Chapter Nineteen
Braxton
It had happened again.
I had been in the octagon with Nick practicing for my upcoming fight. He was almost my equal as a boxer and had stung me twice already with a couple of quick jabs to the eye. That was annoying, but not nearly as annoying as the volley of trash talk that spewed from his mouth.
“Those are some of the slowest reflexes I’ve ever seen. Did you forget to drink your coffee this morning? Hey, brainless, pay attention! We’re having a fight here, or did you forget?”
“Shut the hell up, Nick,” I muttered, feeling increasingly irritated.
But Nick’s confidence was beyond all reproach. “No lie, I once fought a dead man who was faster than you. Handsomer, too. Did you ever watch that show The B---- in Apartment 23? It’s sweet that they made a show about your mom…”
I don’t think I saw it coming any more than he did. One second, we were on opposite ends of the octagon coldly glaring at each other; the next, I was raining down on him like fury in a shower of kicks and blows, beating every square inch of him I could get my hands on.
“Don’t you EVER say a word about my mom!” I yelled, grabbing him by the hair and speaking directly into his ear.
Bruce, who had been refereeing, came running up sweating in cold terror. “Hey, hey!” He blew his whistle repeatedly, struggling to pull me away. “Braxton, what the hell is wrong with you?”
“He’s talking shit about my mom!” I exclaimed, taking a step back but keeping my eyes trained on Nick who was nursing a cut lip.
“I don’t care!” said Bruce. “If this had been an actual fight, you would have been disqualified automatically, without a second’s thought. You never, never knee an opponent in the groin or try to hit them in the back of the head. You know better than this. What gives?”
“I’m gonna need a break,” said Nick, turning and beginning to stalk away. “See you.”
“Coward!” I called after him. He threw up his middle finger and kept walking. I followed him with my eyes until he rounded the corner and disappeared from view.
Bruce continued to glare at me, still visibly troubled.
“Braxton, I thought you were better than this. You’ve made so much progress in the last year—staying out of fights, staying out of jail, cleaning your act up. And then you start beating the shit out of your best friend.”
“Bruce, you’re going to be horrified when you find out what MMA is.”
“I’m not talking about that! Of course, you’re allowed to fight, but not like that. You could have really hurt him. I know you have a big fight coming up, but there are better ways to practice. I think for right now you should be focusing on getting hold of your temper. If your opponent figures out how easy it is to get under your skin, you’re screwed.”
It was a dangerous thing to try to argue with me when I was this mad. A red haze clouded my vision, and I wanted badly to punch something, anything. I was tired of being talked down to by inferior fighters, tired of being told what I should and shouldn’t do.
As I walked past the pool to the locker room, a warm spray of mist seeped out of the showers and rolled over the tiles. Nick was probably showering or with Coach; he’d be a fool to hang out in the locker room unprotected when I was still this upset.
Once I had calmed down a little, I would probably feel awful for the way I had treated him. But for now, it was best if he hung back.
My locker had gotten stuck, and it took me a few minutes to pry it open, at which point I was more furious than ever. I pulled a granola bar heatedly from my pants pocket and ate it in two bites. I threw the wrapper in the direction of the waste bin, but it only made it about halfway before it fell to the ground.
When I checked my phone, I was surprised to find that I had a new message from Bruce.
Hey, sorry I had to be so harsh out there. I’m just worried about you. I know the pressure of training for a big fight can be a lot to deal with. I’m here if you need to talk. But also, if you’re looking for a growth hormone that will give you an automatic edge over the competition, I know where you can get one that won’t be detected. Just let me know, and please keep this on the DL.
I had to read this last part several times over to make sure I hadn’t dreamed it. Was that how Bruce had overcome Bones on Saturday night? If he had really been taking growth hormones, then maybe I hadn’t helped him as much as I had thought.
I had half a mind to march into Coach’s office and report him right then. It was awfully presumptuous of him to lecture me about respecting the rules of MMA when he had been breaking them the whole time.
Not knowing what else to say, but figuring he was awaiting my response, I told him I’d think about it.
Thanks, he wrote back. And let Nick know, too, if you would.
I will when he apologizes for badmouthing my mom, I replied. But I had a feeling I would end up apologizing long before that.
I tore off my shorts and stepped into the shower, still puzzling over Bruce’s strange message. No way would I ever take growth hormones to beat an opponent; I was too proud for that. Either I would win on my own merits, or I wouldn’t win at all. By taking drugs, Bruce was essentially admitting that he wasn’t good enough to win fights on his own. Maybe I really was the best player Coach had.
Nick must have been in the next shower, but he was waiting for me to leave before he climbed out. Eventually, I heard the water turn off, and he slipped quietly out of the stall and out of the locker room. But I hung back for a while, letting the warm water wash over my body and wondering when life had gotten so complicated and so hard.
When I got out, I checked my phone again. This time I had a message from Coach.
Whenever you have a minute, I need you to meet me in my office.
I stood paralyzed, wondering what he could have wanted to talk to me about, sensing that it couldn’t be anything good. Was he going to reprimand me for unloading on Nick? Or had he seen the last text I had sent Bruce and taken it at face value? I was going to have a hard time explaining that I meant anything other than what I had said. If he really thought we were taking growth hormones, this could be the end of our career in the octagon.
And I hadn’t even made it to the next fight yet.
With a feeling of palpable unease, I walked out of the locker room, past the pool and into his office.
I found him seated at his desk watching a spring marathon live on ESPN.
“You wanted to see me?” I asked, hesitant.
“Yeah, have a seat.”
I sat down in a folding chair at the front of the desk. I was having a hard time hiding my anxiety. “What’s up?”
“I understand you’re trying to get yourself ready for the big fight coming up.”
“Yeah? What about it?”
“Well, I’ve just gotten off the phone with Carruthers, and apparently this is going to be some big thing, bigger than we could have expected. Bruce’s performance in Vegas this weekend went viral on social media, and he’s already been booked on the major morning shows next week.”
“That’s fantastic!” Though I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of jealousy even as I said it.
“Yeah, totally. But it’s bringing a spotlight down on our whole troupe. They want to know about us, and about you in particular. They’re going to start digging, and I’m afraid they’re going to have some questions about some of your questionable behavior in the past.”
That made sense. If the media was really interested in me, it wouldn’t take them long to find out that I had been in and out of jail in the past year. My stomach lurched miserably as I thought about the shame I was likely to bring on our team.
“Yeah, I’m sorry…” I said slowly.
“There’s no need to apologize, not yet. We want to get out in front of the story, so I’m calling a press conference for this upcoming Saturday. You’ll go out there and answer a few questions and generally deliver what we used to call a ‘charm offensive.’ Do you know what that is?”
“I think I get the idea.”
“Good.” Coach smiled a smile of satisfaction. “It’s a tough business, MMA. What nobody tells you is that it’s as much about image management as it is how you conduct yourself in the octagon.”
“Was that all you wanted to talk to me about?”
Coach hesitated for a moment. “One more thing. I need you to be straight with me. These journalists are going to come out here and dig up whatever dirt they can find. I don’t want to be getting any surprises come the middle of next week. Is there anything, anything at all that could damage your rep, that I don’t already know about?”
I stood silently for a moment, thinking. Should I tell him about Bruce’s offer of drugs and risk ruining the career of his best player? Should I explain that I had agreed to think about it, but only so he would leave me alone? If the police came and searched through our phones, it would raise more questions than answers.
“Savery?” asked Coach after a long pause. “Anything?”
“No, Coach.” I shook my head firmly. “You already know everything.”