2
WHILE I was getting dressed, Dr. Washburn texted to say that a press pass would be waiting for me at the Will Call ticket window, and I celebrated so loudly the neighbors probably heard me. I pulled on my skinny khakis, a midnight blue stretch button-up over a black t-shirt, and my black leather shoes. Then I pieced my bangs out with a bit of hair gel and slicked the rest back into a ducktail.
Lastly, I picked up my favorite necklace, a crude silver Claddagh strung with double strands of black rawhide that tied in the back, leaving the strands hanging free down the back of my neck. The small beads knotted on the end of each strand clacked gently when I moved just right.
The symbol itself, two hands holding a crowned heart, was a nod to my Irish heritage that my mother, and I by way of osmosis, found to be such a source of pride. Mom had given my older sister a Claddagh ring for her sixteenth birthday, and I’d been so jealous. When I turned sixteen, Mom had the more masculine-styled necklace custom made for me. Since that day, I’d rarely gone without it.
I tucked the strands into my collar in back and checked myself out one final time in the mirror. By the time I met my friends in the living room, I looked and smelled like a million bucks. Okay, maybe only a couple hundred bucks since I shopped at Target, but it was good enough to make Miranda raise her eyebrows.
Phillips Arena was hopping an hour before the show was set to begin. Braden drove the Audi carefully through the parking garage, sandwiched in line between two late-model beaters. The ticking sound from one of the engines bounced around deafeningly in the enclosed garage, prompting a familiar tirade from Braden.
“Dammit, why do people drive such hunks of shit? Don’t they have any pride at all? When a car sounds like that, it’s time for the junkyard.”
“Not everyone can afford to buy a new car, sweetie,” Miranda said quietly from the passenger seat.
I sat in the backseat and kept my mouth shut. More power to Miranda for wanting to teach her man a little humility, but I’d lived with him long enough to know he’d always be a spoiled rich brat, bitching from the womb to the tomb about problems he would never have the misfortune of understanding.
His dad gave him everything he wanted, including the three-bedroom condo he and I shared with Trey. Braden had the master suite with his own bathroom, while Trey and I fought over the one in the hall. Not a bad deal, considering Braden’s dad owned the condo and only charged Trey and me a hundred dollars each, plus our share of the utilities, food and expenses.
My parents would shoot me if I lost my killer living arrangement, and I didn’t have sex to barter with like Miranda, so I knew better than to mouth off at Braden too much. Friendship was the only thing I had, and that was a slippery slope at best with a guy like Braden. We’d already lost one roommate when he got a little too pushy, accusing Braden of not doing his part to keep the place clean. That guy had lasted all of one month before he’d been replaced with Trey.
Now the three of us were about to be wrapping up our third school year of living together, all of us juniors, sweating finals that were coming up in three weeks. I’d been worried I wouldn’t be able to come up with a suitable final project for Dr. Washburn’s class, and it counted for fifty percent of my grade. That was why I was so excited about the MMA fight. With this opportunity, my Journalism degree suddenly seemed within reach.
“You’re not sitting with us?” Miranda asked when we were standing in line at Will Call. She sounded disappointed, which in turn seemed to annoy Braden.
“No, babe,” he grated. “He’s here for work, like he told you. Let the guy do his job.”
My job. That sounded good. Grown up.
“What kind of job are you going for?” she asked. “I don’t think you’ve ever told me.”
“I’m hoping to be a sports writer, or a publicist for a sports team. Something like that. Maybe even a sportscaster.”
“So you might be on TV?” She bounced excitedly on her toes, her brown eyes twinkling. “I could definitely see your face on TV. You’d be a celebrity.” She turned to her boyfriend. “We’d know a celebrity, Braden. How cool would that be?”
“Name a sportscaster,” Braden challenged her.
“What?” She gave him a blank stare, the smile falling from her face. “I don’t know any.”
“Not such a big celebrity after all, huh?”
I bit my tongue to keep from retorting against the obvious insult. It helped that I understood where his animosity came from; Braden was afraid his girlfriend was attracted to me. For a guy who had so much going for him, he was awfully insecure about his girl.
“I don’t want to be a celebrity,” I said. “I just like the idea of a profession that combines my two greatest loves: writing and sports.”
“Oh.” Miranda nodded politely, the stars fading from her eyes.
