The Clinch Page 2

  Brooklyn Shaw. I take off my dobok, or uniform, and fold it with the same methodical motions Jin taught me so many years ago, eyeing my laptop as I do. I mean to just grab a T-shirt and jeans and go meet Laila out front, but I can’t help it. I open my Combat Zone email, an MMA news source I suddenly find repulsive, and scroll down until I see it. I’ve heard her name before. I even saw the highlights from her debut, including the haymaker of a punch that knocked her opponent out and garnered her an early buzz.

  Even so, seeing a clear still of her where she’s facing the camera, I realize I never had a great look at her. She’s built differently from me, three inches shorter and even more shy on her reach according to her stats, but visibly stronger. Her skin is warm ochre brown and traced with tattoos over a good portion of her arms, but the angle doesn’t allow for a clear read of them other than the cross on her left forearm. The sides of her head are shaved and feature some simple stenciling while the top is a few inches long and curly.

  Certain fighters just inherently own an intimidating quality. It could be the strength of her jawline, the prominence of her cheeks, the obvious musculature of her arms, or the intensity in her deep brown eyes. Whatever it is, she’s the type of fighter people who know nothing about martial arts assume will win. I’ve never had that myself. I’m tall, but naturally lean, and though I’m strong and toned, you wouldn’t call me jacked. Chopping off my long hair or inking up more could probably help my cause, but I’ve never been one to concern myself with impressing the public.

  I scan the article for the goods and land on a few simple lines. “Brooklyn Shaw may just have the answer to reigning champ, Eden Bauer. Bauer’s precision striking has been too overwhelming and technical for her former opponents, but Shaw brings insane power, heart, and an iron jaw to the fight. I won’t be surprised to see her walk right through Bauer’s best and take her to the ground. Once that happens, there’s little to debate about what happens next. Everything you need to know about Shaw’s Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu is right there in her name. She’s Samson Shaw’s daughter and the youngest in a family line that has produced nothing but BJJ brilliance. Her skill on the ground is miles beyond what Bauer can handle.”

  I’m not too big to admit the words send a jolt through me, a mixture of bruised ego, resentment, and yes, if you must know, a twinge of, let’s call it uneasiness. I scroll back up to look at her one more time. A rush tingles through my arms and plummets into my stomach. It’s not a reaction I was prepared for and is so off topic it’s disorienting, but there it is. Besides being shredded, inked, and an apparent grappling prodigy, the woman is also crushingly sexy. Jesus, that’s annoying.

  I slap my laptop shut, finding my way back into reality. I take a deep breath and remind myself these Combat Zone writers have similarly extolled other new fighters who were subsequently run over by the established talent. It’s way too early to get worked up. Even if everything goes perfectly for her, she’s at least a year away from being my problem. She’s only had two professional MMA fights, and I’ll get to see her third tonight. Recon may not be the worst idea after all.

  Chapter Two

  Laila acts like she needs me to get her into behind the scenes conversations, but really, I just get her past the door and she’s off like a firecracker. I’ve barely shaken the drive out of my legs before she’s in the back corridors of Boardwalk Hall bumping into the athletes, coaches, and unknown people she chats up just in case she’s failing to recognize someone important. I keep an eye on her in case someone starts to look like a hostage, but they all seem more than happy to break down all the matchups and swap theories with her. Even though she comes off bubbly and flirty, she both has her ego magnificently in check and knows her stuff.

  She goes to a top MMA gym almost an hour from the dojang. It’s definitely not a compliment to have an employee who has the benefit of a free membership drive across town and pay exorbitant fees to attend another school, but it doesn’t offend me. Laila is a pro hopeful, and she’s not delusional to reach that high. As much as I credit my success to Jin’s Taekwondo, Laila isn’t wrong to want training in a full range of skills. I’m not any better about it. I go with her to her gym a few nights a week to get in some Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu training, not to mention the third gym I go to every morning for Muay Thai training, but then, it’s basically my entire job to train. The fact that Laila damn near keeps up is impressive.

