Modern gladiator, p.5
Modern Gladiator, page 5
“Corbin, huh? How’d you get a nickname like Bun-Bun?”
“Bin-Bin,” I say through clenched teeth.
Lala laughs. “He’s my little brother. I would call him all sorts of things when we were younger. Bro-Bro. Bin-Bin. Thee-Thee.”
I hide my red face with my hand, hating every moment my sister reminisces. I know it’s not the biggest deal in the world, but standing next to a group of manly men and being reminded of the nickname Thee-Thee makes me feel… childish.
“So, did you make weight?” Lala asks.
Keon rubs the length of his smooth jawline and nods.
“What do you do now?”
“I usually get something to eat and wait until the fights start.”
“Oh! Fun. Let’s go. I’m starving.” She turns to me and motions to the door. “You’ll drive, right?”
“Sure,” I say with a groan. “Let’s go.”
This day can’t end fast enough.
WE SIT around an IHOP booth and I stare at the varieties of syrups on display. Somehow, because life hates me, I’m seated next to Keon, while Derek and Lala sit on the opposite side, their shoulders touching the entire time, laughing it up like we were at a comedy club. Does Derek even know how to treat a lady? He should give her some space.
But I’m not going to say anything. It’s her choice who to date. Even if I hate him.
The waitress drops off our food, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
I have an egg-white omelet with a single piece of toast. Lala ordered two pancakes with a side of fruit.
And I guess Derek and Keon ordered everything else on the whole damn menu because they both get three plates each. All-meat omelets, a stack of waffles, four squares of french toast, a mountain of hash browns, three pigs’ worth of bacon and sausage—their food could feed a small village of starving children.
“Aren’t you worried about your weight?” I ask Keon as he scarfs down half an omelet in a few bites.
“I made weight,” he says between chewing. “Now I don’t have to worry about it.”
Derek nods. “Yeah. Now he needs them calories. He can’t be depleted for his match. Eat up.”
The two of them hoover their food like they were part vacuum.
I take my time to cut bite-sized pieces of my omelet, but by the time I’m a fourth of the way through my meal, both Keon and Derek are chugging their orange juice and burping loud enough to be victory roars.
Lala laughs. “You guys are awesome!”
“You should see me eat pizza,” Derek says. “I once ate two large pepperonis all by myself.”
“I’d love to see that.”
“Don’t worry, babe. I’ll show you any time you want.”
Babe? Since when did he start calling her babe? I narrow my gaze and give the guy a squint, but he doesn’t pay any attention. Keon lifts an eyebrow, however.
“Something wrong?” he asks me under his breath.
“No,” I mutter.
“Looking forward to the fights?”
“Oh yeah. Can’t wait to watch two idiots beat each other senseless.”
“Idiots?”
I open my mouth to explain but stop before any words escape my lips. Lala and Derek haven’t heard a word I said and probably won’t until someone says their names, so I’ll have to climb my way out of the hole I’m digging.
“Why did it have to be fighting?” I ask Keon. “I mean, of all the sports you could’ve done. There are safer options. Tennis. Golf. But getting hit in the face repeatedly seems like a dumb decision all around.”
Keon leans back on the booth. “Is that right? You sound like you have all the answers, then.”
“Well, I don’t have—”
“Why aren’t you studying to become an astronaut? Or a marine biologist?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re only proving my point. All my options are legitimate careers that don’t place me in danger. You picked one of the worst sports in history, second only to the gladiators in ancient Rome.”
“Some of us have passion,” Keon says.
“Passion? For hurting people?”
“Not that. We want the primal rush that comes from life-or-death situations. We want raw power and unmatched physical capabilities. Obviously we can’t go around wresting crocodiles to the death, so participating in judged MMA matches is the next-best thing.” He shrugs. “And I’ve always had a knack for fighting. I was on the wrestling team in high school, and I learned to grapple in the military. But I guess everyone who isn’t a doctor is an idiot to you, am I right?”
