Alpha Fighter (14 page)

“Congratulations, man.” Vlad claps me on the back. “I’m proud of you. Now just don’t go and fuck this up, you understand me?” He laughs.

“Yeah, I’m going to be careful to keep this one,” I say. “She’s beautiful and smart and kind and man, can that woman cook.”

“That’s worth keeping,” Vlad says. “And she does it voluntarily? You eat like a goddamn bear.”

“Yeah, I was all for just going out for some pizza at Bennie’s, but she said she wanted to cook. Said she was sick of Bennie’s,” I said. “The food she made was way better than even Bennie’s pizza. I’m being serious here, man.”

“Sick of Bennie’s? No one ever gets sick of Bennie’s,” Vlad protests, laughing. “She probably just wanted to show off her skills. Sounds like the interest is reciprocated.”

“Yeah,” I smile. “I’m pretty sure she’s feeling it, too.”

“Trying to win you over with food.” Vlad raises an eyebrow. “That’s a classic woman trick, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know, man, but she doesn’t need to win me over,” I declare. “She has me. I’m already all locked down.”

“Look, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” says Vlad. “You know how I am with my girl and God knows I want the same kind of happiness for you. But not every woman is Bettina and—all I’m saying is that it wouldn’t hurt for you to take it a little slow. Sarah really fucked you up. I don’t want to see that happen to you again.”

“Savannah isn’t like that.” I shut him down. But it’s true, Sarah did a number on me and he was the one that kept me off the streets and got my mind right. I owe him the respect of at least listening. “I hear you,” I say. “But I’m telling you, Savannah is different.”

“Then good for you,” says Vlad. “Now give me ten laps and the usual burpee-jumping jacks-mountain climber sequence, so you don’t embarrass you and your girl tonight.” Vlad is the only friend that’s close enough to me to rib me like that and know he’s not about to get his face pounded in.

But even if he weren’t, I’m in a giving mood tonight. I can’t remember the last time I was in this good a mood.

Sure, she has her quirks—like getting sick of Bennie’s Pizza, insisting on not sitting in the seats usually reserved for girlfriends and wives, and warning me that she’ll be wearing shades because the lights are too strong up close to the ring. And sure, she has a past that she isn’t proud of and is a little scared of. But I’m happy to be her man and keep her safe from the demons of her past. I’m happy to be there for her every day and keep her as happy and content as she keeps me, just by being in my arms. It’s not going to be easy taking down all the walls and barriers I put up to protect myself after Sarah, but she is worth it. She may well be the only woman in the world who I would risk this for, but there is no question that I will.

I can’t wait to get out in the ring and cream my opponent with her screaming my name. Even more than that, I can’t wait to see what the next days, weeks, months, and years have in store for us, together.

Savannah

I
work on my sketches for a little longer once Cooper leaves to go to the gym for his pre-match warm-up with Vlad. He offered to have someone come pick me up when it’s time to go to the match and I said that I could find my own way to the ring on the bus, but he insisted that sending a car would be no problem. He didn’t want me to have to deal with the hassle of navigating the unreliable bus system. “Only the best for my girl.”

Just hearing those two words again in my mind makes me smile. ‘My girl.’ It’s an identity and a wonderful one. It’s being wanted. And, best of all, it’s being wanted by the man whom I want most in my life. I don’t need anyone from my past. I can be happy with just Cooper. And it seems like he wants to be happy with me, too.

I feel like I should pinch myself, I can hardly believe my turn in fortune. But I don’t, because even if this is all just a dream, I want it to continue. I don’t want to wake up from the happily-ever-after romance. After years of unhappiness, I want to enjoy this for as long as I can. Forever.

My designs flow out of me like they’re drawing themselves, featuring swirls and patterns that jump up off of the page with energy and happiness. I find myself sketching possible additions to Cooper’s shoulder blade piece, in case he ever wants to expand on that, and can’t stop smiling as I sketch because I’m sketching thinking of him.