  On top of all that, we still throw on gloves and get after it between classes, and she’s always there to spar and hold pads for the eight weeks of fight camp, the intense training immediately leading up to a professional bout. I couldn’t ask for a better friend or be happier to put her around people who could change her life.

  “What’s good, Bauer?”

  I turn to find Arlo Ruiz on my right, a casual friend I don’t see much of since he moved to Canada to train with a coach who seems custom made for him. His hands are already wrapped even though he’s the second to last fight of the night, going up against a tank of a Russian named Rodion Kuznetsov. I slap hands with him and wrap my arm around him.

  “You look good, bud. I can’t wait to see you slap a triangle on this guy.” Arlo is a Jiu-Jitsu specialist, like so many now. He took risky fights out of the gate and has a record that doesn’t do him justice because of it.

  “Oh yeah? You like my triangle?”

  “Thing of beauty.”

  “All right, girl. Triangle it is, just for you. Hey, you let me know if you ever want me to show you how I lock it in. It’s not as fancy as it looks.”

  It shouldn’t mean anything to me. Just Arlo being friendly like he always is, but I can’t help but wonder if he read the Combat Zone article too, if he’s gently suggesting I get better at Jiu-Jitsu before it’s too late.

  “And you can show me that patented Eden Bauer wheel kick,” he adds.

  “Any time.” I slap his shoulder to end the conversation. The buzz in the arena is getting louder, which means the prelims are starting soon. I gesture at Laila to wrangle her in. I half expect to have to drag her away from the coach she’s talking to, but she wraps it up without further prodding and joins me again.

  “I cannot believe I’m here,” she says. “I can’t believe this is your life every day.”

  I laugh. “It’s not every day.” It’s not even a lot of them, really. Everything I do is read as completely odd and a bit standoffish to the community. I train in a Taekwondo gym with a handful of mostly non-pro sparring partners, have no MMA coach or nutritionist, and almost never socialize. People think I’m insane. Laila already fits in better.

  “Let’s get to our seats.”

  “Are they ringside?” she asks. “Er, octagon-side? Boy, that doesn’t roll off the tongue, does it?”

  “Hell yes, they are.” I guide her out of the back corridor and onto the main floor. Once we pass through the thick door, it’s like someone turned up the volume on life. The arena is about half full, fairly normal for the prelims.

  “Eden! What do you think about the Corelle vs. Shaw fight? Who do you like to win?”

  I can’t even place the reporter, and I don’t particularly want to. Security is flanking both our sides like magic, helping us get down to our seats. One “Eden” turns into three, then five, then the whole arena starts to cheer, and I look up to verify I’m on the big screen. I smile and wave. Laila looks flummoxed to be on camera. Her lack of recovery makes me laugh. I grab her wrist and keep her moving. It always feels like it takes five seconds too long for the cameras to move on to someone else. When it finally changes to another fighter in the house, Laila faces me and grabs my shoulders.

  “That was horrifying.”

  “Better get used to it, future contender.”

  “Do you get used to it? Tell me you get used to it.”

  “Not really. Kind of?” I shrug, pull her to our seats, and thank security before they go. “They’ll probably do it again by the end of the night.”

  Laila looks mortified and star
ts running her fingers through her hair. She only gets through a couple of mad swipes before the lights go out. Red lights circle overhead while the announcer’s voice booms through a welcome and moves into the first introductions of the night. The first fighter, Smith, bounds down the aisle in a bouncy jog to an extra twangy country song. The second comes out slow and smooth to Snoop Dogg.

  “Okay.” Laila leans in. “So, I thought this kid, Smith, was going to win,” she says. “But Randall, the supercoach, just told me in back it’ll never happen. I’m such shit at predicting winners.”

  “Everyone is shit. It’s guesswork.”

  “Bastard.”

  “All they’re doing is looking at the fighter’s history, which is the exact same thing their opponent is doing. Anything we see, both of the martial artists have seen and prepared for too.”

  “Thank you, wise one.”

  I bump her with my shoulder. “Shut up.”

