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alitheamateur · 5 years

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The Grind-Chapter 10

Warnings: Violence.

Round Two

Mendez wasted no valuable time in attacking Colton when the bell for the second round rang out. Three left jabs connected to Colt’s rock-hard jawbone, and he rattled his head as if to shake off the confused stupor clouding him.

“Don’t let him back you into the cage, Colton!! Get off the cage!!” Mac coned his mouth to project the cries of instruction.

The newly named “punisher” masked his stubbled cheeks and doubled over, flexing his abs to lessen the blow of the jabs he was suffering at the hands of The “Matador” Mendez. Colt was able to duck beneath the repetitive one-one-two-one-two pattern and escape. Danny turned swiftly on his right foot to directly meet a lightening surged, spinning back fist produced by Colton that couldn’t have been more perfectly executed had it been wrapped in a floppy red bow. The fastens of the championship belt were metaphorically loosening from the waist of the current title holder. Mendez collapsed wobbly to land at the feet of his assassin, while the rest of the room, myself included, rose in entirety for confirmation that Mendez was rendered unconscious.

A mumbled “shit” rolled over my bitten tongue when he scraped his busted body off the mat, and I realized there was still some fight left in him. Too much for my liking, as a matter of fact. Colt detected Danny was standing on loose bearings, fully primed to finish him off so that referee could lift his likely shattered hand in victory.

“Brett, I’ve taken many a hit like the one Ritter just slung, and I can promise you that Dan doesn’t even know where the hell he is right now.” The retired fighter turned announcer crumpled his nose as The Matador staggered clumsily about the confines of the cage.

Beads of sweat waterfalled from Colton, while it appeared he had turned Mendez’s sweat to blood now. Crimson mist from the brutal blow veiled my Colt’s face in sprayed decoration, leaving him to resemble a battling Spartacus. He was hunting the afflicted animal of his adversary, who was obviously giving his best efforts to remain untouched the dwindling minutes of the round. Effort that sadly for Danny was in vain as his Punisher cornered him with panther like reflexes, unleashing combative hammer fists to his crouched torso. A strident roar more chilling than that of any jungle predator crawled from Colton’s straining, veined throat as he was peeled away from Danny, who was now quaking in the momentary safety of his corner until the next bell rang out beginning the third round.

Colton’s posse catered to his unsteady breathing chest by smashing ice packs to his pecks, and blotching back muscles, leaving Mac to pour water into his gapping mouth. My eyes drooped in mesmerizing ignorance upon the realization of what the world of competitive fighting really entailed. Men who chose this career path were born with the hearts of gladiators, and unfaltering dedication that I deeply admired. When I wisped back to the present moment, my dilated eyes were matched with the two belonging to Colton. His mouth drawn into an expressionless line, jaws flexing in tension, he held onto my gazes for only a moment, however long enough to feel as if I would suffocate from the intensity. It was like he wanted to assure me that he knew I was there, and where exactly. And that he was okay.

One Sunday over brunch at his favorite greasy diner he shut up my harassment of questions.

“You’re gonna have to cool it with the worryin’, woman. Have some faith in me, ight! When you tell me about a story you been workin’ on you don’t hear me sayin’, ‘You sure you wanna do that?’ or ‘that’s a lotta pressure, baby.’ Because I know how amazing you are at what you do, and I got total confidence you’re gonna make that story your bitch. I appreciate the concern. Honestly love, I do. But it’s gonna be fine, I promise ya’.” And in his eyes, tonight in that ring, he reiterated that very same Sunday brunch pep talk.

Round Three

Colton had appeared to have jumped the proverbial hurdle described as Danny Mendez. Now, we just needed to cross that finish line, and cross it first. There was no way Dan could withstand another round like the previous two, physically or mentally. He was all but a whipped pup whimpering at his master’s feet by this point, but Colt had to finish him. Seal the deal, as they say.

“C’mon, baby. C’mon, baby,” I chanted through clenched teeth, my nervous hands clasped to each side of the chair to protect my newly manicured nail polish from being whittled away in edginess.

