Bain Page 2

  “Maybe or maybe I’m just filling time.”

  “I don’t believe that for a second. You can put on the façade that this means nothing to you, that you’re just wasting some time while being here, but I know different. I’m not saying that I know it all—that I know you, but I can see that this fascinates you.”

  Lawson hits too close to home, but he’s right. This does fascinate me. Back home I tried getting into something just like this, it didn’t go down well, though. Back home they believe that women shouldn’t be in an octagon, let alone a ring. Sexist pigs.

  But Lawson can’t know that. So I do what I do best, distract. “You going to finish showing me your gym?”

  He looks at me inquisitively, but allows me to distract him all the same. “Every area is set up to focus on one thing. Over there, you see the mats? That’s for grappling. If you decide to do this—that’s something you’d be doing roughly once a week…”

  He trails on explaining the entire layout of the gym. I’m not new to this so I already have an understanding at what training would entail and what every piece of equipment is for. I take this time to inspect him.

  Chapter Four

  Everyone else leaves the octagon. The lights shine brightly in the arena and I look across to my opponent. The smirk he has in place irks me—his ego’s inflated. I’ve studied this guy for months. I know his strengths and I know his weakness probably just a good as his coach. I know where to strike and the areas on my body to protect. He believes he has this match in the bag. Unlike him though, I won’t lose. I refuse to lose.

  I bounce on my feet, back and forth leveling my weight. My hands are locked tight in fists, protecting my face. He loves to aim his strikes to the jaw. I’m not about to leave this tonight needing my jaw wired. We play a short game of cat and mouse, before I land a few hits into his rib cage. His weakest spot. Always forgets to protect that area.

  He shoves my body into one of the walls of the octagon. He holds me, his head on my chest my arms still protecting my face. He tries kicking my legs, punching at my ribs, trying to tire me out.

  I can do this all night.

  His breathing is rapid, overworking himself too fast, too soon. I take advantage of it. I grab an arm and wrap it around behind him before I drop back down on to the mat. I excel at submission whereas he doesn’t. He screams, but refuses to tap, I pull on his arm harder. He trashes against me and his legs are flying everywhere. He’s trying to figure out how he’ll get out of this. In seconds, he flips his entire body so he’s facing me. I lock my legs around him, while holding his hand to the mat.

  I sit up then lock my other arm around his shoulder and onto my wrist. The Kimora.

  Sadly, I’m so excited that he put us in the position to where I could make him tap out that I forget to keep my left leg tightened on his side. He flips out of the move. Only to lock me into the same move I was going to win this with.

  I breathe in and out, relaxing my body. There’s no fucking way I’m going to submit to him. To this.

  I can feel my tendons in my shoulder stretching. I have to get out of this Goddamn lock. I can’t sustain an injury that could take me out of commission for any period of time. I lift my right leg and try to loosen the lock his leg has around me. I rock us back and forth, shimmying his leg down. For a muscular guy, I’m pretty limber, I manage to lift my leg over his and roll him over on top of me. Not where I want him necessarily, but at least the hold he had on me is now gone. Shoulder is definitely going to hurt tomorrow.

  He climbs off me, allowing me to stand up. We resume our cat and mouse game. We meet and then we pull apart. I land punches to his midsection then I break. We do this for what feels like minutes, when out of nowhere his foot flies into my face. I block it with my hand.

  I’m sure, when I look back at this match, in this precise moment I’ll consider saying that I made a mistake. I shouldn't have thrown my hand in the way of his kick. I should have just taken it to the face. I’ll consider it, but I would never voice that there’s a chance I could've made a mistake. Not with this.

  Not with the pain of bones shattering in my hand. For seconds the pain gravitates from my fingertips to my wrist. Then the body’s natural endorphins kick in and it numbs, slightly. It’s just enough for me to put an end to this match. He can’t expect the anger I have to rise inside of me at such a new level. He doesn't expect that the other hand is as strong as my now broken one. He doesn't expect me to knock him out with a hard and swift jab to the face. He doesn't expect me to win.

