Modern Gladiator Page 2

  “Wait, right now?”

  She hops over to me, boundless energy flowing from her like an aura. Even her long black hair bounces like an uncoiled slinky. I hold up my hands, trying to calm her.

  “Be careful,” I say. “You don’t want to hurt yourself. Think of your body.”

  “I’m fine. Stop treating me like I’ll break any second. Let’s go!”

  Although my sister is older than I am—her twenty-eight to my twenty-two—I swear she acts ten years younger than me. I’m not surprised. Lala spent several years in the hospital as a child, and I sometimes think she’s making up for lost time by enjoying life like only a kid can.

  Lala holds a special pass in hand as we snake our way through the sea of bodies. We make it all the way to the back ring door when a pair of bouncers grabs us both by the shoulders. Their black suits and sunglasses make me think I’m waiting in line at a fancy nightclub, but their bursting-at-the-seams muscles remind me of the reality. They hire badasses to protect the badasses, that’s for sure.

  “Fighters and their corner guys only,” one bouncer says in a gruff tone.

  Lala holds up her prize. “I want to see Derek ‘the Stinger’ Smith!”

  The two bouncers exchange a quick look, both frowning. “You sure you want to meet that fighter?” the other bouncer asks. “You don’t want to meet someone else?”

  “I definitely want to see Derek.”

  “All right, then. I’ll show you to the room.”

  The one guy leads us through the door. I’m hit with a heavy scent of sweat, mixed with a hint of blood. Weight trainers, dojo owners, and other fighters wait around the water coolers and complimentary snack tables. Each fighting association seems to have its own space, but we aren’t taken to any group. I keep my head down and avoid eye contact. Can we trust anyone back here? Professional fighters are only one step up from criminals in my mind—loose cannons with dangerous weapons, ready to hurt someone else at a moment’s notice.

  And I especially don’t want to run into Keon. He’s an unpredictable fighter with a reason to throw me against the wall.

  The bouncer leads us to a back room with a couch, a few cushioned chairs, and a TV with video feeds to the ring.

  “You’ll have fifteen minutes,” the guy says. “You can ask the fighter to sign your stuff or take selfies but no endorsements, got it?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  He nods and exits, leaving me and my sister alone in the room.

  “So exciting,” she whispers. “I feel like a VIP.”

  “This room looks like a teachers’ lounge.”

  “But for fighters!”

  “I’m a little underwhelmed, to be honest.”

  “What did you think they do backstage?”

  “I don’t know. Practice for their match? Wrestle tigers? Something more impressive than sitting around.”

  Lala laughs. “They don’t want to injure themselves right before a fight. They need to relax.” She sits on the couch and fidgets with her jeans.

  The door opens, and I flinch, way more tense than I thought I was. Two men walk through the door—a bloodied Derek, and none other than his opponent, Keon Lynch.

  Derek smiles, but it’s hard to tell. His face looks like thirty bees went to town stinging him. I’m surprised he’s not drooling on himself. What if he has a concussion? Did the medics sign off on his health?

  “Someone asked to see me?” he says, his speech thick with saliva and cotton balls. He must be bleeding from the inside of his mouth.

  “I did,” Lala says as she stands. “I’m Malala Friel!”

  “Whaddaya want signed?”

  Derek holds up a Sharpie, his fingers swollen, but he keeps his grip.

  Wow, I guess Keon really did a number on this guy. But Derek seems happy. Too upbeat, to be honest. He just lost a fight. What is there to be happy about?

  “Hey.”

  I turn and find Keon glaring at me. Up close, I notice more details about his overall appearance. He has a slight mohawk, his dark hair unkempt, and his chin has a dusting of hair I’ve always found attractive. His dark tan skin has a bronze hue I find fascinating. Both Keon and Derek are still in their shorts, and they’ve donned T-shirts since the match. Tight, form-fitting T-shirts. I try not to stare.

