh?” he asks.

“I don’t even remember,”
I smirk.

“So either you did really
well or he knocked you stupid,” D laughs.

“I’ll let you know when I
find out,” I tell him.

Tonight, we’re holding
the matches in what I think used to be a TV repair shop. Whatever it used to
be, it’s empty now. Well, except for the large crowd of men and women shouting
for each other’s blood.

I was a little nervous
about the location, being as it’s right in the middle of town, but there’s no
one on this block. Everything’s commercial and everything’s been closed for
hours.

My phone rings in my
duffel bag, which I set down and unzip.

It’s Ash.

“Hey beautiful,” I
answer. “I didn’t see you at the fight.”

“Is it over?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I answer. “You
wouldn’t believe it, I totally—”

“Are you going to need a
ride to the hospital?” she asks. “Or is this going to be something I can swing
on my own?”

“I’m almost completely
untouched,” I tell her. “I might get a couple of bruises over the next couple
of days, but even those should be pretty minimal.”

“You did well, then?” she
asks.

“Yep,” I tell her. “I got
in there, and—”

“You wanna come over?”
she asks. “I can take a look at you, make sure you don’t have any internal
bleeding or anything like that.”

“You can do that without
equipment?” I ask.

“I can see the signs,”
she says. “I never said I’d be able to do anything about it.”

“Well,” I laugh, “that’s
a good start anyway. I’ll be over in about half an hour.”

“You can shower here,” she
says. “Starbright and her progeny are out collecting mushrooms in some
campground outside town and we’ve got the place to ourselves.”

“All right,” I tell her.
“I didn’t drive here, so it’ll be a few, but I’ll be over soon.”

“Okay,” she says, her
voice finally starting to brighten. “I’ll see you when you get here.”

I hang up and put the
phone back in my bag.

Walking back toward the
entrance, I ask Big D how I look.

“Walking around in
nothing but fight trunks,” he says. “I’d say you look like a damn fool.”

“I wouldn’t frighten the
townspeople or anything as long as I put on some normal clothes, though,
right?” I ask.

“I suppose,” he says and
looks back to the front.

“Something on your mind,
D?” I ask.

“Ah,” he groans. “Just
female problems,” he says. “You ever been with a girl that thinks you got eyes
for everyone else? I’m tellin’ you, girl would think I got a thing for my moms
if she wasn’t dead.”

“That sounds miserable,”
I tell him. “I’d dump her.”

“Yeah…” he says, his
pitch rising as he cringes at the thought.

“I’m telling you, D,” I
say, “keep going for the ones you think might kill you in your sleep and you
just might wake up one morning to find yourself dead.”

He reaches into the inner
pocket of his sports jacket and pulls out his cellphone. He barely looks at the
device as he unlocks it, and he turns the phone so I can see.

The background is a
picture of a gorgeous woman with smooth chocolate skin, pouty lips and other…
sizeable assets.

“I get it,” I tell him. “A
woman like that tells you she’s a serial killer and you get tempted to help her
get rid of the bodies, but if you’re having these kinds of problems in your
relationship now, you can only expect them to get worse.”

“Yeah,” he scoffs. “I
guess. Why does she have to be so fine, though?”

I laugh and give him a
facetious pat on the shoulder. “I know, bud,” I tell him. “I know.”

I’d be lying if I said I
didn’t enjoy feeling like the guy who’s gotten it all figured out, even if I
am, in reality, more in an entry-level position than anything. Still, D seems
to appreciate the advice.

At least, that’s what I
think he’s trying to convey as he stares past me again, his phone already back
in his pocket. It can be hard to tell with D sometimes.

I grab my stuff and go
through the front door of the building and find a corner where I can get
changed into more normal attire without too much interference. After that, the
strap of the bag slung over my shoulder, I leave the building and start walking
toward Ash’s.

It’s about a mile, maybe
a little more, to Ash’s house, and I’m feeling the post-fight exhaustion
setting in. Even the shortest fights will take it out of you, and the walk
probably didn’t help, but I’m here.

I get to the apartment
door and I ring the bell.

The door opens and Ash ushers
me inside the door, stopping me just inside as she closes the door behind me
and picks up a flashlight.

“How many hits to the
head did you take?” she asks.

“None,” I tell her.

“I’m being serious,” she
says, shining the flashlight in my eyes.

“Do you know what you’re
doing?” I ask as I’m now effectively blind in both eyes.

“Of course I know what
I’m doing,” she says. “I just haven’t had a lot of practice yet, that’s all.
Any dizziness, nausea?”

“Ash,” I say, smiling and
lightly grabbing her hands, “he got one good kick to the leg and I blocked or
dodged everything else. I’m fine.”

“Okay,” she says, taking
a deep breath and blowing it out. “What do you want to do tonight?”

“I don’t know,” I tell
her. “It’s been a while since we’ve had your place to ourselves.”

“Yeah,” she says, coming
a little closer and taking a sniff, “I think you should shower before we do
anything else.”

“All right,” I laugh.
“Care to join me?”

She smiles, but shakes
her head. “I’ll get a movie set up,” she says. “You look pretty tired.”

“That sounds perfect,” I
tell her.

I set my bag down and
head to the bathroom while Ash looks over her movie collection.

The shower is nice,
relaxing, but by the time I get out, I can barely keep my eyes open.

I dry myself and get
dressed, “borrowing” a bit of Ash’s deodorant as I didn’t bother to pack any in
my bag before I left for the fight, and I shuffle my way back to the living
room.

Ash is sitting back on
the couch with a large bowl of buttered popcorn and I sit next to her, leaning
all the way back and letting gravity and the couch beneath me do the work of
holding me upright.

“Feel better?” she asks,
but I’m halfway to sleep.

“What was that?” I ask.

“Never mind,” she says.
“Just sit back and I’ll get the movie going.”

That’s about the last
thing I remember before losing the battle against sleep.

*
                   
*
                   
*

When my eyes open again,
they’re greeted with another pair about an inch away from my face.

“I think he’s awake,” the
strange woman in front of me calls out loudly. “Have you been travelling the
realms?” she asks.

Despite her unnerving
proximity, I still have to ask, “Are you talking to me?”

The woman stands up
straight and says, “You need more kale in your diet. It’ll help you stay sharp
in the morning.”