Chapter Two

Chapter Two

The good thing about getting MMA as my assignment topic is that the sport seems eager for any kind of attention it can get. I don’t have to go through any snotty secretaries, PR agents or legal obstacles to score an interview at The Grind, a gym in Concord. All I have to do is ask. In fact, the only problem with Mixed Martial Arts is that it’s Mixed Martial Arts.

I figured the violence in the first video I watched was a fluke. I thought that MMA must be like WWF wrestling, with a lot of flamboyant role-playing cowboys and heavy-metal knights. You know, when men in customs jump on each other after a theatrical twenty-minute speech.

But I was wrong. During my in-depth research (yeah, fine, I googled it), I discovered the men of MMA literally beat each other up to oblivion. There is blood. Everywhere. There are black eyes, torn ligaments, broken bones and enough medical staff to open up a field hospital at every match. It is all real and painfully brutal.

My initial conclusion is that any guy who would want to be an MMA fighter must be brain damaged. When I hit Dawson Alba with this psychological assessment this morning on the phone, the trainer serenely confirmed, “Yeah, the guys all get hit pretty seriously in the head.”

Fun times ahead, right?

As I pull into the parking lot of The Grind on Saturday, I’m shivering not because it’s a chilly afternoon, but because the thought of researching this bloody sport is grossing me out to the max. I stare at the huge, two-story hangar on the outskirts of town. The XWL logo is proudly painted in red, white and black on the front and sides, the stylized symbol seemingly visible from every freeway in the Bay Area.

I park my pink Mini Cooper among the black Ram trucks and Jeeps. I inherited the Mini from Izzy for free so I shouldn’t complain, but it’s so devastatingly pink, it stands out among the other testosterone-fueled vehicles like a juicy pimple on a prom queen. A half-dozen guys stroll by and peer through the window, staring at me like I got lost on my way to the nearest mall.

A tall guy shakes his head in amusement as I release the custom-installed, pink-patterned Hello Kitty seat belt. Damn you, Izzy. I want to yell that a supermodel chose the car, not me, but keeping a low profile seems to be a higher priority right now.

I stumble my way out and light up a blunt, frowning at the guy through my Wayfarer sunglasses (another discard from Izzy) as I attempt to calm my nerves. I’m not going to smoke the whole thing. Just a few drags to take the edge off won’t do any harm, right?

Say what you will about my pink car, there’s no mistaking me for Izzy and her designer clothes once I step out in my Subhumans black tee and Boyfriend ripped jeans, my messy bun tied carelessly at the nape of my neck. We’re a different species, she and I. I take another deep drag, frowning.

That’s it. Breathe in, breathe out.

I’m getting kind of good at it.

“Yo. You’re not allowed to smoke here.” It’s the tall guy again. He’s wearing a black-skull bandana mask covering the lower part of his face, presumably because he thinks it makes him look badass. (It kinda does.)

“I’ll put it out in a second.” I grunt my irritation and puff a cloud of smoke skywards.

“Oh, man, you’re smoking pot?” He jerks out his SkullCandy earbuds, puffing his cheeks. He is athletic and muscular, his chest and thick arms bulging through his black XWL tee. I scan his gray sweatpants and flip-flops and catch a glimpse of the huge snake tattoo crawling up from his back onto his neck.

Crap. I need to say something. “We’re outside. How the hell is it your business if I smoke here.” I puff my blunt coolly, but inside, my pulse is racing. “Keep walkin’, cowboy.”

No, not that, you idiot.I want to shut up. Correction, I need to shut up. He is three times my size, pure muscle and male arrogance, and he has this dusky stare that makes my skin tingle.

But I can’t seem to stop myself, and to my horror, my mouth continues firing more stupidity. “If you care so much about your health, second hand smoke should be the least of your worries. You realize getting punched on a regular basis damages your brain. It affects memory and all kinds of other stuff.”

Fantastic, Blaire. You basically just called the guy brain dead.My chances of leaving here in an ambulance have just dramatically increased.

He closes the space between us and plucks the blunt from my lips, flicking it to the other side of the parking lot with his thumb and forefinger. My mouth is still agape when he pulls his bandana down to his neck, exposing his whole face.

“That’s a very bad idea,” he warns in a low, husky voice. His breath smells of mint gum and mouthwash, and he is standing so close I can feel the heat pulsing from his body despite the fact it’s ludicrously hot today as it is.

“You mean smoking or running my mouth at you?” My voice cracks. I’m tongue-tied. It feels like my mouth is full of cotton wool.

“Both,” he says, removing a lock of hair from my forehead.