“My name is Jamie Atwood,” I said to the girl at the Will Call desk, bending to speak into the hole at the bottom of the window. She checked something on her computer and produced a laminated press pass for me. My heart climbed into my throat as I took the official-looking badge and turned it over in my hand. It may seem cheesy, but to me it was the first sign that I’d almost arrived— was almost a professional.
Almost a man.
Miranda and Braden turned off at their section, Miranda waving over her shoulder as I continued on toward the backstage area. My heart was hammering in my chest now, and I felt a little light-headed. What the hell was I supposed to do now? I hadn’t really thought past getting the press badge, and now that I was actually expected to do something, I was at a loss.
Think, Jamie. What do reporters do?
I wracked my brain, trying to come up with any knowledge I’d gained from my journalism classes, realizing belatedly that working in a classroom setting just doesn’t prepare you for the reality of being in the field. Maybe in trying to wow my professor, I’d bitten off more than I could chew.
I suspected the rest of the students were doing reports that didn’t require hands-on work, and here I had signed myself up for a crash course in the realities of making an ass of myself. Because I was pretty sure that was what was about to happen.
A giant with tattoos covering his arms and a mass of scraggly facial hair guarded the door to the backstage area, and I was willing to bet his face had never stretched into a smile. He eyed my press pass and waved me on through without incident, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
Backstage was crawling with people. Organizers rushed from one place to another, radiating nervous energy as they worked to ensure everything was going as planned. There were security guards, men in suits, and guys who looked like fighters but weren’t here to fight.
I’d watched enough MMA shows with Braden to know that the fighters on tonight’s card would be prepping in private rooms with their trainers and coaches. I wouldn’t be able to interview any of them until afterward, if at all. As for fighters who would not be fighting, there were a few of them milling around backstage talking to reporters already.
I’d never been so intimidated in my life. Besides the fact that I was here in a professional capacity but knew next to nothing about how I was supposed to conduct myself, I was surrounded by guys who were in crazy physical shape. My muscles seemed almost like facsimiles of the real things in comparison to the sinewy muscles that stretched along the bones of the fighters. These guys had honed their bodies into killing machines in martial arts training facilities around the world, while I had languished on the cushioned seats of stationary weight machines at the YMCA, half-assing it when I got a little winded.
To say I felt physically inferior was an understatement. Watching fights on TV had not prepared me for how these guys would look in person, or for the overwhelming hum of testosterone-infused excitement in the air. I could feel my entire being vibrating beneath my skin.
I froze when I caught sight of a young fighter standing in the center of a group of people. Two men in suits hovered close to him, flanking him like guardians, effectively and wordlessly establishing themselves as part of his entourage. A couple of women with press passes and cameras slung around their necks gazed at the fighter with a kind of rapture as he talked, and I couldn’t blame them.
The fighter had longish hair, a dark chocolate color infused with subtle caramel highlights. It was pulled back from his face and twisted into a tight little topknot. Don’t ask me how I knew he was a fighter, because he was dressed like he was ready to hit the runway.
His face was vaguely suggestive of a Latin heritage, with a strong jaw, large, black-rimmed eyes, and a straight nose that looked like it had miraculously never been broken. Beneath the designer clothes, his skin had a healthy-looking tan, as if he’d just come back from a week at the beach. But something in the way he carried himself left no mistake as to what he was.
This guy was a professional ass kicker.
Before I knew it, my feet had carried me right over to the small group, and I found myself standing beside the reporters. I knew I was staring, but I couldn’t help myself. I’d never seen a person with such presence. He wasn’t bulky, though. On the contrary, he looked lean and lethal like a panther, with golden-green eyes to match.
If the guy’s fighting was anywhere near the level of his looks, he was destined to be a star— just the kind of person an aspiring publicist might like to align himself with. Then it occurred to me that if he was much of a fighter, he’d probably have battle scars. Maybe he was just a pretty face after all.
“I wish we could see you fight tonight,” one of the reporters said. “I’ll bet that would be something.”
The guy shrugged. “I’m just kicking back tonight, supporting my training partner, Jason Kinney. Plus, my next match is against Davi Matos, one of the fighters here tonight.” For a moment he looked uncomfortable, as if he had said something he shouldn’t. “Uh, I maybe fighting him. I’m not sure yet. Anyway, it’s good to get in close to the action, see what a guy is made of. You can’t really tell on TV, you know.”
I pulled out my cell phone, switched to video mode, and started filming his response.
