Consumed: A MMA Sports Romance Page 5

  “Still not making any sense,” I tell her.

  “He fights the way other guys play football with their friends on the weekends, only he puts more effort into it. Outside all that, he’s really quite the gentleman,” she says. “He’s always just so nice to you and he holds doors and stuff. I mean, we didn’t really hang out that much for that long, but I always got the feeling he was just a really easygoing kind of guy.”

  “Didn’t seem like it to me,” I tell her.

  “Was he rude or aggressive at all?” Jana asks as she opens the dishwasher and starts unloading it.

  I think back.

  “Well, no,” I answer.

  “Woulda surprised me if you said he was,” she tells me.

  “It’s weird hearing you talk about him like that. The first couple of days after we saw him, you seemed like you hated the guy,” I respond.

  “I didn’t expect to see him,” she says. “When I did, I went into dealing-with-an-ex mode, and ya know how that goes.”

  I guess I did do the right thing, choosing to break it off before it went any further with Mason and me. If she’s interested in him, she can have him.

  “He’s a really nice guy, though,” Jana says, looking off at nothing. “And that kid could stick it in me like you wouldn’t even—”

  “Got it,” I interrupt. When it comes to Jana and her stories of sex and seduction, it’s best to cut her off quick, right at the beginning. Otherwise, there’s no convincing her to stop and the woman has a memory for sexual detail that can drag a two-minute story into a multi-hour epic, complete with props and distinct character voices.

  Who has the patience for something like that?

  “It’s not just about that, though,” she says. “I kind of wish we’d stuck with it a little longer.”

  “Why not call him?” I ask.

  “Nah,” she says. “We’re too different. I’m all crazy energy and spontaneity and he’s more the laidback, pseudo-romantic type. I knew when we first hooked up it wasn’t going to last, but after we slept together... I guess I’m just waning a little nostalgic.”

  “Waxing,” I correct. “By the way,” I say, changing directions, “did your mom happen to mention when she might be looking for a place of her own again?”

  “Nah. She’s just settling in, though,” Jana says. “It usually takes her at least a month before she can wake up somewhere without screaming, much less think of going anywhere else.”

  “What is that, anyway?” I ask. “It sounds like she’s being tortured in there. And to tell you the truth, I’m a little freaked about the fact our neighbors have been hearing a woman scream at the top of her lungs every time she wakes up and nobody’s called the police yet.”

  Jana says, “I don’t know what started it. I don’t think she knows. I know she calls it her adjustment period. Back in the day, I never used to hear a peep out of her between when she went to bed and her first cup of coffee the next morning. I think it’s waking up in a new place without dad that does it.”

  “That’s actually really sad,” I tell Jana. “Is there something they can do about that to make things easier for her?”

  “Like what?” Jana asks.

  I don’t have a good answer to the question.

  “So you’re still pretty into Mason, huh?” I ask.

  “I’d just like to take him for another spin or two, for old times’ sake,” she answers. “I think if we left the bedroom, we’d probably drive each other crazy. That was our mistake the first time.”

  “You said he was so nice, though,” I return. “Now you’re saying the sex was the only good part?”

  “It was all ‘good,’ I guess,” she says. “I just think he started getting annoyed that I’m always going like a million miles an hour and everything.”

  It’s true: While we’re talking, she’s managed to get the dishes in the dishwasher half put away, the countertop halfway wiped down and she’s got a broom in her hands, though its bristles have yet to touch the floor. Jana’s problem isn’t the motivation to start something; it’s the motivation to see things through to the end.

  She continues, “He was always just so low key, too. He was sweet, but he just never really moved fast enough for me. I’d want to go, like, five different places in a night and he’d just want to do like dinner or something. We’d just end up getting sick of each other. Anyway, me, Darla, and Cindy are gonna go to the coffee shop and pick up some things. You wanna come?”

  By “things,” she means guys.

  “I’m not really in the mood,” I tell her. “By the way, could you please tell your mom to stop eating my cocoa butter? She’s gone through almost my whole jar since she got here.”

  “It’s edible and it was in the refrigerator,” Jana says, finally starting to sweep, though she stops after only a couple of seconds and sets the broom down. “How was she supposed to know?”

  “Because I told her what it is and why I have it when I came home that first night and found her putting some on vegan paella,” I tell her. “I also told her after she used it with her organic rye crackers, her free range donut holes, and she tried—unsuccessfully, by the way—to dissolve it in her GMO-free almond milk.”

  “Well, talk to her again,” Jana says, grabbing her keys off the counter and heading toward the door. “I’m running late.”

  “It’s just that that stuff’s expensive,” I tell her before releasing her into the night, “and it’s the only thing I’ve found that’ll work for me year-round.”

  “Just buy her some of that milk-free, whey-free, hazelnut chocolate spread she likes,” Jana says. “I’ve got to go. Do you want me to bring anything back for you?”

  “Only if he’s an easy millionaire who doesn’t believe in prenups,” I tell her.

  “I’ll keep my eyes peeled, but you know I’ve got first dibs on that shit, so you’d better hope he has a friend for you,” she responds, walking to the door, but stopping before she opens it. “You two did it, right?” she asks.

