"This is the definition of douchebag-ism," Shane complains in my ear.
Figures. Sucks to be him, or anyone else with a dick in this room, for that matter. Talk about alpha-male dominance.
Ty’s sleeveless shirt is soaked with sweat, and he is pulling its hem up so he can wipe off his forehead, revealing perfect abs. Not a four pack with a pouch, but a solid, I-can’t-believe-it’s-not-photoshopped six pack. I don’t find his sweat disgusting. At all. In fact, I wouldn’t have minded snuggling into this shirt tonight. Or snuggling into him…
Sheesh! I need to get over this thing, whatever it is, fast. Hormones are bullying Brain again, even though Brain knows better than to like Ty. He was straight up rude the first time we met, when he plucked the blunt out of my lips. He is cocky. He is trouble. And most of all—he is a distraction. I need to get this assignment over with. I need to graduate. No, I must graduate. Hormones can keep on dreaming.
The next thing I notice is a huge welt on Ty’s ribcage. I have an unexpected urge to stroke his skin, to soothe away the pain. Why does he make me want to touch him? I don’t normally fall in lust with men I don’t know.
“Meet Ty and Jesse,” Dawson proclaims proudly. “This is the reporter I was telling you about—”
“Blake,” Ty cuts through Dawson’s introduction and winks at me.
“Blaire,” I correct. I take a deep breath and try to look indifferent about his mistake. I’m not a girl who’s into Cosmo and Glamour and stuff, but even I know that if a guy doesn’t remember your name, you shouldn’t expect a call from him anytime soon.
It’s weird shaking hands with him now. Yesterday, his lips were inches from mine in the parking lot when he snatched that roll up out of my mouth, and he didn't seem too eager to talk when he showed me to Dawson's office. I’m expecting him to crush my clammy palm, but he treats me like a fragile doll. Before he lets go of my hand, he circles my knuckle with his thumb. A small gesture, but it makes the rest of my body tingle with pleasure.
Shane, however, is not awarded with the same treatment. Ty almost rips off his arm when he shakes it. Shane’s limb practically raves in the air like a dancing balloon man. Shane jerks his hand free, massaging his wrist.
“Why don’t you look around for awhile? I need to ask these guys some questions,” I quickly explain. It was my idea to bring Shane with me, but I’m beginning to regret it. I need to focus on my task, to get this assignment over with and to get the hell out of here. What I don't need is more complications.
“Ask away.” Shane hooks an arm over my shoulder and thrust out his jaw. It’s an I’m-pissing-on-my-territory face. There’s no other way to describe the look of challenge he shoots at Ty.
Ty’s nostrils flare as he stares Shane down. If looks could kill, forensics would be all over these two. Everyone falls awkwardly silent.
“Fuck this shit. I’m out, coach.” Ty grabs a towel from a nearby bench and drapes it over his close-cropped head. He walks away, not even bothering to grab his duffel bag.
What the hell is his problem?
I eye Jesse, who offers me a half-apologetic smile. “Ty’s ego is bigger than his head. He’ll come around. Let’s do this interview, kid.”
***
We sit on blue plastic bleachers in front of a cage. I spend thirty minutes with Jesse Clement. He is witty and amusing and gives good quotes. In fact, he is journalistic gold. He speaks frankly about taboos like steroids and performance-enhancing drugs, about the reaction of people who hear he beats the shit out of guys for a living, and how sometimes the same guys beat the shit out of him. Every warrior in the XWL loses a battle every once in a while, even the champs.
“Why MMA, though? That’s what I don’t get. You look like you could have been an athlete in any sport. Why pick something so...?" Barbaric, dangerous, controversial...I could go on forever, but I leave it hanging in the air.
I take a quick glance at his tattoos. Jesse is inked head to toe, fingertips included. I wonder if he realizes he’ll have to walk around with these when he’s old and saggy when it looks about as cool as my dad’s stamp collection.
“I didn’t choose MMA. It chose me.” Jesse cuts off my line of thought. “Cliché as it sounds, you gotta play the hand you’ve been dealt in life. Growing up in the projects, I had to fight to live. There were thugs everywhere, and they always wanted something. My money, my food, my new shoes. And sometimes they just wanted cheap entertainment. I survived with my fists, medicated on street fights. Then, at some point, I don’t remember when exactly, fighting became a therapy and no longer a necessity. A way to take out my anger on this world.”
I stare down. It hasn’t crossed my mind that Jesse wasn’t in another sport because he didn’t have the cushy upbringing I’ve had.
“It’s all good, though. I make good money doing what I do, and I love it. I get to travel the world, meet new people and stay in great shape all year round. Personally, I have a steady girlfriend that I adore, but if I hadn't met her, it's always a plus when chicks dig your job.”
“What, MMA?” I raise an eyebrow.
“That’s right.” He grins.
“Somehow I find that hard to believe.” My experience with competitive fighting might consist only of playing Tekken once or twice in my life, but even I can see it’s thuggish and about as appealing as bathing in your own vomit.