Wow. I mean, wow. Hot Parking-Lot Dude is so sizzling, calling him beautiful would be the insult of the century. He’s lucky his nose is slightly crooked, like it’s been hit one too many times, because otherwise, he’d be sickeningly pretty. What the hell is he, anyway? Latino? Asian? Mixed Caucasian? He looks like he’s been photoshopped by a bunch of horny teenagers. He has pouty, perfectly shaped lips, slanted Asian eyes and the chiseled, Brad Pitt-like bone structure girls shit themselves over.

Quick reminder:

I’m a girl.

I’m standing in hazardous vicinity to him.

And I’m clearly, unbelievably fucked.

“That’s some car you drive.” His bedroom eyes narrow to a spot behind me.

“Problem?” I bat my eyes slowly, trying to look bored.

“Na, figures.” He’s so pretty I can’t concentrate on what he’s saying. Or what I’m saying, for that matter. Then he pivots in the other direction, and before I realize what’s happening, Poof, he’s gone.

It takes me a minute or ten to regroup.

I lean back against my hood, practicing deep breaths and trying to calm down. Everything is under control. I just had a brief encounter with a personal-space invading maniac. Who happens to be unfairly gorgeous. But the gym is huge and my chances of running into him again are slim.

Besides, Dawson is waiting and I can’t afford to be late. I need to focus on this assignment in order to graduate. Mom and Dad will kill me if I fail again. No, I will kill myself if I fail again.

I enter the gym, and I’m greeted at the counter by a ginger-bearded dude with a man-bun and a black XWL tee just like the one Hot Parking-Lot Dude wore.

“Hi, I have a meeting with Dawson Alba. My name is Blaire Stern.” I offer a polite smile and try not to look like the place is freaking me out. Which is difficult, especially since the gym is painted in floor-to-ceiling black.

I adjust the messenger bag hooked over my shoulder and try not to feel conspicuous in my ripped jeans and black chucks. The scent of aftershave, sweat and testosterone assaults my nostrils. I see tons of Iron-Man-sized dudes punching stuff and rolling around on the floor, and even spot a few women lifting super heavy barbells. These women mean business and are nothing like the soccer moms at my mom’s gym, the kind on the treadmills with their makeup still on, walking at the pace of a dying turtle.

“Okay…” Ginger-Bearded Guy looks distracted. “Sorry, can’t leave this place unattended.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “The boss’s office is on the other side of the gym. Let me get someone to show you the way, cool?”

I nod. So they are not all bossy jerks. Ginger-Bearded Guy is nice and helpful. He motions someone over to the desk while I drink in the place with my eyes.

“Here we are! This is Ty. He’ll take you up to Dawson’s office,” GBG announces behind me.

I turn around to greet the Good Samaritan who’s come to my rescue, and my jaw drops to the floor. Hot Parking-Lot Dude is standing in front of me, sexy galore. “You!” I squint accusingly, for a reason beyond my grasp. Other than putting out my blunt, he hasn’t done anything wrong. Then again, I guess it was a no smoking area. And, well, pot is still illegal, and stuff.

Hot Parking-Lot Dude, now officially identified as Ty, fights the slow smile that’s spreading on his lips. Is he laughing at me or with me? My cheeks flush and I look away immediately.

GBG’s eyes shift between us. “You two know each other?”

“No,” we both answer in unison. I think Ty is still looking me. I wish he’d stop. Why am I embarrassed? It’s very unlike me.

“Right. Then Ty, could you show Blaine where Dawson sits?”

“It’s Blaire.” I grit my teeth.

“Right.” GBG waves my correction away dismissively.

I follow Ty’s broad, triangle-shaped back as he separates the ocean of gym rats like Moses parting the Red Sea. His dark hair is buzzed extremely short, and I study the tattoo of a giant snake winding up his neck. The snake’s face is a zombie skull that looks like it’s about to sink its teeth into one of his ears. His ears look deformed and lumpy, so I try to focus on them and his tattoo, soothing my out of control hormones.

Final verdict? Ugliest tattoo to ever be inked on human flesh, but Ty somehow pulls it off without looking like a serial killer. The guy has such an attraction to death that I’m surprised he is still alive. Skull bandana, skull headphones, skull tattoos.

Other than my pounding heartbeat, we walk in silence. Ty takes a set of metal stairs, bypassing an elevator, probably hoping to avoid the awkward elevator conversation. Can’t blame him. I don’t know what to say, feeling embarrassed about our earlier encounter, and also because it’s becoming evident that Hormones are taking over Brain.

He’s not my type, mind you.

I always go for the preppy hipsters, guys like Shane, who are into deep stuff like indie music, beat-generation books and…Lord help me, his butt is just so firm and round when he climbs up the stairs, how is this even anatomically possible?