  “Me and Mason?” I ask. “No. We never even kissed.”

  “Might wanna let the guy throw you one before you stop answering his calls for good,” she says. “There’s a reason he’s so popular and you, sweet, kinda prudish roommate of mine, deserve a nice night.”

  “I’ll take it under advisement,” I laugh and Jana’s out the door.

  I pull out my phone and check my messages. There aren’t any from Mason.

  This whole thing is a little strange.

  I wasn’t even interested in him at first; I was just trying to do to Jana what she’s been doing to me for the last five years. Mason and I started to hit it off at Sherry’s, but after he took me to that fight, that was supposed to be it.

  After hearing Jana going on and on about him, though, I can’t help thinking I should have given him another chance.

  It’s probably moot, anyway. He’s probably already moved onto someone more enthusiastic about his hobby.

  Besides, he and Jana used to be a thing. I give her a lot of grief because most of the time she’s somewhere in the neighborhood of intolerable, but, for the moment at least, I’m choosing to believe there’s more to our friendship than proximity over time. Whether her feelings for Mason are nothing more than sexual or there’s more to it than that, it’s probably not a good idea that I try too hard to be too involved with my roommate’s former beau.

  Then again, she did give me her blessing. Maybe she didn’t put it in those exact terms, but I seem to remember something like that.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket and find the number. My thumb hovers over the screen for five seconds, then ten. Really, I just don’t know enough about Mason to have anything like the confidence to make a firm decision about him either way.

  The fighting is never going to be my cup of tea, but maybe Jana’s right: Maybe there is something more to him than all that. It certainly seemed like there was when we were at Sherry’s.

  I press the button and the line sta
rts to ring.

  “Yeah?” the voice answers.

  “Hey, Mason,” I say. “It’s Ash. You wanna get together and talk?”

  Good god that sounded lame.

  “Ash?” he asks.

  Yep. He’s already forgotten about me.

  “Never mind,” I tell him. “I think you just answered my question.”

  “I’ve got a few,” he says.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Questions,” he says. “You just took off that night and I haven’t been able to get ahold of you. I figured the fighting was just too much for you.”

  “It was,” I tell him, “but I’ve come to understand that that’s not necessarily all there is to you…” I’m butchering this. I’m absolutely butchering this.

  “Yeah…?” he responds.

  Why is this so weird?

  “I just thought, if you want, I could explain why I just left that night, or maybe you could explain why you’re so into the fighting,” I tell him. “Not that you owe me an explanation,” I add. “You know what? I shouldn’t have called. Sorry to bother you.”

  “Hold on,” he says.

  “What?” I ask, just wanting this to be over already.

  “Just take a breath,” he says. “Relax. Go to your peaceful, quiet place a second.”

  “My peaceful, quiet place?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Mason responds. “It’s a meditation thing. Just put your mind on the most relaxing and beautiful surroundings you can imagine. It helps calm the nerves.”

  I’m not sure if I’m actually supposed to do that or not, so I just don’t say anything in response.

  “Ash?” he asks. “You still there?”

  “Yeah,” I answer.

  “We can talk if you want,” he says. “But I’ve gotta tell you, I’m not a huge fan of the way you just took off and then ignored me. You can be a pretty cool person,” he says, “but I’m not really in the mood to be jerked around. So, if you’d like a few minutes to really consider whether or not you really want to talk, I think that might be a good plan.”

  “Someone values their personal time,” I scoff, not sure what else to say.

  “Personal time’s important,” he says. “If you’re interested in seeing where things can go with us, I’m all for that. We seem to get each other pretty easily, and I don’t know about you, but that’s pretty rare for me. At the same time, though, if what I do is too much for you or you just aren’t that interested, I think we both need to respect that and not drag this out. What do you think?”

  What do I think?

  “The man-whore thing,” I say, “is that true?”

  “It’s an exaggeration,” he says, “but I have had a pretty active social life. I don’t think I’m a man-whore though, and honestly, I’d prefer if we could drop the term.”

  “Okay,” I answer and then there’s protracted silence.

  After a minute, the sound of Mason’s voice startles me. “Ash?” he asks.

  “Yeah?” I return.

  “I don’t know if you’re thinking things through or what,” he says, “but I do have some stuff to do right now, so if we could—”

  “You want to get together this weekend?” I ask and immediately, I’m clenching my fists, mouthing the word “crap” over and over again.

  We do connect, that much is true, but can I really deal with the fighting?

  “Sure,” he says nonchalantly. “What’d you have in mind?”

  I guess we’re going to find out.

  Chapter Five

  That Sense of Belonging

  Mason

  I’m a little sore coming up to the door of my modest abode.

  Manny, my fight trainer, and I have bit hitting it a little extra hard since I told him about the tournament. He even filled in a few missing details.

  According to Manny, the prize money is all going to be donated by a former underground fighter turned MMA pro as his way of giving back to the community that served as his launching pad.