“Is it that much different in person?” The other reporter leaned in closer, waiting for an answer that took a moment to come. “It seems like with the camera close-ups on TV, it would be the other way around.”
“It’s hard to explain.” The fighter paused, looking directly at me for the first time since I’d arrived. “There’s a feeling you get when you’re close to something. Seeing it right in front of your face takes it to a whole different level. You can feel the fear and the excitement, the rush of adrenaline, smell the sweat, hear the force of the blows and the snap of bone. You can tell if someone’s confident or if they’re scared shitless.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the ladies wrinkle their noses at his raw choice of words, but I stepped in closer, mesmerized. This was exactly the kind of thing I wanted to hear. I repositioned my phone slightly to get a better angle on the fighter.
“What’s your name?” he asked me, and he may as well have focused a spotlight on me.
I laughed nervously and called on my keen wit to rescue me. “I thought I was supposed to be asking the questions.”
Yeah. Nothing keen or witty about that.
As his face hardened slightly and the others glared at me, I rushed to make amends. “Jamie Atwood,” I said. “That’s my name.”
I figured I might as well just turn around and leave right then, because I’d clearly botched the whole interview thing, but he graciously stuck out his right hand. He didn’t smile, but at least he wasn’t walking away or knocking me out. “I’m Michael Kage,” he said. “You can just call me Kage. Who do you work for?”
“Work for?” I asked stupidly, snorting out a laugh that would have sounded more appropriate at a Star Trek convention than a fight. My skin felt clammy against his warm, dry palm as we shook hands.
“I mean who are you reporting for?” he reached out and tugged gently on the press pass hanging around my neck.
It may sound strange, but when he reached out for me like that, I felt the heat of a flush creep across my face. It reminded me of high school, when the hot senior guys would talk to the freshman girls, making them giggle and blush from nothing more than a simple touch. In other words, this Kage guy must have been made of 100% testosterone, because he had succeeded in making me blush like a schoolgirl.
“Oh, who am I reporting for. Right. I’m here on behalf of Georgia State University.” I started babbling like a jackass, telling shit I had no business telling, digging myself in deeper with every word that came out of my mouth. “Actually, I’m not a real reporter yet. In fact, I probably won’t be a reporter at all. I’m actually not here in an official capacity, I guess.” Insert awkward laugh. “I mean, I am, but it’s just for a school project. I’m a journalism major, but what I really hope to be is a publicist.”
“Yeah? What all does a publicist do, besides sending out press kits and shit like that?”
It was impossible to tell if Kage was being condescending, or if he was truly interested in the job description of a publicist. He might have been wearing a killer suit, but the rough edges of the guy were still clearly visible. He smirked at me, daring me to impress him.
And I wanted to.
“Well, Mr. Kage, I suppose we do whatever needs doing to make sure that a client is well-known and well-liked. Good publicists are story-spinners and star-makers, but bad ones… Let’s just say a publicist can make or break a career, no matter what the client has done.”
I don’t know where those pretentious words came from. It was as if I were suddenly playing a role, and my character knew a heck of a lot more about being a publicist than I did. It must have sounded good, though, because Kage took the bait.
He raised his eyebrows. “And you know how to do all of that?”
“Of course.” I gave him a cocky grin, his apparent interest giving me way more confidence than I had any right to have. “It’s my specialty.”
And there it was. The lie that had the potential to get me in trouble. My mother always called me her little flimflam artist. Said I could sell ice to an Eskimo, which is a ridiculously overused cliché, but she made her point.
“No shit.” Kage turned fully toward me, his eyes wide. “What if I did something really, really fucked up? Could you get me out of it?”
“Why, are you planning on killing someone?” I laughed, but he didn’t, so I cleared my throat. “Uh, yeah. I’d do my best to keep you smelling like a rose. I’d even help you hide the body if you paid me enough.”
I was at the mercy of my ego, talking shit I probably couldn’t back up if my life depended on it. But who really cared, anyway? He could tell me he was a brain surgeon, and I could tell him I was a fighter pilot. Neither one of us would ever know the difference.
The lady reporters stared at me, and one of them put her hands on her hips, clearly irritated. “Fascinating, I’m sure,” she said flatly. “But I’d like to know more about this upcoming fight of yours, Kage. What promotion will it be with? Do you foresee a future with the UFC?”