I don’t trust myself around this guy. My body can get rebellious sometimes. Charlie Hunnam can testify.

Upstairs, Ty leads me down a catwalk, then stops and tilts his head at a closed black door. “That’s your guy.”

“Thanks.” I send him a tight-lipped smile.

He nods grimly.

“Sorry about earlier,” I say. “I rarely smoke pot. I may have relapsed the last couple of weeks, but it’s not a recurring thing." Oh my God. I’m babbling like an idiot and I bet he doesn’t give a damn. Get to the point, Blaire. "I’m just so out of my element here....” I circle the floor with the toe of my chucks, arms behind my back. "I guess what I’m saying is I needed to...I had to...well, never-mind. Thank you."

It’s amazing that I’m studying communications, considering my lack of ability to articulate a full sentence.

Ty nods again.

“Jeez, are you a chatterbox, or what?” I say. “Shut up for a sec!”

He ducks his head to hide a slight smirk, and that’s when I see it. His unbelievably boyish smile, with dimples and all. No wonder he’s trying to fight it. He looks like such a sweet, innocent guy wearing this smile, even with the tattoos and buzzed hair. Before I realize, I’m smiling too.

We’re beaming like two idiots, for a bit longer than socially acceptable. I look down and he fiddles with the black rubber bands on his wrist.

Ty is the first to wipe the grin from his face. “Take care of yourself, huh?” He takes a step back, momentarily allowing me to pick up the pieces of my heart without having my butt metaphorically kicked. “And stop smoking pot.”

“Yeah, whatever. Ciao.”

I knock on Dawson’s door and watch Ty already heading back the way we came. I can’t help but feel a pang with his departure. He must be a mind reader, because just when I’m about to let out a gloomy moan, he turns back in my direction.

“I know you’ll do the right thing, Blake.” He’s walking backwards as he speaks.

“It’s Blaire!”

I see those dimples again. Is it wrong to be bummed about the fact he doesn’t seem to want to remember my name?

Then Dawson Alba is opening the door and I remember why I’m here.

Alba wears his forty-something age well, and looks military sharp, with a natural tan and broad shoulders. He sits with his feet propped on his desk and talks to me enthusiastically about the XWL and what they do. Even though he knows my article will never see the light of day, he is eager to help.

“Way this thing works, every MMA gym has a group of elite XWL fighters who participate in professional matches. I’ve got a few, including two stars that are actually top fighters in their leagues. They travel all over the world, meet international opponents and fight them to the Xtreme Warrior title in their unique weight division. They make a living out of this thing and have dedicated fans all over the world. But clearly, they also have to make a living. You can’t rely on the few bouts you take every year and the occasional endorsement. So they also work here and teach people what they know about the art.”

“I admit, up until now I thought MMA was all about illegal cage fighting and broken teenage boys looking for redemption.” I bite back an uneasy giggle, thinking about Ty. The posters behind Dawson’s head, of upcoming events, make my skin crawl, and so does the crazy twinkle in his eyes when he talks about violence.

“But that’s exactly what my guys are.” His mouth curves into a smile. “What they were, at least. Now? Now they’re a sliver of the American dream. Power, money, brutality. Can’t get more primal than that.”

I thank Dawson and arrange to visit his gym at least four days a week while I’m working on my assignment, but he isn’t satisfied with my huge commitment. Nope. Dawson insists I should participate in one of the gym’s classes, see what all the fuss is about. I explain I’m grateful for the opportunity, but that I would probably kill myself by accident if I ever tried MMA.

After a long exchange of “no’s” and “yes’s”, we settle for me participating in a class of my choice sometime next week. Yay, right?

Wrong.

I’m so out of my depth here. The sport, the blood, the men…the Ty.

I’m not even sure how he drilled himself into my head, but I’ll probably outgrow our encounter within the next couple of days. It looks like Brain and Hormones are in for a fight. Just as long as Heart stays out of the ring.

***

The next day I sleep until noon. Shane bailed on hanging out last night. Still, I’m exhausted from the thoughts swirling in my head in a jumbled whirlwind. The XWL gym is like a dancing flame. I’m intrigued, but I don’t want to get burned.

I wish I could get Professor Penniman to let me change topics. I’m not looking forward to visiting the XWL gym again today. Dawson called after our meeting and he’s arranged for me to meet with his two stars this afternoon. No classes, he promised. Just the interviews I asked to conduct with his two elite fighters. Well, at least I won’t have to sweat.

I collapse on the couch and consider asking Izzy for advice. She’s sent a bunch of pictures of Japan to my phone. She’s moved on from Singapore to Tokyo.

