I nod. So they are not all bossy jerks. Ginger-Bearded Guy is nice and helpful. He motions someone over to the desk while I drink in the place with my eyes.
“Here we are! This is Ty. He’ll take you up to Dawson’s office,” GBG announces behind me.
I turn around to greet the Good Samaritan who’s come to my rescue, and my jaw drops to the floor. Hot Parking-Lot Dude is standing in front of me, sexy galore. “You!” I squint accusingly, for a reason beyond my grasp. Other than putting out my blunt, he hasn’t done anything wrong. Then again, I guess it was a no smoking area. And, well, pot is still illegal, and stuff.
Hot Parking-Lot Dude, now officially identified as Ty, fights the slow smile that's spreading on his lips. Is he laughing at me or with me? My cheeks flush and I look away immediately.
GBG’s eyes shift between us. “You two know each other?”
“No,” we both answer in unison. I think Ty is still looking me. I wish he'd stop. Why am I embarrassed? It's very unlike me.
“Right. Then Ty, could you show Blaine where Dawson sits?”
“It’s Blaire.” I grit my teeth.
“Right.” GBG waves my correction away dismissively.
I follow Ty’s broad, triangle-shaped back as he separates the ocean of gym rats like Moses parting the Red Sea. His dark hair is buzzed extremely short, and I study the tattoo of a giant snake winding up his neck. The snake’s face is a zombie skull that looks like it’s about to sink its teeth into one of his ears. His ears look deformed and lumpy, so I try to focus on them and his tattoo, soothing my out of control hormones.
Final verdict? Ugliest tattoo to ever be inked on human flesh, but Ty somehow pulls it off without looking like a serial killer. The guy has such an attraction to death that I’m surprised he is still alive. Skull bandana, skull headphones, skull tattoos.
Other than my pounding heartbeat, we walk in silence. Ty takes a set of metal stairs, bypassing an elevator, probably hoping to avoid the awkward elevator conversation. Can’t blame him. I don’t know what to say, feeling embarrassed about our earlier encounter, and also because it’s becoming evident that Hormones are taking over Brain.
He’s not my type, mind you.
I always go for the preppy hipsters, guys like Shane, who are into deep stuff like indie music, beat-generation books and…Lord help me, his butt is just so firm and round when he climbs up the stairs, how is this even anatomically possible?
I don’t trust myself around this guy. My body can get rebellious sometimes. Charlie Hunnam can testify.
Upstairs, Ty leads me down a catwalk, then stops and tilts his head at a closed black door. “That’s your guy.”
“Thanks.” I send him a tight-lipped smile.
He nods grimly.
“Sorry about earlier,” I say. “I rarely smoke pot. I may have relapsed the last couple of weeks, but it's not a recurring thing." Oh my God. I'm babbling like an idiot and I bet he doesn't give a damn. Get to the point, Blaire. "I'm just so out of my element here....” I circle the floor with the toe of my chucks, arms behind my back. "I guess what I'm saying is I needed to...I had to...well, never-mind. Thank you."
It's amazing that I'm studying communications, considering my lack of ability to articulate a full sentence.
Ty nods again.
“Jeez, are you a chatterbox, or what?” I say. “Shut up for a sec!”
He ducks his head to hide a slight smirk, and that’s when I see it. His unbelievably boyish smile, with dimples and all. No wonder he’s trying to fight it. He looks like such a sweet, innocent guy wearing this smile, even with the tattoos and buzzed hair. Before I realize, I’m smiling too.
We’re beaming like two idiots, for a bit longer than socially acceptable. I look down and he fiddles with the black rubber bands on his wrist.
Ty is the first to wipe the grin from his face. “Take care of yourself, huh?” He takes a step back, momentarily allowing me to pick up the pieces of my heart without having my butt metaphorically kicked. “And stop smoking pot.”
“Yeah, whatever. Ciao.”
I knock on Dawson’s door and watch Ty already heading back the way we came. I can’t help but feel a pang with his departure. He must be a mind reader, because just when I’m about to let out a gloomy moan, he turns back in my direction.
“I know you'll do the right thing, Blake.” He’s walking backwards as he speaks.
“It’s Blaire!”
I see those dimples again. Is it wrong to be bummed about the fact he doesn't seem to want to remember my name?
Then Dawson Alba is opening the door and I remember why I'm here.
Alba wears his forty-something age well, and looks military sharp, with a natural tan and broad shoulders. He sits with his feet propped on his desk and talks to me enthusiastically about the XWL and what they do. Even though he knows my article will never see the light of day, he is eager to help.
“Way this thing works, every MMA gym has a group of elite XWL fighters who participate in professional matches. I’ve got a few, including two stars that are actually top fighters in their leagues. They travel all over the world, meet international opponents and fight them to the Xtreme Warrior title in their unique weight division. They make a living out of this thing and have dedicated fans all over the world. But clearly, they also have to make a living. You can't rely on the few bouts you take every year and the occasional endorsement. So they also work here and teach people what they know about the art.”