  I’m on the fence—should I run or should I hit on the guy? The piercing glower Keon gives me says I should probably run. And I have no idea if he’s interested in men. Hitting on a fighter who isn’t gay will definitely get me punched in the face. Why did I have to trash-talk a professional fighter? I should’ve known life would make sure it came back to haunt me.

  Chapter 2: Biggest Fan

  Corbin Friel

  “WHAT’S WRONG?” Keon asks. “You had all sorts of things to say before the match started.”

  I glance over to Lala, hoping she’ll save me from this. But she and Derek moved to the other side of the room, and now she’s in whisper mode. Why did she have to abandon me?

  “I think you’re mistaking me for someone else,” I say.

  “Am I? You’re the only asshole wearing a suit and glasses.”

  “I, uh, well… lots of people have glasses. Besides, I wouldn’t dare say anything negative about you. You were clearly the superior fighter. Good job. With the fight. It was great.” I rub the back of my neck, forcing a laugh, flushed from the toes up.

  Keon steps closer to me. I take a step back out of reflex, but there’s nowhere to go. There’s a single door, and Keon stands in the way. Up close, he smells of powerful deodorant and gym sweat. A pleasant combination, but I shouldn’t be thinking about that right now.

  “So, it wasn’t you?” he drawls. “The one in the front row?”

  “No. Not me. I’m, uh, a fan. A huge fan. Your biggest fan.”

  He’s not buying it. Hell, I’m not buying it. I couldn’t lie to the most gullible person on earth—I’ve never been good at subterfuge. Then again, lots of people booed him. Why would he care about me? I guess those other people aren’t in the back room trying to get stuff signed from him and his buddies. And what if this guy is a rage-o-holic? Aren’t all fighters too crazy for words and hyperaggressive? I bet he would punch a dude for looking at him cross-eyed.

  “A fan, huh?” Keon says, dragging me from my spiral of terrible hypotheticals. He barks a single laugh and then smirks. “Why don’t I sign your shirt, then? That’s what every fan wants, right?”

  My shirt cost fifty dollars. Do I want someone to write all over it with Sharpie? No. Definitely not. Am I going to tell the MMA fighter I’m the one who yelled he sucked? Nope. Not going to do that—never in a million years. So I guess I’m losing out on a shirt.

  “O-okay,” I say. “That would be great.”

  Keon holds up a Sharpie, grabs the collar of my shirt, and pulls me close. He chortles under his breath, like he’s enjoying every second. My heart beats against my rib cage the moment he pokes his pen into place. I swear he could stab me with it, that’s how strong he is.

  “This looks expensive,” he says. He writes across my chest in big letters. “Nice material. You must be a lawyer or some other fancy Popsicle.”

  “I’m a med student.”

  “Is that right?” He finishes another line on my shirt. What is he writing? “I know a med student. You must be an egghead, just like her….”

  He gives me the once-over, his eyes trailing at a slow and steady pace. My face heats up, and I look away.

  “You work out?” he asks.

  “I don’t usually have the time,” I say. Is he flirting with me?

  “Yeah, it doesn’t feel like it,” he quips.

  I grit my teeth and silently berate myself. Of course he wasn’t hitting on me! He’s just messing with my head.

  Keon finishes his signature, and then he offers me a playful smile. My fear and hesitation rapidly boil into irritation. He’s not going to beat me up—he’s just messing with me.

  I glance down at my shirt. He wrote: I LOVE BIG DADDY KEON LYNCH. His signature sits underneath. If embarrassment could kill, I would have stage 3 terminal humiliation. I can’t believe I didn’t bring a jacket or a sweater. I’m going to have to walk out of here with this on my chest—and it isn’t small either. Big, bold print. Keon wanted people to see.

  I guess this is better than getting punched in the face.

  “Come see me in the cage again,” Keon says. “I’d hate to have a fight without my biggest fan in the audience.”

  What a douchebag. Why must everyone with a body like him be so infuriating?

  “I knew you’d remember,” Lala says with a squeal, her volume shifting to super loud in an instant. “We sat right next to each other, after all.”

  Derek laughs. “I can’t believe it. You recognize me? From second grade?”