Eventually, I realize that the sun is all the way down and it’s closing in on time for the start of the big fight. I take yet another shower, my third of the day, and make myself a sandwich that I eat in the kitchen, bouncing from foot to foot with excitement at the thought of seeing Cooper again very soon. I’ve just finished my last bite when a car honks outside. Grabbing my keys, I head out the front door to the sight of a uniformed chauffeur, holding open the passenger door of a shiny black Lincoln town car. The car looks incredibly out of place in the middle of our street, a shining piece of automobile bling in a grimy urban neighborhood.

I feel blessed to have a man who thinks I am worth all of this. The whole ride over to the ring, I can’t stop thinking about how this is all really great, but the real blessing is that Cooper wants to give me all of this. Cooper loves me. Cooper wants me and only me. Cooper and I can have a future together. We can have exactly the kind of future that I want, where we are the only ones that matter and we chase our dreams together, supporting each other every step of the way. We can have a life filled with love and respect, we can have a safe little house that we turn into a home, we can have beautiful little babies and a happy little family.

I am getting
so
far ahead of myself here, but it’s so tempting.

Before I know it, I’m at the stadium. I thought last night’s match had a buzz, but that was nothing compared to tonight’s craziness. We’re five blocks away when the line starts—and it’s not some neat, single-spaced line, either. It’s more like a Black Friday at Macy’s mob with people standing in clumps, jostling each other in the hopes of getting just a person or two closer to the front of the line unnoticed. No one seems to be having much success, since everyone seems to be sharing the same general strategy of having the foremost members of their clump jostle the next group, while the rearmost members of the clump form an NFL-worthy barricade of defense against the clump behind them.

We drive past all that, right up to the front. There are four enormous bouncers at the door, keeping the crowd from jostling through and into the stadium. We roll to a stop right in front of the door and one of the bouncers steps forward. He goes straight for the driver’s window and the driver is clearly used to the routine. He flashes some ID and hands over an official-looking document that the bouncer takes and scrutinizes carefully. It must pass muster, because the bouncer nods and comes around to open my door.

“Thanks,” I say, a little awkwardly. I feel somewhat uncomfortable walking past the pumped up crowds, pushed back by the bouncer escorting me, and straight through into the stadium. I’m relieved not to have to join them in line, being elbowed and jostled by a mob of sweaty strangers in not enough clothing and too much body spray, but the attention that the special treatment inherently pulls my way is unsettling. I curse the invention of smart phones and social media for turning every common Jane and Joe into a paparazzo. Thank God that I thought ahead to wear oversized, reflective sunglasses and a hoodie with the hood all the way up. I will probably still show up somewhere on the internet as Cooper’s ‘Mystery Woman,’ but that’s fine. As long as I am unidentifiable, I don’t care if they speculate on our relationship. 

Honestly, the thought of having a relationship with Cooper for people to speculate on is thrilling in and of itself, even though the rational part of me knows that publicity is my ultimate enemy. The fact that I can’t afford to pop up in some gossip rag or even on some jealous groupie’s Instagram feed will make being Cooper’s girlfriend really tricky, if I ever end up becoming that. But we can figure it out. Being together would require overcoming a lot more barriers than just some lust-filled girls’ social media obsessions.

I asked not to sit in the usual wives and girlfriends section and Cooper grudgingly obliged. “I want to show off my girl,” he said, which was pretty much calling me his girlfriend. That was really exciting and I almost forgot my point, but I had enough sense to put my foot down. So I’m not sitting with Carl the Crusher’s girls in the camera zone, but I am still in the second row and really close up to the ring. Closer than I would like, but getting Cooper to even agree to second row over first was getting him to make quite a concession.

Carl the Crusher comes stomping down the aisle and plants his big, meaty hands on the side of the stage, hurtling himself up over the ropes and into the ring. He lands on his feet, raising his enormous, Hulk-style arms into the air and roaring at the crowd. His teeth are filed to points, making his canine-esque face all the more frightening as he snarls at his fans like a rabid rottweiler. They’re absolutely eating it up, screaming with excitement.

The match is an exercise in opposites and it’s clear who is playing which role. Carl the Crusher is here to destroy Cooper, the pretty boy with the perfect face and the perfect body. Cooper is the man all the women want and all the men want to be, and Carl is the terror to titillate the audience as he stamps out beauty—or tries to.