  The ref points at each fighter, asking if they’re ready, then signals for the start of the fight. Smith and Crowler dance around the octagon, throwing sharp jabs that don’t come close to landing, trying to loosen up and find their range. There’s no sport’s crowd more intolerant of down time than MMA’s, and soon they’re urging the fighters to engage with incoherent yells. The guys start throwing punches, their arms tangling as they battle for position. As preliminary fights often do, the fight goes all three rounds, finally ending in a decision by the judges to award the victory to Smith.

  “Hey, you were right.” I nudge Laila with my elbow.

  The arena seems to warm up as the prelims march on and more people trickle in. I do my best to enjoy the matchups with Laila, but I can’t pretend I’m not distracted. The main card consists of five fights, the first of which will be Brooklyn Shaw and Jada Corelle, and it’s all I can think about. The fact that Brooklyn is on the main card at all with only two fights to her name may indicate the impression she’s made on the UFC brass. Then again, it could also simply mean some other scheduled fight fell through as they quite often do.

  There’s an unspoken tension between Laila and me as Brooklyn’s fight creeps closer. I don’t want to give Brooklyn more power than she’s earned, but I’m not sure anymore what takes that power back, admitting the Combat Zone article got under my skin, or denying the words the right to exist in real discussion.

  The break between the prelims and main card feels ungodly long, longer than usual, though I know that’s unlikely. Jesus, how many times will I have to defend my title to stop feeling like some kind of fraud? Will it ever happen? Or is there something deep inside me that’s too broken to ever feel that kind of confidence?

  Just as the arena is in the full buzz of idle chatter, the lights snuff out and the crowd roars back to life. The octagon floor is painted in glowing blue light and the overheads are a dazzling display of red, blue, and yellow. The start of these events always tickles the same giddiness I felt the first time I ever saw one. It awakens the other half of my soul, the piece that’s so different from the quiet stillness I find in the tranquil wisdom of the dojang. This is where instinct emerges, where discipline is tested at its most animal and desperate. It’s where you find out who you are in a fight to the death without actual death.

  Brooklyn’s walkout song blasts into the arena, much louder than the ones from the prelims. The apocalyptic chorale masterpiece, “Carmina Burana: O Fortuna.” I can’t help but crack a smile at the entirely unexpected choice. It’s like Brooklyn is walking to the octagon accompanied by an armada of angels at her back. I watch her on the big screen. There’s nothing unusual about walking to the octagon with her hood up and an expression like she’s entering the colosseum, but there’s something uniquely convincing about her.

  She stops at the steps to the octagon, just twenty feet from us now. She strips down to her fight clothes, blue knee-length shorts and a crop tank top, which is really just a sports bra. She hands her hoodie and sweats to one of the men at her side, then turns to the one who’s presumably her coach. He has model features, a strong jawline and prominent cheeks. I’m so focused on how much he looks like her it takes me a second to realize he’s Théo freakin’ Shaw, the accepted greatest BJJ phenom of all time, though his career ended prematurely from a series of brutal injuries. Brooklyn’s lineage snaps to vivid reality.

  “Eden, that’s—”

  “I know.”

  Brooklyn hugs the other two men who comprise her team. By their appearance, I assume they’re relatives too. Besides Théo, I don’t know them by name, but I do know the Shaw line has others, and now I wish I followed Jiu-Jitsu more closely. Brooklyn kneels at the steps to the octagon and bows her head in prayer. It surprises me at first, but as I look closer at the tattoos I couldn’t make out in her picture, I realize most of them are religious, ranging from angels to saints to what I’m fairly confident must be scripture. Brooklyn takes her time with her prayer before finally crossing herself, slamming the mat with her palms, and launching into the octagon.

  She looks out at the crowd as she does a lap around the mat, pointing and hitting her own sculpted arms and chest to hype herself up. Her muscle mass is even more impressive in person. She’s hit the absolute maximum a person can achieve before it ceases to be functional in martial arts. It’s strangely comforting. Picking apart martial artists who are used to winning with sheer athleticism rather than technique is my specialty.