  “Of course! You were the one who showed me around school when none of the other kids would. And when I saw you on Facebook and that you were a pro fighter now, I had to go to all your matches.”

  “Wow. I’m flattered. We should get a picture.”

  “Yes, we should.” Lala turns on her heel and waves me over. “Bin-Bin, get a picture!”

  Why? Why does she insist on using my nickname? I’m already wearing a ridiculous shirt, but now I’m subject to my sister’s pet names being spread around like a cough in elementary school.

  I walk around Keon and pull out my phone. She hugs up close to Derek, her arm around his bruised body, and he grimaces. Derek hides it when Lala glances up at him, however, forcing a half smile on his messed-up face.

  I snap a few pictures. Derek makes a fist with his free hand, like he’s taking a fight photo, and Lala does the same. They laugh and have a good time with it, but I’m ready to go. Heck, I was ready to go a few hours ago, bu
t now I’m secretly hoping for a coma to rescue me from this event.

  Lala hugs Derek a second time, and my chest tightens at the sight.

  “You two know each other?” I ask.

  “He was in my second-grade class,” Lala says. “That was the year between hospitals, when I had to use forearm crutches. None of the kids wanted to play with me, but Derek did.”

  I was way too young to remember any of that. And even if he was an amazing friend in second grade, that doesn’t mean he’s a good person now.

  Derek rubs the back of his neck. “I forgot you had the crutches. It’s all coming back now. I beat up the kids who made fun of you.”

  Lala nods. “I know. I guess it was your destiny to become a fighter, right?”

  She beams up at him. I’ve never seen her look at someone like that. Ever. Derek must feel something too, because he looks away, still chuckling, his face so swollen he can’t seem to adequately display any emotion outside of intense pain.

  The door opens and a bouncer pokes his bald head into the room. “Time’s up.”

  “Aw,” Lala groans. She turns to Derek. “I’m so glad I got to meet you in person. I’m definitely coming to all your matches in the future.”

  “Hey,” Derek says. “Why don’t you give me your number? I’ll hook you up with tickets.”

  “Really? You can do that?”

  “Oh yeah. All the fighters get tickets to give to their friends and family. And I’d love to see you again.”

  “I’d like that.”

  I put an arm around my sister and nod to Derek. “Okay, okay. I think we need to go.”

  “I’ll wait for her to write her number down,” the bouncer says.

  I hold back my objections. Who is this Derek guy, anyway? Already asking for my sister’s number? Pretty forward. Too forward.

  Lala writes her name and number on a napkin and hands it over. Then she grabs my arm, and we leave the lounge. I give Keon one last glance before exiting. He’s stretched out on the couch, watching us go with an amused smile. He’s good-looking—more than good—but I still feel a lingering irritation when I catch his gaze. And he’s a fighter. They have to be insane at a certain level. They’re up in cages beating each other for fun. They can’t be smart people.

  Lala pokes my chest. “Wow. Looks like you made a friend.”

  I cover Keon’s signature with my arm. “Never mention this to anyone.”

  “You’ll come with me to other fights, right?”

  “Maybe,” I say, flushed all over again. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  Keon Lynch

  I FINISH packing my equipment and glance up at the clock. 2300 hours. Damn. It’s been a long night.

  “You gonna do any celebrating?” Derek asks.

  He doesn’t have to pack his equipment. He came with a dojo—some place called Rodrick Hu Goju Karate—and the coaches gather everything for their fighters. Must be nice. I’d join a place if I could afford the membership.

  “Nah,” I say. “No celebrating.”

  Derek holds his napkin close and examines the phone number. “Can you believe it? I lost and still had to fend off the ladies.” He attempts to waggle his eyebrows, but I don’t think he’ll be able to move his face for a week.

  “Congrats.”

  “I remember Malala being nice. Full of energy, ya know? And she was hot, right?”

  I give him a sidelong glance as I thrust the last of my towels into my duffel bag. Derek replies with a nervous laugh and tucks the napkin back into his pocket.

  “Sorry. I keep forgetting you’re not into the ladies.”