  Nevertheless, I do.

  My coach, Lawson, steps into the octagon. He whispers in my ear that’s he’s proud of me and that we’ll get my hand checked out as soon as we get back stage. Penny is already waiting on me to help repair whatever she can. An emergency room trip might be in order, he tells me. Lawson is only a couple of years older than I am, but he’s an old soul. Full of parenting words, he’s always inspiring and teaching. The guy ‘s full of words that remind me of my parents, yet the age of my brother. Confuses the fuck out of me. He wraps his arm around my neck and pulls me in as he smiles. He raises his hand while I raise my unbroken one and the crowd cheers.

  The fan base that I’ve built—that my team has built—is unbelievable. It always humbles me that this many people follow what I do and want to be a part of it. I take one last turn around the octagon and wave to people in the audience before shaking my opponent’s hands. It’s called respect. It’s what you do—whether or not you just beat the shit out of each other.

  Whether or not he just broke my fucking hand.

  “Christ, it sure took you guys long enough to get back here. Let me see your hand.” Penny demands. Her face scrunches up in worry. She’s always worrying about me, even over little nicks and scrapes.

  “The swelling isn't good. He sure messed your hand up. You’re going to have to go to the E.R. This is bad. I can wrap it, give you an ice pack to press on it, but it isn't going to help the pain or healing.”

  “I’ll take him.” Lawson jumps in.

  “All right, let me change and I’ll be ready to go.” No celebratory after party for me tonight.

  Chapter Five

  “Thanks for letting me crash here. The apartment manager said that my place should be ready for move in by tomorrow sometime.”

  “You know it’s not a problem, Rumer. If you’re ever in need of a place, my couch is always open for you.” Charlie says.

  The only person I’ve allowed in (somewhat) that I have yet to regret. Her and I meeting was oddly random. I’d been on a late night booty call search at a bar and she’d been on a drinking binge to chase away the pain of a long term relationship break-up. I had every intention of being that asshole, the one who walks away from the chick crying her eyes out at the bar over a glass of vodka.

  Morals slammed into my chest and wouldn’t let me leave her there. If I had walked away, I’m positive that one of the many creeps stalking the shadows of the bar would’ve attempted something horrific—such as taking advantage of an inebriated heartbroken woman. I couldn’t walk away.

  I’ve been stuck with her since.

  Not by my choosing, she became a friend—and a pesky one at that.

  “Who’s the guy that was trailing behind you today?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I pretend obliviousness while grabbing my pajamas that I’ll wear after using her shower.

  “You’re not getting out of this one. I was on my way to work when I saw you jogging. There was a male that oozed sex on a stick running after you.”

  “Probably just a regular jogger like myself Charlie.”

  “You’re lying. I can tell. You’re trying to be purposely evasive.”

  “Fine, he was following me. I thought he was chasing after me, turns out he wanted to talk.” I leave it at that and run away to her bathroom.

  She follows me.

  Pesky bitch follows me.

  “Spill the details bitch.”


  She’s never going to leave me alone if I don’t.

  “Fine. He owns a gym, said he’d seen me around and was impressed. Suggested that maybe I could make a career out of my moves.”

  “Your moves?” Charlie asks.

  “Yeah, I kind of disabled him for a few moments. I thought he was a creeper, I didn’t think I had a choice.”

  “Are you sure you want to go this route, Rumer? I mean, just by the small things you’ve shared I would assume that you might’ve given that dream up.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know. I visited his gym and he showed me around a bit. At least the gym was legit. Thought maybe I’d see for myself what he’s offering. If there’s any substance to his offer, ya know?”

  “I know. Just don’t go in there with high expectations. That can help save you from the impact of the fall if it happens.” Charlie suggests.

  “I won’t, I promise,” I say, while battling serious self-doubt. Can I do this? What if he isn’t serious? He seemed it, but I could be wrong.

