Chapter Eleven
Braxton
“Do you ever get the sense that Aardman has made us his bitches?” asked Nick.
“‘Patience, Monty,’” I said, quoting The Simpsons. “‘Climb the ladder.’”
We were standing together in the gym, methodically filling up a couple of bulky duffel bags. It was Friday morning, and we’d been here since 7:00am making sure Bruce had everything he needed for the fight that night.
“I just don’t see why he couldn’t have done all this on his own,” said Nick as he placed a box of granola bars into one of the side pockets. “He’s a grown-ass man and doesn’t need us to look after him. I don’t get paid to be a nanny for some other player.”
“I suppose there are worse things we could be doing.”
Nick gave me a sideways glare. “I’m surprised you’re so calm about it.”
“Did you expect me to protest?”
“As a man who has known you for almost three years—yes, I did.”
I was silent for a moment. Undoubtedly, I would have been miffed if Carruthers had rejected me in favor of Bruce. But the fact that he was allowing me to play next week had cooled my disappointment a little. I could wait a week. I would have my moment of glory, and in the meantime, I would be practicing night and day.
By the time we had finished packing everyone’s bags, we were both sweaty and tired. This was around the time of morning when I usually went home and took a nap before making lunch and heading back, but on this particular morning, we had a plane to catch in a couple hours.
Nick tore off his shirt and stepped into the shower, allowing the water to wash over him in a fountain of mist. “You ever been to Vegas, man?” he asked.
“No, but my brother was down there last year.”
“Which one?”
“Marshall, the smart one.”
“Oh, right. Him.” Nick had never met Marshall but had developed an unfavorable impression of him based on things I had said.
“He found the whole place sort of overwhelming. I don’t know if he would ever go back. I remember him saying he loved the restaurants but didn’t care much for the hotels. The blankets were thin and made him itch, and somebody’s bass player kept him up all night.”
“Sounds awful.” Nick had never been especially fond of crowds or big cities.
“Yeah, but I’m told there’s going to be a killer after-party tomorrow night.”
“Unless the actual Killers are there, I’m not interested.”
“Suit yourself,” I said with a shrug. “You may change your mind when we get there.”
Nick had been notably averse to drinking ever since his bout of drunkenness the week before. Last night I had invited him out to a bar to celebrate Carruthers’ decision, but he excused himself on the grounds of having to go home and call his brother. Recently he had traded the whiskey for energy drinks, and it was rare for me to see him without one.
He turned off the water and stepped out of the shower with a towel around his head. “You know what I wish?”
“Hmm?”
“I wish I could sit at home tonight with one of those huge Tupperware bowls of popcorn and rainbow mini-marshmallows, binging a show on Netflix. I would watch exactly six and a half episodes before I crashed and woke up on the couch the next morning.”
“Yeah, I’d like that. I don’t think I could live the life of a rock star, having to be on the road all the time. I don’t know how they do it.”
“Sometimes I think we ask too much of our idols. Just the thought of this weekend is wearing me out, and we’ve still gotta do next weekend.” Nick shook his head. “Maybe we’re getting too old.”
“Speak for yourself!” I said with a laugh. “I’m nineteen. I probably won’t even be allowed into that after-party.”
“No, probably not, but I can always give you my ID.”
“Right, as if we looked anything alike.”
“You never know. Sometimes they don’t look too close.”
“If you don’t go to the after-party,” I asked, “what are you going to do?”
Nick sat down slowly on one of the benches, stretching his broad back. He stifled a yawn. “I don’t know. I was thinking about maybe hitting up one of the strip clubs. Vegas strip clubs are legendary.”
“Yeah? You know I’ve never actually been to a strip club.”
“Really?” Nick stared at me in surprise. “Well, now we have to go.”
The prospect was certainly tempting. My only knowledge of strip clubs came from TV, and I wasn’t really sure what strippers did other than dance and flirt with customers. “You know,” I said aloud, “there’s something so sexy about a woman who knows how to dance.”