  How can he forget? Then again, Derek forgets a lot of stuff. We’ve been friends since our time in Afghanistan. We both served two tours together, and he’s the most forgetful man I know. People joke it’s because he’s taken one too many blows to the head, but I know better. He’s always been like this.

  I check our surroundings, hoping no one heard his comment. We’re separated from the others. While most fighters wouldn’t care what team I played for, some will make my life a living hell. I don’t want to risk getting kicked out of the fighting league over some bullshit homophobia.

  Most fighters are friends with each other, even after fighting in the ring. There’s a limited amount of fight nights to participate in, so everyone knows everyone else. If my sexuality came out and some guys made an issue of it, my fighting career would become infinitely more difficult. They’d all band together to see me ousted.

  I’m friends with Derek, sure, but we were in the Army together, and he’s always treated me like a long-lost brother. He treats all his friends like that—like a kindred spirit he’s known through a million past lives.

  “You gonna join us?” Derek asks. “For food?”

  “Nah.”

  “You sure?”

  “I have work tomorrow.”

  “All the losers get sloshed together,” Derek says with a smile. “It’s pretty hilarious.”

  “Hanging around depressed people just gets me depressed.”

  “Oh, I get it. That’s how I am with horny people.”

  I chuckle as I sling my bag over my shoulder. “You haven’t changed a bit since we were in the infantry together.”

  Derek rests back on a foldout chair, his breathing a little heavy. “You rushin’ home to your new squeeze or something?”

  “Would you stop talkin’ about this? I don’t have anyone.”

  “How? We’re in California. I wouldn’t be surprised if we changed our state animal to a rainbow. There has to be someone here for you.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You have to find someone to kill the loneliness with. Trust me. I went to dark places when I didn’t have any friends or family around. Didn’t you leave everyone you know in South Carolina?”

  Yeah, thanks for reminding me, Derek. I keep the comment to myself and sigh. “Yes.”

  “You don’t want to end up like those drunks who fight to forget, do you?”

  “Heh.”

  It’s not hard to find a guy for a night—at least, not for me. When I lived in South Carolina, I knew a lot of gym rats who wanted a workout partner to go home with them after their training. Lots of fun, but I have to be careful now.

  “I don’t need anyone,” I say.

  “You haven’t seen anybody who interests you?”

  I’ve seen plenty. But my thoughts drift to the coat rack with glasses who insulted me during my match. I knew the moment I started manhandling his shirt that he was into me. No guy blushes that hard or avoids looking at my body unless he’s into men. I’d stake my life on it.

  And he said he was a med student. Ironic. It makes him stick out in my mind, unlike any of my other admirers.

  But I really can’t start thinking about bullshit like that. I have too much to do and not enough time to do it.

  “What about you?” I ask Derek, trying to clear my thoughts. “You got anyone in mind?”

  Derek holds up his napkin and points to the phone number.

  “Old elementary school flame, huh?”

  “Something like that,” he says.

  “Who was the guy with her?”

  “That was her brother. I don’t remember his name. Bun-Bun or something?”

  “That’s not it. That’s not even a real name.”

  “Dude, I don’t remember. She said it was her brother. Why?”

  “No reason,” I say, trying to remember his name for myself. “I was just curious.”

  Derek snorts, and a little blood from his broken nose drips onto his upper lip. He wipes it off with a towel. “All right. I’ll catch you later.”

  “See ya.”

  After a long exhale, I give Derek a quick wave and head for the door. The Sacramento night air stings my sweat-coated skin. I forgot how chilly it can get in California, especially during the winter. South Carolina had a humidity that refused to quit—like living on top of a boiling pot. Anything is good compared to that.

  I walk over to my motorcycle. The parking lot is anything but empty. Groups of fighters hang with spectators, discussing the fights or meeting up for dinner. They laugh and chat at volumes inappropriate for 2300 hours, but half of them are drunk and probably don’t realize where they are anyway. Beer flows as much as the blood at these events.

  “Hey,” someone calls out as I tie my bag into the back.