  “I’ll leave you to the shower…just remember you have a job interview Sunday morning. I know it seems unorthodox as its not normal business hours, but it’s the only time you could be seen. I’ll stop by your place tomorrow night—since it’s only a few steps away.” With that she shuts the bathroom door behind her.

  Chapter Six

  The hospital curtain that allows me some privacy from the guy laying in a bed next to me swings open. The emergency room doctor walks in pushing a notebook on a wheeled cart.

  “Your X-ray results came back. Your hand is broken in three separate places. I’d suggest surgery, but at this point, the swelling is too bad. I’m going to send you home with some ibuprofen and hydrocodone—it’ll help with the pain and swelling. I’m going to refer you to an orthopedic surgeon. You should call them in the morning and make an appointment. You’ll need to get that hand operated on within a few days. If not, it’s likely you’ll end up with an inoperable hand.”

  I knew it was broken, but I hadn't thought it to be so bad that it would require surgery. I was thinking more along the lines that I’d need to have my fingers set in a splint for a couple weeks then I could go back in the octagon. Not fucking surgery. This is bad.

  “How long do you think this will keep me out of commission?” I ask the most important question.

  “It all depends how bad your hand looks when they operate. You could be looking at six, maybe even eight weeks. The orthopedic surgeon will be able to tell you after your awake from surgery. What I can tell you though without a doubt is that you do need this surgery. You don't have an option. Take my advice. Go home, put some ice on your hand and take the painkillers. Call the office in the morning and schedule an appointment. I’ll make sure to send over the results of your X-rays tonight so they'll know why you’re calling. Get in surgery as soon as you can.”

  I wince. Not the news I want to hear. “All right, Doc. I’ll listen to you, but only because you have a medical degree and I don't.” I try to joke off the reality of what he said.

  Walking out to the waiting room after being signed out of the hospital, Lawson stands up from his seat that’s he’s held since we walked in hours ago. It wasn't a question if he’d wait for me out here. He’s been waiting on me almost his entire life. We keep each other sane. It’s not a best friend kind of relationship, nor is it strictly parental. It’s almost unexplainable…almost. Lawson's only three years older than I am. He’s the same age as my brother Griffin. He’s been around as long as I can remember—best friends with Grif since kindergarten. He was just always around the house. My brother and he went away to the same college, except that Griffin stayed away. When Griffin left, he left for good with no intentions of coming back. Not even if it was for just a visit. I’m not sure what ever happened there, what caused him to stay away—and Lawson hasn't budged on saying a word. It’s something that’s just lingers there in the background.

  I’ve long stopped bringing the topic up because when I do it affects Lawson's mood—as if he mourns their friendship. Maybe he feels obligated to see over me as an older brother, to help guide me throughout life and the world…and to kick my ass when my ass needs kicking.

  “You shouldn't have blocked that kick. I didn't want to say it while we were celebrating your win. I wasn't lying when I said I was proud because I sure as fuck am. I just wanted to point out that what you did was a weakness, you weren't thinking clearly and you made a mistake. You should’ve just taken the hit. Sucked it up, cried about your bruised ego and face later in bed between the legs of some fan girl, but you shouldn't have blocked that kick.”

  “Kick him when he’s down, that how it’s going to go now Law?”

  “Who else is going to say something? No one at the gym will have the balls to say it, but you know damn well they'll be thinking it while you're sitting on the sidelines watching them train. Let it be a mistake you learn from then. Every fighter hits this wall at some point—usually in the very beginning of the career, but whoever said you did it like everyone else anyway? You're always doing shit backwards, Bain. Maybe that’s why you've made it so far in such short amount of time. You're not like anyone else out there.”

  “I’m not sure if I should take that as an insult or a compliment so I’ll just agree. I could see it—his foot aiming for my face, but I just moved on instinct and I blocked it with my hand. Damn good it did me, but I wouldn't change what I did. Doctor said I need surgery, that’s how hard his foot hit. What if it had landed in my face? Where would we be now? Would I be getting my jaw wired shut or maybe some stitches in my mouth because he knocked teeth out? I like my teeth Lawson and I like eating food.”