Without missing a beat, Kage turned to the reporters and smiled. It was the first time I’d seen him purposely attempt to be charming, and I had to admit, he was damn good at it. Dimples for days. “Actually, ladies, I need to take off. Gotta get to my seat so that I don’t miss any of the fights. It was nice talking to you, though. Maybe we can catch up some other time.”
He sent a subtle wink in my direction, and my heart sped up. I felt like I’d just been invited to sit at the popular table. Like he and I had something between us, some secret that the ladies weren’t privy to.
But then Kage just turned and walked away, followed by the two silent men who had been hovering behind him. He didn’t speak, didn’t say goodbye or nice to meet you, or even kiss my ass you little wannabe.
Damn. So much for the popular table.
The reporters spared one last prickly glare at me before clicking away on their sensible heels, leaving me by myself and reeling from shame. I had come here planning to keep my head down, learn enough to ace my school project, and get a little job experience. But it appeared that I had only succeeded in running everyone off.
THE tournament was everything Kage had painted it to be and more. I’d never attended a live fight of any kind, and it was so much different than watching it on television. I wondered if any of my other MMA-obsessed friends had ever seen a live fight, or if Braden and I were the only ones.
I was able to push my way out from backstage into a press-only seating area, but all of the seats were taken, so I stood off to one side. I was squished uncomfortably between two overweight reporters, one of whom smelled like corn chips and stale cigarettes. But it didn’t take long to forget they were there altogether. Being so close to the action was surreal.
I recalled Kage’s words about smelling the fear, and I thought I knew exactly what he meant. On TV, the action was sterile, just another sporting event with rules to follow and some exciting action to watch. But when you were here watching from mere feet away, it became real. It was a transplanted street brawl, with real people and real injuries. It was one guy trying to beat the shit out of another guy, and someone was going to lose. Someone was going to have to limp home with a broken ego, possibly even some broken bones or scars.
It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once, and as I watched through eyes stretched wide, my teeth dug painfully into my bottom lip, I thought maybe I was already addicted.
I decided to try to get some action shots of the fights, but it became clear soon enough that my photos were not going to be anywhere near Sports Illustrated quality. Cell phones were great for taking selfies and posting them on social media sites, but if I was even going to try to pretend to be a sports reporter, I’d have to have a good digital camera. That would be a perfect gift to ask my parents to get me for my twenty-first birthday coming up in a few weeks. Until then, I’d just have to make do with blurry fight shots.
I was particularly interested in chronicling the fight between two Brazilians— Kage’s future opponent, Davi Matos, and some guy whose name I didn’t bother committing to memory. Honestly, I didn’t care about Matos beyond getting his name right for my assignment. Somehow I’d gotten locked in on the first guy I’d come in contact with in the world of mixed martial arts, and now everything was about Michael Kage. Already my brain was trying to figure out how to spin this whole project to focus on him, and he wasn’t even fighting.
After Matos finished wiping the floor with the other Brazilian, I got an uneasy feeling. The guy was impressive. It made me nervous for Kage, who had the demeanor of a fighter, but whose face looked entirely too pretty. If this match was any indication of things to come, Kage would probably be the one limping home when it came to fighting Matos. Maybe this fight would scare him enough to back down.
I scanned the crowd for him, but there were too many faces to sift through. I couldn’t find him— couldn’t see if he was scared.
After watching two more fights, I’d come to the realization that I knew virtually nothing about mixed martial arts fighting. Sometimes Braden ordered a keg on pay-per-view nights, and we watched the fight and got smashed. I’d always been an armchair spectator, more concerned with keeping a full beer in one hand and my girlfriend’s ass in the other than what was going on inside the octagon.
I could recognize a few submission moves, knew the basic kicks and punches like anyone would, but the rest of it had flown right over my head. Fighting just wasn’t my thing. I was more of a ball man, myself. Give me a basketball, football, baseball, soccer ball— hell, even a tennis ball— and I knew what I was doing. But fighting was foreign territory for me. I felt bad for the thoughts I’d had earlier about Layla, about how she knew nothing about the sports she cheered for, because tonight I was no better.
As the last fight was ending in a knockout, I began to make my way out of my seating area and into a stream of people madly dashing for the door. I knew the parking garage would be mayhem within minutes, and I wondered where Braden and Miranda were. Then I realized I didn’t have to wonder, because I had one of those newfangled communications devices in my pocket. I pulled my cell phone out and texted Braden.
