Taking Him Down

Brett passed Lindsey her beer then leaned over to pull open the side table drawer. He plopped a few glossy MMA magazines in Jenna’s lap.

“I see.” Jenna flipped one open, then immediately winced at a photo of a freeze-framed punch.

Lindsey nearly distracted her by mentioning Rich was in that issue, then stopped herself. Best not reveal to either of her couch mates that she knew which page he was on.

Her embarrassment preempted as the first match began, Lindsey took the magazines back, leaned over Brett and shut them in the drawer.

This event had cost her fifty bucks to order—fifty bucks that should probably have been put toward a security deposit or moving van rental. She ought to be absorbing every second of it, but all she could concentrate on was the clock, and how soon Rich’s fight would be starting.

Her crush was ridiculous. And harmless? Now, perhaps. But she had to admit, it may have contributed to her permanently breaking up with Brett. It wasn’t as though she’d thought about Rich while she’d been kissing Brett or anything heinous…but she did occasionally space out on the subway, lost in the memory of those minutes in the back of that cab.

Stupid girl. For all she knew, she’d kissed some other woman’s lover.

Whatever the case, they’d never gone out for that drink. And Rich hadn’t been back to Wilinski’s more than twice in the past six months, too busy training in California. She’d seen him during those visits, but they’d exchanged only passing pleasantries, nothing that indicated they’d shared anything special. Not that they’d been alone and in any position to flirt, but still—there hadn’t been any of that old fire in his eye contact. Something cagey, she’d thought, something more than she’d find in a friend’s gaze, but no hot promises, none of the heat she’d glimpsed that night in October, the wickedness she’d assumed came standard with Rich Estrada.

The opening matches went on forever. She knew a few of the names, enough to have favorites to root for, but she was too antsy to concentrate.

“Popcorn?” she asked Brett and Jenna, not waiting for an answer.

As she stripped the cellophane from the packet in the kitchen, she commanded her heart to slow. For the entire three and a half minutes the popcorn bag twirled in the microwave, she counted her breaths. How dumb, to get this wound up over seeing some man she kind of knew on TV.

Why should her heart hurt this way? Well, probably because she’d been stalking his career for long enough to gestate a baby.

Yeah, stalking—she could admit it. She wasn’t alone in her admiration, only alone in denying it. Rich had a bona fide fan base, a digital harem of noisy groupies who called themselves the Courtesans and swooned about him in tactless, filthy detail on message boards.

Did they go to the events? Follow his fights in person from city to city, not just on-screen? Did they toss themselves at him after the matches, and if so, did he like that? Was his hotel bed warmed by some new admirer every night?

And most important, why should she even frigging care?

She sighed as the microwave beeped, frustrated to the bone. With herself, for having gotten so hung up. With her living situation, and for what was surely going to prove the longest August in history. And from a phone call she’d gotten earlier—her mother calling to say Lindsey’s youngest sister, Maya, was threatening to not go back to high school in September for her senior year. Lindsey had promised to talk some sense into her this weekend. As always, the peacekeeper mitigating others’ drama.

Yet even with all that on her mind, her thoughts wandered back to Rich. His face and mouth, those fingers on her neck. Whatever she felt, it was no glimmer, no silly stirring. It was infatuation like she’d never suffered before, made all the worse by the way they’d parted. Some nights she was tempted to demand his number from Mercer, drink half a bottle of wine and text him, What the heck was in that message that made you stop kissing me?

But for all she knew, the reply she’d get would be, We kissed? When was that? Lindsey who?

She carried the popcorn and a roll of paper towels back through to the living room and settled between her ex-boyfriend and her boss.

“Nearly time,” Jenna said, sitting on the edge of the cushion with her knuckles pressed to her lips. “Oh, God, I hate this stupid sport.”

Brett took over the popcorn, which was just as well. As soon as the announcers began discussing Rich’s match, Lindsey felt sick.

“Should be a close one,” the first announcer said. G“Estrada’s been on his game, but can that stack up against Moreau’s experience?”

