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?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Layla shrugged and scanned the room, and I couldn’t help feeling like she was looking for a way out, like she’d rather be anywhere but sitting here talking to me about relationships. Because the truth was, ours was over. Maybe the other guy was waiting for her somewhere in the cafeteria, watching all of this go down.
If he was watching, he didn’t get much of a show. We could have at least argued, shared a few tears, but instead it felt like nothing, and the nothingness was ultimately more painful than any drama we might have had. I just sat there awkwardly, feeling the nothingness like a boulder in my gut, not wanting to stay, but not knowing quite how to say goodbye and get up and walk away.
And that was how I became single again. Emasculated in the cafeteria by a tiny blond cheerleader with a Mexican twang.
MIRANDA didn’t seem surprised when I got home and announced to everyone in my living room that Layla and I had broken up. In fact, except for Trey’s half-hearted Really? and Braden’s overly-shocked No!, there was no reaction to my earth-shattering news. Trey and Braden continued playing their video game.
“It’s about time,” Miranda said, earning a suspicious glare from Braden. “I mean, you two were just not compatible. Did you know there was a rumor that she was seeing Matt Foster?”
Fuck. One of my teammates?
“She didn’t tell me it was him. Just said she hadn’t cheated on me, but that they had been talking.” I plopped down on the sofa next to Miranda. “We’re still friends, though.”
I feel numb. I must still be in shock.
Miranda snorted. “Okay.”
“What? We are friends.”
“I said okay.”
She clearly didn’t believe me, and I didn’t bother trying to convince her. Either Layla and I were friends, or we weren’t. She’d be busy soon with her new boyfriend and probably wouldn’t have time for friends, anyway, so what was the point?
“I got all A’s so far,” I said, changing the subject.
“Nerd,” Braden accused, still without taking his eyes off of the game.
“I’m not a nerd,” I protested for the second time within hours.
Braden snickered. “Yeah, right. You make straight A’s without studying, you wear those Clark Kent glasses when you read, and you’ve started dressing like one of those male models in the magazines. What are they called? GQ, or Cosmo. Some shit.”
“Cosmo is a women’s magazine, hon,” Miranda corrected.
“Whatever,” Braden said. “He knows what I mean. Jamie, you need to stick to the basketball shorts and snapbacks. That’s what the chicks dig. I’ll bet that’s why Miranda broke it off with you. Matt Foster doesn’t try to be GQ. He dresses like a jock.”
“I dress like a jock a lot of the time,” I pointed out indignantly. “And my body is way hotter than Matt Foster’s.”
That claim actually got Braden to look up from the game long enough to give me an amused look. “The shirts you wear are too tight. Guys need breathing room. And those skinny little pants you wear when we go out are ridiculous.” He elbowed Trey like he’d just made the joke of the century.
“You’re just jealous, Braden. I look damn good in tight t-shirts and Clark Kent glasses.” Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Miranda nodding in agreement. “Besides, we’ve got to start growing up at some point, man. You think you’re going to wear snapbacks and basketball shorts to your first job? I guess that would be okay if you’re a pro ball player, but that won’t fly in the real world.” I looked to Miranda and then Trey for backup, but they were no help. “Trey, I’m not a nerd, am I?”
Trey laughed. “What’s so bad about that? I’m a nerd, and proud of it.”
“You got that right.” Braden piped up. “College is for partying, man. You’re gonna be forty years old looking back on this time wishing you’d sowed your wild oats like me.”
“Yeah, you think so?” Trey asked him. “I’m okay with that, because when I’m looking back, I’ll be sitting in a nice house counting my money. Meanwhile, you’ll be crying in your beer in some one-room hovel wishing you’d done your homework and taken life seriously.”
Braden waved him away, obviously not buying into Trey’s vision of the future. “My daddy’s got money, man.”
The room was thick with Miranda’s sudden disdain for the turn the conversation had taken. “Sowing your wild oats, huh?” She asked her boyfriend pointedly.
“Figure of speech, babe,” Braden said. Then he let loose with a barrage of virtual gunfire on the video game, jumping to a standing position and pounding frantically on the buttons on his controller. “Motherfucker shot me! Did you see that? We’ve got to get better internet, because this shit is lagging. No way he could have gotten me. Did you guys see that?”
Trey threw up his hands. “Thanks, man. Nice going. You just got me killed.”
Miranda rolled her eyes at me. “I guess this is what they mean by sowing oats? Wearing a hole in the sofa playing video games?”
“Hey, it’s better than going out and banging other chicks,” I pointed out. Miranda didn’t seem too thrilled that I had put that particular thought into words, and I didn’t relish exploring the idea further with her. “Give me that controller,” I told Braden. “Let the master take over. I’ll prove to you there’s no lag.”
“It’s your funeral.” He handed me the controller and headed off to the kitchen. “Anybody want a sandwich?”
Trey raised his hand like he was in class. “I’ll take a PB&J.”