“Where are you?”
Nothing. He probably couldn’t hear the alert on his phone in the noisy arena.
I noticed reporters from the press seating area were all moving in the same direction down a hallway off the main lobby, so I followed. They led me to a large conference room with a hand-written sign on the door that read Press.
Yep, this is my stop.
I hovered for a few minutes outside the press room so that I could at least listen to the questions other reporters— real reporters— were asking the fighters, but I was afraid to go in. I was also afraid Braden was going to leave without me.
“Don’t ditch me,” I texted, belatedly wishing I’d driven myself.
I opened the browser on my phone and googled Michael Kage on a whim. There were a couple of social media profiles, a headshot of some unknown actor, and several unrelated results that made me scratch my head that they’d even shown up in the first place. Apparently, Michael Kage was not a household name in the world of mixed martial arts, and learning that left me inexplicably disappointed. Guess I thought I’d met a celebrity.
I leaned against a wall and studied a couple of fighters who were in my line of sight, looking the worse for wear after having recently beaten someone senseless, or having been beaten senseless themselves. Davi Matos came near, and I just stared.
Like Kage, he had an undeniable presence. He passed so close to me, I felt the air stir, but his eyes never lighted on me. Thank goodness. That guy made me nervous. Up close, his face looked like it had been through a meat grinder. Apparently his opponent had gotten off a few damaging shots before he got submitted.
The two lady reporters who had snubbed me at the beginning of the night stood in the group inside the room. One of them kept yelling questions out of turn, like she thought she was in the movies or something. I rolled my eyes.
I turned my attention back to my cell phone, getting ready to call Braden.
“Learning anything?” said a voice from behind me, and I spun around to come face to face with Michael Kage.
I startled, looking guiltily up at him and shoving my cell phone behind my back before he could see that I’d been researching him. “What are you doing?” I said, for lack of anything better. My heart had sped up again. Something about this guy really had my ticker going wild, like his very presence caused an adrenaline dump in my system.
“Getting ready to go eat. I’m starving. Any nice places around here without a long wait?”
“Lou’s is only a few blocks away. They’ve got a killer cheeseburger, and they’re quick.”
“Cheeseburger.” Kage laughed, showing those rampant dimples. “You’re funny, college boy. I meant something a real man would eat.”
He took a step closer. One step closer than propriety dictated.
“What’s the matter, you don’t like cheeseburgers? That’s downright unpatriotic.”
Instinctively, I took one step back, reclaiming my personal space. But Kage stepped forward again and gave me what could only be described as a look of challenge. This time, I stood my ground.
“You don’t get a body like this by eating fast food.” He said, patting his belly. There was so little give, he might as well have been hitting a suit of armor. “How’s your project coming? You got everything you need?”
I shrugged. “I wish I could have gotten better photos. The action shots are blurry. I need a new camera if I’m gonna be doing this kind of stuff.”
“Wanna take one of me?” He grinned and crossed his arms over his chest, plumping up his biceps. I fumbled for my phone, quickly switched to camera mode, and took a picture. Then he struck another pose, this time with his usual face that looked like he was ready to whip some ass. It was shocking to see him change like that, as if he’d slipped into another personality and back again.
“I appreciate you helping me out,” I told him. “If you want to know the truth, I’m a little starstruck right now. I’ve never met a real fighter before.” I bit my lip nervously. “Would you mind taking a selfie with me? It would make my roommates so jealous.”
“Yeah?” He raised a brow. “Well, I’m all for making people jealous.”
We leaned in close to each other, and I held the phone out as far as I could to capture the image. The two well-dressed thugs who had been flanking Kage all night chose that moment to step out of the shadows. “We need to go, Kage,” one of them said. “Plane’s leaving in less than two hours, and we still have to stop for food.”
“Fuck.” Kage rubbed a hand irritatedly over his eyes. “Alright, let’s go. Catch you on the flip side, college boy.” He turned to go, his friends leading the way. But just at the last second, he glanced back over his shoulder at me with a cocky smile and graced me with another of his little winks.
Jesus, that guy was something else.
“It’s Jamie,” I called after him, watching his back disappear into the crowd. “Hey, where can I see you fight?”
I don’t know if he heard me or not. The three of them disappeared into the crowd as if they’d never existed, leaving me wondering what the hell I was going to write for my project, since I’d spent all night trying to bond with a fighter even Google had never heard of.