“It’s going to come down to who’s hungrier for it,” a second announcer declared. “Though the odds in Vegas say Moreau’s belt won’t be going anywhere tonight.”

The screen flashed to backstage prep, to Nick Moreau jogging in place. He was good—a mean-looking thirtysomething from Quebec with a shaved head, a bit of a veteran. Then to Rich, and Lindsey’s heart stopped. A close-up of that handsome profile, his expression stern and set. He stretched his neck and licked his lips, then suddenly he was moving, the camera swiveling to follow as he was ushered through double doors into the dark arena.

“Oh, God, oh, God,” Jenna muttered.

Rich’s cocky, regal shtick hadn’t changed. He walked down the aisle to the same music, welcomed with a mix of cheers and boos as his stats were announced. He was extremely popular with Hispanic fans—and with any woman possessed of eyes and a pulse—but hated by his fair share of enthusiasts, too.

Moreau strode out to some hard-core rock song, minimalist in black warm-ups, his scalp gleaming under the lights.

Lindsey felt a pain in her palm and realized she was clenching her fist hard enough to leave nail marks.

The fighters had stripped to their shorts and gloves, both hopping and jogging in place, keeping warm. Rich shook out his arms and tossed punches in the air.

The announcer went through the rigmarole, rattling through the rules for the three-round match, and the men went back to their corners. A ring girl circled, and with a shout, the fight was on.

“Oh, God,” Jenna said again. If the throw pillow in her lap had been an animal, she’d already have crushed the life out of it.

Lindsey held her breath and bit her lip, hands squished between her clenched thighs.

Rich took the offensive early. Moreau was a more cautious, strategic fighter. Rich baited him with a few quick swipes, but Moreau waited for an opening.

“Oh!” Jenna cried when the first punch landed. It was a soft, harmless jab to Rich’s shoulder, but she buried her face in the pillow all the same. Lindsey teetered at the edge of the cushion.

The two fighters clinched for a few seconds, each landing a couple of good shots.

“Stay on your feet,” Lindsey murmured. “Stay on your feet.” Moreau was good on the mat—a far stronger grappler, even after Rich’s past months of world-class training. Or so she’d read in one of her incriminating magazines.

Rich knocked his opponent with a sharp hook then dodged aside, clearly content to keep this fight upright.

“Good. Good.” How had Mercer survived being in Rich’s and Delante’s corners? Lindsey felt a heart attack brewing just watching from the other side of the country. Yet she could practically feel everything, live and in three dimensions. Hear the crowd all around her as she had at the Boston fight, smell the sweat and feel the heat of the lights and bodies.

“Estrada’s come out strong,” the first announcer observed. “But Moreau’s known for his pacing.” True.

“Be cool,” she muttered. “Save something for the other two rounds.”

“I have no idea who’s winning,” Brett said.

“No one yet.”

By the time the horn blared to end the round, the two men had had a good dance, but neither was the clear favorite. Lindsey shoved popcorn in her face, just to have something to do.

Jenna peeked from behind her pillow. “What happened?”

“They’re both holding steady,” Lindsey said.

Jenna went back into hiding the second the ring girl was done prancing.

Lindsey didn’t know what Moreau’s trainer had said to him during the break, but he came out with a fire under his ass, going right for Rich’s legs. Get him on his back. That’s what he’d been told.

Rich dodged Moreau’s efforts to kick his feet out from under him, and with a solid roundhouse to the ribs he sent the other man stumbling into the chain-link.

“Yes,” Lindsey groaned, hugging the bowl. Her heart punched her ribs with every beat, easily a million times a minute.

Rich sneaked in a flurry of jabs, then took a mean hit to the ear. He gave twice as good as he got, banging Moreau in the ribs with his knee. Thirty seconds before the horn, Moreau hooked him behind the legs and got them onto the ground, but they ended the round in a mutual tangle, neither in danger of submitting. Lindsey gulped a breath when the air horn sounded, the first she’d taken since the fighters had hit the mat.