  As she circles to our side of the octagon, she locks eyes with me. A surge of adrenaline shoots through me as she holds the contact. It’s like everything there is to know about her is right there, open and daringly accessible. She smiles and winks. My stomach roils like a constricting snake, but I don’t react, mostly because I have no idea how to. She settles into her corner as Jada Corelle’s intro begins.

  Jada bounds down the aisle in a near sprint. She’s leaner, longer, more experienced, and well rounded. The fight should be ideal for information gathering.

  Bruce Buffer’s classic announcer voice thunders through the crowd as he announces Brooklyn, sounding off her height, weight, and record before building up to her name and shouting in his way that never gets old, “Bruuuutalllll Brooklyn Shawwww!”

  She may be new, but the crowd has taken notice and rumbles for her.

  “Fighting out of the red corner, she’s a mixed martial artist with a professional record of sixteen wins and four losses. Standing five feet, eight inches tall, one hundred forty-four and one-half pounds, Jadaaaa, the Executioner, Cooorelllle.”

  Young and hungry or not, Brooklyn has her hands full. It’s almost not even fair to match her with Jada when she’s still so new.

  The referee puts his hand in the air between them, asks for a nod from each fighter, then pulls his hand away like it may get snapped up. “Fight!”

  They bound to the center, bump gloves as a show of respect, and step back into neutral space. Jada has a bouncy style, always moving, always on her toes. She circles to Brooklyn’s right, throwing a series of punches from too far out. Brooklyn evades them by pulling her head back. It’s not wrong, but a better striker wouldn’t waste the movement on shots that have no chance to land.

  Jada pivots into her next punch, committing to her jab. Brooklyn eats it on the chin without reacting and fires back with a windmill overhand right. Jada covers up to block, but even though she manages to put her glove between Brooklyn’s strike and her head, the force still knocks her way off center, and she backs away with a series of quick steps. Brooklyn pursues her, taking control of the center of the octagon, one of the categories fights are scored on.

  Jada circles the outside of the octagon in what’s more a shuffle than a fighting stance. Brooklyn comes after her in methodical forward steps, but Jada circles back the other direction, staying out of range.

  “Damn, she didn’t like that,” Laila says.

  “No, she did not.”

  Jada bends her knees to drop levels and shoots for Brooklyn’s legs. She wraps her arms around Brook
lyn’s thighs, way too high, and Brooklyn sprawls, shooting her feet backward to break the grip. She hooks under Jada’s arms and yanks her back to a standing position, then fires off a quick jab cross combo. Jada dodges enough to avoid full impact but looks thoroughly rattled.

  “Why is she keeping it standing? Doesn’t she want to go to the ground?” I mutter it mostly to myself, but I see Laila shaking her head in answer. Jada tries to back away again, but Brooklyn isn’t having it. She launches after her in long strides, throwing punches trying to get back into range. Jada is a skilled boxer but seems to have forgotten everything as she all but runs from Brooklyn’s high-pressure attack. The crowd heats up, cheering and yelling things at both martial artists, all mixing together in an indiscernible rumble.

  Every single time Brooklyn strikes, she’s swinging for the rafters. If Jada can keep her catching air, she’s sure to tire by the end of round two at the latest, but nothing about this exchange suggests it will last that long.

  Jada throws a front kick in an effort to get Brooklyn off of her. It lands right in Brooklyn’s gut, and I search her for a reaction. I don’t expect her to wear it on her face, but it ought to get her to reconsider the danger of setting up camp in striking range against a world class kickboxer. Brooklyn launches forward, slamming chest to chest with Jada and shoving her up against the fence in a rock-solid clinch with her hands locked behind Jada’s neck, controlling her head. Jada tries to push back, but Brooklyn is so solid Jada’s hands just slip off of her. I sit forward in my chair before I can stop myself.

  The clinch is a position in which the fighters are holding on to one another and one of, if not the only, positions that can be good for either the striker or the grappler. It offers a striker the potential for devastating elbows and knees while also giving a grappler the chance to control the body and convert to a takedown. It’s an equalizer.