  He interrupts, “You don't know what would've happened.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to say, neither do you! Either way, my hand has the potential to be a major setback for us. Won’t know anything until I call an orthopedic doctor tomorrow. They specialize in this shit and as of right now there is no other option except for surgery.”

  “Get in the truck. I’ll make some calls and move some things around. I have a surgeon on speed-dial. I might be able to get you in as early as tomorrow. We’ll get through this. We always do, don't we?”

  “Yeah…I guess somehow we always do.” I climb into his king-cab while he places his cell to his ear.

  Let’s hope this setback is only minor.

  Chapter Seven

  I shut Charlie’s front door lightly while tossing my backpack over my shoulder. To say I have a lot of personal belongings would be an understatement. Every effect I own is packed into my fifteen year old Honda Accord. Mainly clothing that’s ragged and worn and a few pictures from my previous life.

  The one I’m running away from.

  Lawson’s gym is only a ten-minute drive from the apartment building. The drive goes by in a blur. I put my car in park and slam the rusty door shut. It’s now or never. The sun has barely risen…he said he’d be here and the doors would be open long before then.

  Hesitantly, I push the door open to his gym. It’s desolate. I don’t want to disturb Lawson if he’s in his office so I take the time to reintroduce myself to gym equipment. Lawson’s gym is designed like a map for fighters. Each piece of equipment is spread apart, allowing just enough room for each trainee to practice. When you enter you’re greeted by a ring to spar in. To the left are heavy bags, speed bags and weights. There aren’t any shiny touches like a chain style fitness center. This was made for fighters. Core training.

  To the right are black foam mats—four sections, each is eight by ten. More than enough room for grappling with a partner. Straight back on the right is Lawson’s office and to the left is a door that opens to locker rooms and showers.

  Unisex locker rooms.

  Unisex showers.

  Because only men fight.

  That’s what my uncle always said, prodding it into my fucking brain for so long, it’s because it’s natural to think that only men can fight.

  Men
, yeah—fuck that.

  I tape my hands and wrists, then throw my bag to the ground and find myself in front of the heavy bag. There’s a row of them, six to be precise. Speed bags hang from a lowered raft behind me. I lightly punch the heavy bag, getting a feel for doing it again after not stepping foot into a gym for so long.

  Three years.

  That’s how long I’ve been running from the past.

  The same past that I’m now scarily facing.

  “Your forms all wrong. Good thing Law brought you in here.” A deep voice sounds from behind me.

  I steady the bag and turn to greet the eyes of the deep voice. “Who’re you?”

  He smirks, “I’m the person who’s going to kick your ass.”

  “Pretty sure of yourself aren’t you?” I laugh.

  “Would you care to place a bet on it?”

  “Why not?” I agree, amusing him.

  “Winner takes the other to dinner,” He steps closer to me.

  “How about winner has to jog five miles a day for the next week?” I suggest, not wanting to get close to anyone—least of all someone associated with someone at this gym.

  “That’s child’s play. Dinner. It’s harmless, Rumer.”

  I give, “I’ll only agree to the bet if I know your name beforehand.” One small dinner, in and out shouldn’t hurt anything.

  “Let’s get you started on training before we spar, warm your body up. I’m Jude by the way.” He says as he pulls me over to the foam mats.

  Chapter Eight

  Comeback by Redlight King booms from my alarm clock. Today’s nothing special from any other day except for the fact that I broke my hand last night. Injuries never stop any professionals training, even when they're in immense pain.

  Such as I’m in this morning.

  I toss the sheet off my body and turn my alarm clock off before I exit my bedroom. The quietness throughout my house is unnerving. Around this time every morning Sammie would be strolling out into the kitchen and wanting me to make her breakfast, but because of the match I had last night she stayed over at Lawson's with his roommate.