Light hands were being tossed between the two men, nothing quite connecting initially. However, when Mendez carried out a right hook resembling Rocky himself to Colt’s left cheek, he was triggered. From several feet back, separated by a metal cage, a waist high barricade, and two rows of people, I had chills from the look on his face. Raw rage was swirling in Colt’s blue eyes that must be like mood rings because I would swear with every ounce of me that they melted to a muddled charcoal grey shade as his murderous ferment grew. Blow after blow. Swing, after swing, after swing rained from his hands of steel, some connecting, most not. His overpowering fury and lack of control was swelling all too quickly.

A wonky, sloppily executed move sent him clumsily into the grasp of Mendez, who perfectly seized the fluky opportunity. When Colt nearly knelt to reach for the leg The Matador, his nose and sharp cheekbone crashed to the thigh of Danny. The muscled, male flesh grappling along the blood tarnished canvas was more jumbled to me than the most abstract piece of Picasso. Finally, when the bodies settled a little, I was able to distinguish better what was unfolding. The Punisher’s clearly weakening forearm was constricted between the bulging limbs of Danny. I subconsciously lunged out of my seat, for a millisecond forgetting what my role truly was here tonight. Not Colton’s girlfriend, not a woman concerned for the well-being of the man she loved, but a columnist for the Pilot. So, as quickly as I was up, I was regretfully seated, left to repel the blazing desire I had to hop that padded retaining wall and run to where Mac stood to be at the side of my Colton.

His face buried into the upper body of his attacker, who was using his hooked arms to ease Colt’s elbow to the back side of his neck. Silencing the uproar of the crowd, and the desperate grimaces coming from the ring, and I could almost hear the tendons buried under my boyfriends tanned skin creaking in stretch, nearing a tear.

“FOLKS IT IS HAPPENING RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW. If you’re not seeing this one first hand boys and girls, you should be! Danny with the flawless Kimura Lock, Brett. Will Ritter be able to escape this one?” The analyst screamed.

We’d been over arm bars, bare naked chokes, bow and arrow chokes, triangle chokes. Many nights I spent cross legged against the ring post watching Colton perform, and escape nearly every martial arts submission known to man. But the word Kimura didn’t draw any recognition when I heard the broadcaster scream it to the world. Seconds as long as the day ticked, ticked, ticked by. 44 seconds remaining… 41…….. 35……….. Suddenly, the tapping of a submissive hand to the mat.

A hand strapped in black gloves. Gloves marked Ritter. Mendez was ceased by flailing hands of the ring official, signaling the end of the battle. His victorious hand raised to display, mouthpiece hanging out the left of his lip. In all my life, you could’ve never convinced me this egotistical, loud mouth, headache of a man would commit the act he did next. Squatting to his still face down, defeated opponent, Danny looped his arms under those belonging to Colton, hoisted him to his feet, and embraced him with patted hands into a hug. He had secured their heads together with a palm to crown of his submitters head, and began preaching unheard praises in his ear. Colton responded with knowing nods of appreciation, and the pair were torn apart for the official call from the referee. Not hanging around to partake in the celebration of his defeat, Colton snuck through the opened door of the cage, seeking the escape to his dressing room, away from the shutterbugs in his face, and microphones chasing him. I hoped maybe his eyes would happen to fall my way, wanting to gift him with a smile of support, or even a frown of understanding. But when the pace of his slightly bowed, unmistakably masculine gait increased toward the tunnel, never raising his face from the floor, a heap of strife bloomed in the pits of my stomach.

Regretfully I had to stay & witness “almighty” Mendez once again take the belt back into his slimy hands. This reign was beginning to smell stagnant to most of the fan base across the board, and Colton seemed to be the knight with the best chance at snagging the crown right from his head. Much, much to my surprise, Danny’s first post-victory radio interview began with the unexpected praises of one Colton.

“First of all, I want to thank Ritter for giving me what may have been the most challenging match of my life. The pendejo prick can throw a jab, I’ll give him that.”

Despite the uniquely gracious compliment, the guy still rubbed me the wrong way.