“Let me rephrase that,” Braden said. “Anybody named Miranda want a sandwich?”
Miranda got up and followed him into the kitchen, leaving me and Trey to battle bad guys on the game. I needed some brainless man-fun. Anything to get my mind off the fact that I’d just been dumped.
THAT night, I went to the gym later than usual.
The place smelled of chlorine and sweat. It was a smell I’d come to associate with being healthy, and the second it hit my nostrils, I got a surge of adrenaline. I strode across the crowded space to secure a locker for my cell phone and wallet, taking in the familiar sights and sounds of the gym— muscles pumping, men grunting, the clang of heavy weights hitting the floor. Treadmills whirred, ponytails bounced, and sneakers tapped out a choppy rhythm on the treadmill belts. In the background, sneakers squeaked on the basketball court, and children squealed beneath the gushing fountain in the indoor pool, which should have been closing any minute.
My brain shifted into workout mode, and I turned everything else off.
Whether I was straining to eke out that eighth rep on a weight machine, pushing myself to failure, or zoning out on the treadmill for an hour, it was always cathartic. Focusing on pushing my body gave my mind a much-needed vacation. I didn’t have to think about school, or relationships, or whether I could afford to go out with my friends on Friday night. It was just me and the machines, and we had only one goal in mind: physical exhaustion.
When I was almost finished with my Thursday night arm routine, a guy sat down on the machine directly in front of me. It was one of those awkward situations where both of us were forced to stare directly at each other as we worked. I was doing lat pull-downs, and he was on the ab crunch machine. I’d never seen the guy in school. He was slightly shorter than my six-foot height, with light hair and a broader build. I was of the opinion that people who took part in sports had a slightly different musculature than people who only worked out in a gym environment, and this guy had a gym jockey look about him. Not that it wasn’t a good look on him, because it definitely was.
Normally, I would have tried to engage him in a little chat to dispel the awkwardness of staring right at each other while we worked out. Except for my horrible attempt at impersonating a reporter during the MMA event, I’d never had a hard time talking to people. But after Layla knocked the wind out of my sails, I hadn’t felt much like socializing.
As I watched, the guy slipped his t-shirt off and slung it over the arm of the machine. Then he began to crunch his very tight, very prominent abdominals, keeping his eyes trained on his six-pack as if to visually confirm that the muscles were engaging. When I realized I was studying his muscles just as intently as he was, I looked away and reminded myself to resume my own exercises.
I could tell a difference in my own appearance during the off season. I kept myself in shape, which was easy considering my natural tendency toward a long, lean muscularity. Baseball, basketball, and football had all been important to me in high school. I’d juggled all three sports until my junior year when it got too much for me. Carrying a full load of Advanced Placement classes and trying to play every sport they offered began to feel like a slow suicide, so I reluctantly dropped baseball. By college, football had fallen by the wayside as well, mainly because I had little chance of doing anything at a big university other than riding the bench.
The decision had also been affected by my desire to focus on preparing myself for a successful career, and also by my secret fear that I couldn’t hang with college-level athletes in such a physically demanding sport. My parents seemed relieved when I announced my plans to drop football. I think we all breathed a little easier knowing I wasn’t going to have to compete with guys who would probably stomp me in the dirt. I did still play basketball, though I often considered retiring that jersey, as well.
Quitting ball wouldn’t be so bad. I could always stay in shape by frequenting the gym, just like the guy I was currently watching work his abs. I mean, he was no Michael Kage, but he looked good.
Dammit, now I was thinking of that stupid fighter again. It felt like he’d appeared in my life for the sole purpose of making me feel like shit in comparison. I had looked at his pictures on my cell phone until I was sick to death of seeing him. Especially the ones where I was in the frame with him.
I wondered what his abs looked like under the dress shirt he’d been wearing at the event. No doubt amazing. Some guys had all the luck. Sure, Kage worked his ass off for that body, but the face… he was born with that. Ever since I’d met him I’d been preoccupied with the idea of getting in better shape, but I knew no matter how hard I tried, I’d never be able to attain his level of attractiveness. I wondered if he’d found me attractive, or if maybe he looked at mere mortals like me and felt pity.
And now my girl just dumped me. Can I get any more pathetic?
I hopped up from the weight machine in the middle of a rep, quickly sprayed and wiped the seat and handles, and hurried down the long corridor to the back of the gym. I grabbed one of the white towels off the cart just outside the door to the shower room and went inside.
Leaning over the bench that ran beneath the wall of tall gym lockers, I propped a foot up on it and unlaced one of my sneakers. That’s when the guy from the ab machine rounded the corner, a towel slung over his shoulder along with his shirt. When he saw me, he stuttered to a halt at a locker near the door and began to remove his own expensive shoes, not bothering to untie the laces. I was careful not to look in his direction, but at one point, as I pulled my t-shirt over my head and slung it into the locker, my eyes accidentally found him anyway. To my surprise, he was looking right at me.