The doorbell interrupts just as I’m about to call her. The chime shoots me out of my seat.

I’m not expecting anyone.

I gaze through the peephole and see Shane staring right back at me, pretending to hump my door theatrically. Laughing, I open the door, watching him troop into my luxury apartment— nine foot ceiling, designer finishes and all that jazz—holding a box from the bakery near my complex, The Sweetest Affair. His favorite. My favorite.

“Such a pleasant surprise.” I offer a devious grin.

“Don’t make a guy blush.”

“I’m talking to whatever’s inside that box.”

“Cupcakes. You know how much I love pleasing you, B.” His words seem to hang in the air as he swings my fridge open.

He pours himself some coffee with milk, while I demolish half the box in one go, then let out a delicate burp.

“Always a lady,” he teases, though I know Shane well enough to recognize that he does consider me too much of a tomboy.

He’s always been drawn to the girlie type. Izzy is the one exception. She’s about as girlie as they come, but he seems to almost hate her. I never understood why they don’t get along. Neither of them explained why they stopped talking altogether shortly after he traveled abroad, and while I tried to milk some info about their beef, I didn’t push the subject with either of them since I couldn’t afford losing Shane as a friend or Izzy as a roommate.

“Well, this lady has to go to the XWL gym in Concord to work on that article Professor Penniman assigned. What’s your topic anyway? You never said.”

He rubs the back of his neck, squeezing his eyes shut. "Elizabeth’s Passion."

The slow grin spreading across my face says it all. Hello, Shane, meet Fate.

"You mean you’ll actually have to talk to Izzy and…” I fake a gasp. "Ask for her help?"

"I’m trying to find a way around it. Maybe my good friend here can help me out."

This explains the cupcakes. What it doesn’t explain is why Shane is doing everything he can to avoid my twin. They used to be cool with each other growing up.

"You don’t want me anywhere near your assignment. I’m college poison, remember?"

He grimaces, knowing how right I am.

"Whatever issues you have with Izzy, get over ’em. I’m sure she’s way past the subject. I talk about you all the time and she’s never said a word about you. She probably doesn’t even remember who you are."

By the flare of his nostrils, I realize I just said something incredibly stupid.

I quickly backpedal. "Don’t worry. Just talk to her. Anyway, wanna come with me?” I slap his thigh.

I could use his support. The Grind makes me feel uncomfortable, and the possibility of running into Ty makes me feel even more self-conscious, so I’d really appreciate it if my best friend would tag along.

“I came this morning in the shower, but I would love to come again.” The next thing he does happens very quickly. I feel his hand gripping my thigh. And not just for a moment, but he actually takes the time to squeeze. It takes me a few seconds to register what’s happening. So sudden, so unexpected, so... crazy. My gape travels from my assaulted thigh to his teal eyes as I sit on the barstool.

Don’t panic. Don’t scream. Do. Not. Pull. An. Izzy.

I bolt from of my seat, rushing toward my bedroom. “Need to get dressed, be out in a sec,” I choke, disappearing into my room.

I rummage through my closet to make some noise. Maybe the clicking of the hangers will quiet the thoughts swirling in my head like a tornado, ripping every single house, tree and car in its way. My best friend made a pass at me out of the freaking blue. Brain. Does. Not. Compute.

I watch his frame in the reflection from my bedroom mirror as he runs his hand through his hair, probably thinking the exact same thing. This is bad. A calamity. A deal-breaker.

“I’ll wait.” His eyes lock on mine in the mirror. And I know exactly what he means...

***

Driving to Concord, Shane and I try to regain our tension-free banter. We have this thing where he makes up stories to keep me entertained. They are always the stupidest stories ever, but he tells them with such conviction you can’t help but laugh your ass off. This time he amuses me with a story about a baby anteater that went to boarding school with—you guessed it— ants. All the baby ants resent him and bully him for who he is, and he is lonely, sad and isolated, until he forms a punk band with a beaver and a frog and they become a national sensation in the Portuguese forest where they are all living.

No, we are definitely not smoking anything in the car.

Yes, I’m aware this sounds mega-stupid.

But it’s working. By the time we arrive at the gym, my stomach hurts from the cupcakes, laughing and anticipation.

We jump out of Shane’s Mustang and enter the gym, and I actually feel a tad proud when I lead our way toward the rings where the MMA fighters train. I first noticed the enclosed platforms when I climbed the stairs with Ty yesterday. I made a mental note to check them out next time I was here.

“Ich Will” by Rammstein is blasting through the speakers. The beat drops and bodies crush into one another violently, twisting and wrestling on the mats, mosh-pit style. That one’s called sparring.

