Faking It(40)

When I walked in the gym was full of guys. No surprise there. Women were making impressive inroads into MMA, but were still in the minority. A few of them stretched on the edges of the room, preparing for training sessions that could last anywhere from one to four hours. This was the second or even third session of the day for many of them. Some of the fighters were working heavy bags or hitting the pads with their trainers. Others were grappling, twisting each other into knots that looked like the height of discomfort. So maybe I would never know how to strangle someone, there were still good things about me, right?

The unifying theme, however, was that they were all, men and women alike, sneaking peeks at what Braden was doing, even though he was just shadowboxing in a corner. The man had presence. It wasn’t just that he was so good-looking. It was more like...how can I explain it? Whenever I watched a movie that Christopher Walken was in, whenever he was on screen, even if he wasn’t the star, I just couldn’t see anyone else. I don’t think he’s ugly, but he’s certainly not that stereotypical leading man, Disney prince type of handsome. But it’s like he shoves everyone else off the screen. Presence.

Having Braden in the room seemed to collapse the world. He had a magnetism that pulled everyone’s eyes towards him. Everyone wanted to know who that guy was, how he did what he did, and how could they get some of it to rub off on them. It didn’t hurt that he was the closest of anyone in the gym to making a big leap up in the fighting world. He was already on top of his division. Or, as close as he could get while he waited on Vlad to head up. Everyone looked like they either wanted to learn from him or be near him, just to soak up some of the aura.

I didn’t want it to rub off on me. As I watched him bob and weave and duck and twist, in that moment I just wanted to rub him on me. Damn him, it was some dark magic. His hands were moving so fast that I couldn’t see them. His shirtless body was streaked with sweat as he danced back and forth in zigs and zags. Every punch and kick he threw sent ripples through his body, out into the room, and straight into me.

I don’t know if he sensed me, or saw me in a mirror, but suddenly he stopped moving, turned around, and trotted over to me with a big smile on his face. It was like nothing bad or obnoxious had ever happened between us. Like he had never dropped his towel and dared me to get in the shower with him.

He bowed to me like he was my butler. “Hi, welcome!” he said, putting out a hand. I shook it and felt sweat ooze out of his wrist wraps. “Let’s go sit back here, Mason said I could use his office. I’m sure you know the way.”

I sure did. I used to go to the office on my breaks and read my dad’s books, or look at his old military pictures. My private father rarely opened up. His office was as close as most people would get to seeing what actually made him tick. The room was full of mementos, medals, framed letters and commendations from his commanders, and of course, pictures of all of the fighters he had trained. I had always loved that he had signed photos of them all, even the ones who had washed out, never won a fight, or who had blamed him for their own failures.

“I respect anyone with the courage to step into that cage,” he always said. “And I continue to respect them until they give me a reason to stop.” He was generous, but his patience was not endless.

Except with me.

I followed Braden to the office and set up my microphone on the desk. We sat in two recliners facing each other. He hadn’t felt the need to put a shirt on and apparently I hadn’t felt the need to suggest it. I wondered what my dad would have made of this scene. The room seemed impossibly small. I ask myself vaguely why I wasn’t sitting on his lap, then checked myself. The interview. The interview. His lap would have been hideously sweaty, so there. Nope, I definitely wanted no part of it.

I wondered if someone might barge in while we talked, screwing up the recording. Then I got annoyed that someone might barge in while I was having alone time with Braden. Then I got annoyed with myself for thinking any of that.

Braden got up quickly and knelt by the small refrigerator. He took out a Gatorade and offered me one, which I politely declined.

He unscrewed the cap, took a sip, and sat back down. “So what do you need from me?” he said, leaning back in his chair, which displayed his abs in a fashion he was obviously aware of. What must it be like to know the effect you had on people at all time? It was a hell of a bargaining chip, depending on whom you were bargaining with. “I am at your service.”

“Honest answers,” I said, checking my equipment and running through a couple of sound tests. “The rest tends to take care of itself. It’s always great if things feel conversational. You know, more like a chat and less of an interrogation? Some of the best stories turn out not to be the stories I thought I was doing. Things can take surprising turns when people are honest. In other words, nothing that is actually revealing gets revealed when there is a script.”

“Makes sense. Anything else I should be aware of? By the way, I love your hair like that.” Braden stroked his chin and studied me. He sounded completely sincere and suddenly I felt like an item on an expensive menu, somewhere between the halibut and the filet mignon.

I felt myself flush, and then realized that I hadn’t done anything different with my hair. It wasn’t bad but it certainly wasn’t worth pointing out. But point it out he had. Ugh, was it really this easy with most women? I was geared up to resist him and still, it was working on me. Was he maneuvering, just trying to be nice, or buttering me up for his own purposes? Maybe it was all three. I wasn’t sure which ones I wanted to be most true.