“I know. I had a rather massive crush on a ballerina in high school. She was a grade ahead of me and wouldn’t give me the time of day, but my friends convinced me she was into me and got me to ask her out. I walked up to her in the middle of the school cafeteria the day before homecoming and produced a huge bouquet of roses. Then, in front of everyone, and to my everlasting shame, I asked her to the dance.”
Nick had a way of telling a story, and by now I was completely drawn in. “What did she say?”
“She laughed.” He winced, still looking hurt. “I mean, she actually laughed in my face.”
“Oof. Sick burn.”
“Seriously. That’s the last thing I remember. Friends tell me I burst into tears and ran out of the cafeteria while everyone laughed and applauded.”
“God, I really hope that’s your worst memory.”
“It’s up there. I was so embarrassed I faked being ill and didn’t go back to school for a week. Anyway, I’ve told you mine, so now you have to tell me yours.”
I paused in the middle of folding up a pair of athletic shorts. “Tell you what?” I asked coldly.
“Your worst memory.”
“Ain’t happened yet,” I said tersely, my insides squirming uncomfortably.
“Yeah? You planning on doing something spectacularly awful this weekend?”
“If I do, you’ll be the first to know.” But I said no more, and in a few minutes, we had finished packing and were ready to go.
***
Vegas turned out to be every bit as overwhelming as Marshall had warned it would be. It reminded me of nothing so much as Disney World with its gaudily colored resorts, costumed buskers, and baroque hotel lobbies with mosaic glass horses. As we were walking up the stairs of the Bellagio to our room with bags in tow, a three-story hologram of a woman clad in a red bikini winked at me from the wall of the lobby and blew a seductive kiss. Somewhere in the distance, Panic! at the Disco was playing a thumping bass song.
“I take back what I said before,” said Nick. “If you get on the plane tomorrow, and I’m nowhere to be found, don’t come looking for me.”
“I’m right there with you,” I said as the hologram grinned and licked her lips.
“Do you think Coach would notice if I just slipped out tonight and went to a strip club?”
“Not if he’s sufficiently inebriated,” I replied.
The weigh-in proved to be similarly exhausting and over-the-top. Because none of my fights had ever attracted more than a few hundred people, it was easy to forget that outside Boulder, in the rest of the nation, MMA fights were still massively popular. The response here was beyond anything I’d seen before: thousands of fans had crowded into a single room—some of them plainly from out of state—just to watch fighters being weighed on a scale. My heart thrilled at the sight. Between this and the TV cameras broadcasting the event live, I was going to have the largest possible audience for my fight next weekend.
“That’s a lot of people shown up here just to watch a couple guys whale on each other,” Nick said in an awed voice.
“My mom would be horrified. She always said the health of a nation was in the popularity of its art museums and national parks.”
He threw me a perplexed look. “Explain to me again how you and her are related?”
“Trust me,” I said, “it’s as much of a mystery to me.”
“Anyway, I hope Bruce isn’t feeling the pressure too bad. I think I would piss my pants if I knew this many people would be watching me.”
“You really think so? I find it invigorating.” I caught the eye of a woman in a dark tartan skirt, who smiled shyly. “To be on TV and surrounded by women—what more could any man ask for?”
We ate a leisurely lunch at SUSHISAMBA and returned to the Bellagio about an hour later feeling sluggish and sleepy. As Nick was unlocking our door, another door opened a few doors down, and a familiar figure emerged into the hallway. It took me a moment to realize who she was, and by the time I did, she had already disappeared into the stairwell.
“… so anyway,” Nick was saying, “that’s why I refuse to eat sub sandwiches to this day, and I’ll never forgive my dad for that.”
“Did you see that?” I asked. “It was the girl, the—the president’s assistant. She’s here!”
Nick raised his brows in surprise. “You think she saw us?”
“I sort of hope not,” I said quietly. “It’d be awfully rude of her to walk off and not say anything.” But I had an unhappy feeling that was exactly what she had just done.