“This place is crazy, B. You’ll develop testicles just by breathing the air here.” Shane is puffing out his cheeks.

We stride toward Dawson, who is teaching a class. He is roaring at his students while they brawl. Shane’s right. The levels of testosterone in this place are intoxicating and the music blasting through the speakers is threatening to burst my eardrums. In fact, my BFF and I are the only people who aren’t soaked in our own bodily fluids head to toe.

“I don’t know about testicles, but I may sport a mustache by the end of this assignment.” I lean on a red and white sign asking the gym goers to Please Clean up Your Blood after Practice and Keep Our Gym Clean.

Shane rests his leg on a nearby wall, arms folded on his chest.

“Marco, you dropped to the ground!” Dawson thunders. “That’s no good, man. The ground is your worst enemy!” He is pacing back and forth and looks like he’s about to explode.

“Marco zero. Gravity one. Poor guy didn’t stand a chance.” I nudge Shane and we share a laugh.

But the truth is, I’m impressed. These men are doing their own thing, inching closer to their dream one punch at the time. What am I doing with my life? They have determination—purpose. I want to feel as passionate about something as they do, sans the cracked limbs and mangled ears. I want to feel fulfilled and alive like them.

“Didn’t you say your roommate is training here?” I ask Shane.

The dude has a gazillion roommates, each weirder than the other. I try to keep my communication with them to a minimum. This is a philosophy I apply to most of the human race.

“Yeah, Josh. Stopped coming here a while ago, though. Someone broke his nose.”

“Damn,” I say. Not that this comes as a surprise after the videos I watched. "No wonder he said the place is full of jerks."

“Yeah. The asshole really screwed up his face. Good thing I prefer to express my masculinity by watching NFL and running every once in a while."

After a few minutes of us silently looking at the guys dancing in semi-gay thigh grips and grunting like Anna Kournikova in a white skirt, Dawson approaches us.

“Yo,” he says, shaking both our hands. “You can talk to these guys if you want or wait for my two stars to arrive. Remember I told you about the two pros that are ranked super-high in the XWL? Jesse and Ty. They’ll be happy to talk to you when they finish practice in ten minutes.”

Shit. I didn’t know Ty was one of the guys I was going to interview. I’m not sure he’s going to be all that happy to talk to me, but my heart skips a beat the minute I hear his name. It’s pounding all over the place. One second it beats fast enough to jump out of my ribcage, and the next, it’s slow and I almost feel faint.

Get a grip, Blaire.He’s just a guy, and not a very nice one either.

“You okay?” Shane rubs my arm, his eyebrows pinched together.

I ease my arm away, still anxious about that earlier thigh grip. “Yeah. Cupcake overdose is all.” If this is my reaction to hearing Ty’s name, I’m dreading the thought of what’s going to happen when I actually see him in the flesh.

“There they are, the men of the hour.” Dawson raises his hands to greet his approaching stars.

Ty strides toward us, accompanied by a taller, even more muscular, black guy—Jesse, I guess. Between them, they have enough tattoos to cover the whole of NorCal. They swagger toward us like B-movie gangsters. There’s something incredibly cocky about the way they carry themselves. Everything, from their posture to their clothes to the way they chew their gum and the smug glint in their eyes. I’m guessing that Dawson referring to them as his “stars” doesn’t help with piercing their inflated egos.

"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.

Jesse lets out a loud laugh, like I just told him the earth is flat and populated by glittery unicorns. He’s on the verge of tears, holding his stomach when he finally says, “Ask Tyler. He’ll tell you all about the fangirls.”

“Tyler?”

“Yeah, that’s Ty’s name. Tyler Wilder.”

Tyler Wilder. Lookie here. Looks like I have a name to Google.

"Before you make any assumptions, I suggest you hit one of our classes and see what the fuss is all about. If you’re going to write about it, you need to try it, no?"

I drop my head back and sigh, knowing he’s right. I know Dawson wants me to try it out, and a happy Dawson means a happy interviewee.

"Okay," I say, feeling pushed to the corner.

Jesse gets up from his seat and chuckles to himself. "Besides, you kinda look like a tomboy. I think you’ll have fun."

When Jesse and I climb down from the bleachers, Ty is waiting for us, leaning against a doorframe, ankles crossed, eyebrows raised and arms folded. He grits his teeth when I pass him, a devilish look in his eyes. I flip him the bird as I stroll over to join Shane, trying to look like I’m bored with his antics.

Jesse nudges Ty’s ribs. “What’s good, bro?”

Ty is jerking his chin at me when he returns gruffly, “Nothing’s good. And there goes the neighborhood.”