Cooper comes down the aisle, to the announcer crowing, “Welcome the MMA’s golden boy, Cooper “Veni Vidi Vici” Quin!” and the cheers get louder. I’m among the cheering women, I have to admit, but I know Cooper actually cares about my cheer in particular. And he’s also just incredibly sexy. If we weren’t in a crowded stadium of his fans, I would probably not be able to resist pouncing on him and ripping my clothes off, begging him to take me right then and there. Mmmmm, yes.

I cross my legs and watch Cooper plant his hands on the side of the ring and easily catapult his body over the rope, like it’s only a foot up instead of several. He holds his hands straight up in the air, throwing off his robe as he does it, and the crowd goes wild. I see him looking for me, so I blow him a kiss when his gaze finally lands on me. He catches it and winks at me.

I can almost hear the women around me getting whiplash from snapping their necks around so fast to look at who this mystery woman is. I shrug deeper into my hoodie, thankful again for the sunglasses. But I feel relatively safe and can’t wipe the goofy grin off of my face. A woman a few seats over mutters, “Lucky bitch.”

Yes. I smile. Yes, I am.

Cooper

I
know that I am an exceptional fighter and I don’t believe in false modesty. I don’t try to act like I think every puffed-up iron smasher at the gym has a chance with me in the ring. It’s just a fact, and one that I’ve always worked really hard for, that they don’t. That said, pride comes before a fall and though I know I can, and will, take home this tournament victory, just like the others, I can’t deny that Carl the Crusher is one of the few guys in league who is an actual threat.

I don’t respect him at all as a fighter. He’s juiced up worse than Schwarzenegger at his peak, and his clownish muscles may be a great show, but he didn’t actually earn them. It’s like women who buy their boobs—there’s nothing of personal merit there. But bought or not, Carl’s heft alone can cause some real damage. Paired with his understanding of the sport and the fact that he’s just about at the peak of his career, this isn’t a fight where anyone could phone it in and still be okay.

Carl swings for my head. I dodge his massive, ham-sized fist by just a fraction of an inch, socking him in the gut as I duck under his arm. The crowd boos as he responds to the punch, folding a little. Signs of weakness and pain aren’t welcome. They want to see the blood spill from gashes on foreheads. They want to see the arms bend in ways that they shouldn’t. They want the loser beaten into submission at the close of the match, barely able to keep it together. But they don’t want to see pain. Men fight with honor, with dignity, and, most of all, with grit.

Carl recovers himself quickly, coming back up to standing as he spins around to face me. He roars, pounding a single fist on his enormous barrel chest and hurtles towards me, three hundred fifty pounds of infuriated muscle. I am up against the right side of the ring and can’t go left in time without being within reach of his dominant right arm. I can’t meet him head on without taking a serious hit from the force of impact. I make a split-second decision and feign left before dropping low and taking him out at the knee. With a massive thud, his bulk hits the floor of the mat and the crowd erupts into a deafening, collective cheer.

We’re resetting positions, since I knocked him down, and our trainers come up to check on us and give the usual words of encouragement—‘kill that motherfucker,’ ‘it’s you or him, take him out if you want to keep his teeth,’ ‘fuck him up like he slept with your sister,’ etc. It’s all incredibly predictable, but it’s partly because the crowds expect it and partly just for the trainers to see you up close. They all know their fighters well enough to be able to tell if something is seriously wrong. Those little pep talks save a lot, but not all, lives.

I use the quick break to look out at the crowd. I quickly scan over to her seat, expecting to see my beautiful girl cheering for me, but her seat is empty. She’s probably in the bathroom or grabbing a bite from concessions. Great, I wanted her to see me make Carl hurt. Still, I can’t blame the woman for being ravenous after all the physical activity we’ve been up to. And it’s good that she’s fueling now, because I’m going to want another victory round after this match. I’ll just have to slug the Neanderthal double as hard when she gets back.

The little break is over and we’re all set to go again. Carl is clearly pissed. This is his year to win, or he’s already going to be on the downward slope of his career without a tournament under his belt since before I came onto the scene. He jumps up into the air and comes down with a thud, shaking the ring platform. He’s in a power position, with a wide stance, bent knees, and fists up to spar.