He smiled tentatively, and I glanced away like I’d just been caught peeping through the keyhole of a brothel bedroom. Shit. I was usually very careful to not look at other guys in locker rooms, but I wasn’t exactly my usual self that night. I swallowed hard and worked my sweaty shorts and boxer briefs down my legs and wrapped the rough towel around my hips. Then I headed for the showers at the back of the room.
Even though we were alone in the locker room, the guy entered the shower stall right next to mine. I could see his head and shoulders out of the corner of my eye the whole time I was bathing, and I knew he could see me, too. It was awkward as hell, and I found myself wondering why I was in this predicament anyway. Had he purposely followed me into the locker room? Why was I here, anyway? Normally I just drove straight home and showered.
“You need some shower gel?” the guy asked from the other side of the low wall.
“Huh?” I was startled enough to almost lose my footing.
“Shower gel,” he repeated. “I noticed you didn’t have any. Would you like to use some of mine?” He held up a black bottle of shower gel, sans top. “You can use it for your hair, too.”
“Uh, sure… I guess,” I stammered, reaching for the bottle. As I poured a dollop into my cupped palm, I read the label aloud. “Tom Ford. I thought he only made clothes.”
The guy shrugged, took the bottle back from me. “What’s your name?” he asked.
I felt my eyes widen, and I looked at him like he’d just asked for my social security number. “Um…”
“Never mind,” he blurted. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
“No, I do. I want to.” I lathered my body quickly as I spoke, without regard for accuracy of coverage. “It’s Jamie. My name’s Jamie Atwood. Can I get another squirt of that soap?” I smiled, trying to warm up and relax.
He spilled some out into my palm, and I rubbed it into my hair. After I’d finished rinsing my hair under the faucet and wiping soap from my eyes, I said, “You know my name. What’s yours?”
“Cameron Walsh,” he answered.
He wasn’t creepy, wasn’t trying to look over the wall or anything, but his eyes never left mine. It felt strange and oddly exhilarating as we held gazes for what seemed like minutes, both searching for something else to say and coming up blank. When it got a little too intense, I was the one to break the stare, glancing down and watching the last tiny bubbles of Cameron’s shower gel gathering at the edge of the drain before being sucked down.
“Well, I guess I’m gonna get out of here.” Cameron finally found his voice, and I was relieved. Relieved that I hadn’t had to speak first, and relieved that he was leaving. Better not to find out just how strange a gym shower conversation could get.
I felt like I’d just been hit on. Hell, I knew I had. It wasn’t the first time a guy had ever shown interest in me, and I’d never gotten up in arms about it. I just considered it a fact of life. But this one had seemed different— bolder.
Not tonight, buddy. Not ever.
I pretended to shower until Cameron had left the locker room. Then I got dressed and headed out to my car. Instead of going straight home like I normally did, I took a detour and drove straight to the local pick-up bar, The Collegiate. It was where all of the single guys on the basketball team hung out, and I figured since I was now a single basketball player, that was where I belonged. Besides, a guy was almost guaranteed to find something he could take home in there.
Since fate seemed to be kicking me in the ass that day, I was only slightly surprised to discover Layla and her new boy toy cozied up together at a back table in The Collegiate. It made me angry for more reasons than one, but mainly because Layla deserved to be taken somewhere better than this shit hole for a first date. But she also deserved better than me, so who was I to talk? I hadn’t even been able to muster enough interest to ask her not to break up with me.
At that point, my appetite was gone. And I don’t mean my appetite for food. I sat down at the bar and ordered one of the fifty-cent well drinks the club used to get the girls compliant, which in turn brought the guys through the front door every night.
One girl after another sat next to me to order their drinks, but I never even cast a full glance at any of them. They never stayed more than a couple of minutes, either— probably because of the arctic chill emanating off of me. Just after I got my second Screwdriver, Matt slipped onto the stool beside me.
“Hey, man,” he said. “You okay?”
“Not really,” I grated.
He rested his forearms on the bar. “Look, we never went out while you two were together. I just want you to know that, okay? I didn’t steal her from you. She said you two just grew apart.”
I finally turned to look at him. “It’s not even that. So we grew apart. Fine, I accept that, and she and I are still friends. But dude… what are you thinking bringing her to a place like this on your first date? She’s not some piece of meat. She’s a great girl, and she deserves better than this. Why don’t you pretend you’ve got some fucking class and take her out to a nice restaurant?”
My response was not the one he was expecting. He floundered, obviously wanting to say something though his mouth wasn’t producing words.
“That’s what I thought.” I swallowed the last half of my drink in two large gulps and set my glass back on the bar. “You don’t even know this is wrong, do you?” I slid off my stool and left the bar, sparing a glance at Layla on my way out. She looked appropriately uncomfortable, and I just felt really, really bad for her. Jesus, I hoped she would find someone better than that asshole. And someone better than me.