  Manny doesn’t know who the mysterious donor might be and, frankly, the whole thing sounds like the kind of answer someone gives when they don’t know the real one, but it’s a nice story, if nothing else.

  I guess it really doesn’t matter if Manny’s version of things is true or not. It’s just as possible that someone stands to make money from taping the fights and posting them online. Nobody seems to know directly who went to Madison and set the whole thing up, but the tournament’s existence is real enough.

  Today, I got the call.

  I vaguely recognized the voice on the other end of the phone, but only the way someone recognizes the sound of traffic around their home. I can’t think of a name that would match the voice or a face to go with it, but it didn’t matter.

  “Hello, is this Mason Ellis?” the man asked.

  “Yeah, who’s this?” I answered.

  “Do you know why I’m calling?” he asked.

  It wasn’t until he asked that question that I figured it out.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “You’re first match is in a week, featherweight. We’ll call again with directions to the location. Don’t talk about this to anyone you haven’t seen at a fight,” the man said finally and hung up the phone.

  The whole thing seemed really shady. It was pretty cool.

  Now, though, I’m tired and I’m sore and I just want to open my front door, walk to my couch, fall down and not move for about a week.

  It looks like someone else beat me to it.

  My brother, Chris, isn’t so much lying on the couch as he is draped over it. From the smell of him, even standing ten feet away, I’d say he’s more passed out than he is asleep.

  I could really do without this right now, but I’m not going to wake him to kick him out. This isn’t the first time he’s shown up inside my home without announcement or invitation.

  He does this whenever he gets in trouble, and as sick of it as I am, I’m not going to make any kind of headway with him while he’s still drunk. To that end, I set my things down gently by the door, which I close, being sure to turn the knob before it can latch and possibly wake Chris.

  I slip off my shoes and I’m holding my breath as I try to sneak past the couch toward my bedroom door at the far end of the living room.

  Behind me, there’s a piercing noise in the form of my phone’s ringtone, and I’m shuffling as fast as my socks will allow back toward my gym bag. I open it and find my phone, quickly muting it.

  Ash is calling.

  Chris stirs a little, and I’m holding my breath again as I return to my feet to get a better look at him.

  He stirred, but he’s still asleep, so I head toward the kitchen and out to the back porch before I look down at my phone again and answer the call.

  “Hey, Ash,” I say, closing the back door behind me.

  “Hey,” she says. “I had a lot of fun last night. I was wondering if you want to maybe get together and do something.”

  “Starbright driving you crazy again?” I ask. I’ve actually been hoping to meet Jana’s mom, mainly due to Ash’s vivid and outlandish descriptions of the woman. Ash, on the other hand, doesn’t think it’s such a great idea.

  “Am I that transparent?” she asks.

  “I’d love to see you,” I tell her, “but I don’t think tonight’s the best night for it. I just came home and found my brother passed out on the couch. I think he’s going through a bit of a thing right now, and I just need to make sure he’s not in any kind of serious trouble, you know?”

  “I didn’t even know you had a brother,” Ash says.

  “Yeah,” I tell her. “He’s the older one, I’m the wiser one.”

  “What a terrifying proposition,” she says. “You sure you don’t want me to come over? Maybe I can help.”

  “That’s sweet of you,” I tell her, but hesitate as I hear the back door opening behind me. I turn to find Chris stumbling out with an already-lit cigarette in his mouth. “But it looks lik
e he’s awake and I’m going to have to let you go.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Let me know how it goes.”

  “Yeah,” I tell her. “Have a good night.”

  I hang up the phone.

  “Hey, Chris,” I say, taking a step toward my brother. “How are you feeling?”

  He responds by pulling his lighter out of his pocket and trying to light his still-lit cigarette and tripping over a lawn chair. I can’t say he catches himself, exactly, but he does a fair job of minimizing the damage of the fall on his way down.

  I walk over to him and crouch down beside him.

  “You should get back inside,” I tell him. “Sleep it off. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  He grunts and gets back to his feet, only to sit on the lawn chair he just fell over.

  “Can you hear me?” I ask him.

  “Suuure thing, brotha man,” he slurs.

  Things weren’t that easy for Chris and me growing up, and we’ve both chosen to deal with it in our own ways. For Chris, it’s coming up with new and ridiculous ways to separate average people from their money.

  I get that we’re both on the wrong side of things, legally, but the only people who get hurt because of what I do get hurt because they chose to put themselves in a match. It’s anyone’s guess how long it takes some of the people Chris swindles to figure out what’s happened to them.

  I don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t be so judgmental. Still, that would be a lot easier if he didn’t keep showing up like this.

  “What happened this time?” I ask him. “Nobody followed you here, did they?”

  “It was jus’ a biiig mis–misunderstanding,” he says.

  Of course it was.

  It’s been a while since I’ve seen my brother. I’d even begun to entertain hopes that he’d cleaned up his act, but there he sits, swaying a little in an invisible breeze.

  “How long are you here?” I ask.

  The question seems to confound Chris in some deep, possibly existential way, and he just stares up at me without answering.

  “Whatever,” I tell him. “Let’s get you to bed. We can talk about everything in the morning.”