The arena emptied quite quickly, and most of the media frenzied their way to the locker room area for the press conference, coveting to be front row. But I was very familiar with how anything “post” event played out. The athletes and/or coaches usually took their painfully precious time for our brains to rot in waiting, then when they did eventually decide to grace us with their usually self-proclaiming marvelous appearance, it would include all of answering maybe two questions, before storming out. So clearly, I was in no hurry and I figured I had a solid half hour to check on Colt beforehand.

Beth, Michael, and Mac stood identically against the cold concrete of the walls, arms folded about their chest. His mom acknowledged me first.

“Liv dear, hey there!” she drew my hands into hers. “How are you? I’m sure as disappointed as we are…”

“It really is a shame. He had it won, too! He has nothing to be ashamed of though, that’s for sure! Even Mendez was kinda singing his praises out there. Guess that’s just how the world of fighting goes sometimes, unfortunately. How is he?”

Beth never released my hands when looking to her sternly quite husband standing to the left of her.

“Kid won’t see anyone, honey. Got Mac here guarding the door like a rabid dog. This is pretty typical for him. ‘Specially after a loss.” Michael seemed accustomed to said behavior from his son. Annoyed, but accustomed nonetheless.

Beth on the other hand, looked as if she was profoundly saddened that her baby boy didn’t need his momma during a time like this. Her lips tucked in, forehead scrunched in concern.

“Maybe I can raise his spirits a bit, hm?” I gently brushed my soft thumbs to the tops of her hands in efforts to comfort her, then released her hold.

Before I could even wrap a finger around the sliver handle of the door he was hiding behind, Mac’s forearm dropped even between my waist level and the door, reflexes like that of a cat on a tin roof.

“Sorry, sweetheart. I can’t let you go in there. Just doin’ as I’m told, you understand.”

Those rules didn’t apply to me, silly Mac. I’m the woman he loves for crying out loud! I’d hate to be you when he finds out you’re keeping me away for him, ya’ poor sap.

“Just tell him I’m here, Mac. Please?”

His eyes grew to resemble large, glossy marbles and he exhaled in annoyance, disappearing into the room. I combed and teased fingers through my hair, and casually reapplied a layer of Chapstick to my now festering lips resulting from the nervous biting throughout the fight. No sooner than the door had latched behind him, Mac had stepped back out into the now hectic hallway.

“I uh… I’m sorry, Miss Liv. Colt doesn’t wanna see anyone right now.”

“Did you specifically tell him it was ME, Mac,” I quizzically pried, laying both hands over my chest.

“Yes ma’am. Mentioned you by name…” He was bashful, almost embarrassed for me, and probably half pissed at his buddy for appointing him the bearer of bad news.

Shame flushed me head to toe. I would’ve buried my head six feet in the sand that very moment, mortified with humiliation. Let me clarify, I could’ve buried Colton himself six feet under the cold dirt first, then my head. My thumb started to flick my pointer finger, a nervous tick engaging.

“Oh darling, don’t take it personally, okay? The boy will be all apologies once he snaps out of this little tantrum he’s throwing. I’m sure if it.” Beth said unintentionally patronizing.

“No, no. Um… it’s totally fine. Yeah, um.. I’ve gotta get to the post conference anyways so… Beth, it’s so, so good to see you both. Maybe we can meet you guys for breakfast or something in the morning before you head home?”

I could feel my throat tightening with the extreme effort I was giving to hold the dam of tears from bursting. I wasn’t even necessarily hurt, it was the fact that he had made me look like an absolute fool, and in front of his parents, nonetheless. Now, I’m sure they saw me as just another spineless, dense airhead hanging on the coattails of their handsome, prized son.

“Good to see you too, girl. You be careful gettin’ home now.” Michael pointed a finger in my face, while patting my shoulder with the other.

The uneven patter of my heels echoed down the hall, denying the invitation to the pity party they were about to throw for me. The pouting baby wouldn’t face me? There would be no escaping me at the conference though. In just mere minutes, he’d be at my journalistic mercy, with a watching crowd. And he may just take his thrashing right then & there. The groveling look of remorse on his face would more than likely be worth the embarrassment.

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