“Well—”
“Guys,” Lala says. “We still have a few hours before the fights. Why don’t we go check out the octagon? Derek says the event manager will let us in!” She shakes her hands around like she doesn’t know what to do with her excess energy.
Keon slides out of the booth, obviously done with our conversation.
I’m not making a good impression with the man, that’s for sure. But I guess it doesn’t matter—it’s not like my sister is dating Keon. We don’t have to get along for much longer.
I hope.
Chapter 5: Rear Naked Choke
Corbin Friel
SECURITY AROUND the arena is tighter than before. Bouncers and rent-a-cops watch every door. Early fans create lines and wait around in the afternoon sunlight. I want to join the people waiting in line, but Derek ushers us straight to the building. I don’t like breaking the rules… and the odd glances we’re given add to my guilt.
“Hey, guys,” Derek says to the bouncers. Before they can send us away, Derek pulls out a lanyard with a photo ID. “These two are with me.”
Keon flashes the same lanyard, and the bouncers let us in, no questions asked.
We enter an empty arena, and the door shuts behind us with a long whoosh akin to a sigh. Lala bounds forward, golf-clapping the entire way.
“These are our arena’s fine features,” Derek says as he points to the VIP seats, the snack bar, and then the octagon in the center of the room, acting like a glorified tour guide.
Lala follows his gestures like a cat follows a dot of light on the wall. I trail behind, unimpressed with a room devoid of people. Keon walks beside me the entire time, and I wonder if he’s going to mess with me like he did with my shirt.
“What year of med school are you in?” Keon asks, much to my surprise.
I clear my throat. “First year.”
“So you haven’t taken the USMLE yet?”
I catch my breath and stop dead in my tracks. “You know about the USMLE?”
Keon turns to me with a lifted eyebrow. “All med students have to take the first part at the end of their second year, right?”
“Y-yes. But….”
The USMLE—United States Medical Licensing Examination—has three parts administered to med students over the course of their education. It’s a huge exam, but only med students ever know or talk about it. Why would Keon, some ex-military fighter jock, know anything about the USMLE? Maybe I really am underestimating fighters.
Keon turns away and continues toward the octagon.
“I know someone in med school, remember?” he says. “She posted about it on Facebook a lot when it was happening.”
I jog to catch up to Keon. “Your girlfriend?”
“No. She’s a… family member.”
Ah. That explains it. “Are you planning on attending med school?” I ask.
Keon laughs. “No. I don’t like school, to be frank. I’m not good at standardized testing.”
“Well, what do you plan on doing in the future?”
“I plan on becoming a UFC fighter,” Keon says, curt. “All I need is three more wins and I can enter the qualifier at the end of the year. The winners get UFC contracts, and I’m going to be one of them.”
“What if it doesn’t happen?”
Keon wheels around on me and glares. “It will happen.”
I reply with a slow nod, taken aback by his level of intensity. I guess he’s serious about making it in the UFC. “Is this that passion you were talking about?”
Keon looks away and continues toward the octagon. “Something like that.”
“Hey,” I say, rubbing my neck. “I’m sorry for my behavior back in the IHOP.”
“Don’t mention it. I don’t care.”
Ah. I guess I should’ve known better. Fighters get made fun of and yelled at each time they enter the octagon. They must have skin as thick as a brick wall.
Half the lights are off, shrouding half the arena in darkness. Derek and Lala shuffle through the stands until they’re on the other side of the room. Before I can discourage them from separating, they enter the backstage rooms, leaving me and Keon alone near the octagon. I want to follow them, but I know I’d be acting like a pest, then. Maybe I should let them have a private moment before I crowd them again with my third-wheel presence. And it’s more likely Derek will make a fool of himself if I’m not around. Lala will see right through him.
The fighting stage looks like a trampoline, three feet off the ground, but instead of a jumping area, it has a flat white mat covered in advertisements. The sides were a six-foot-tall chain-link fence, and I stare up at the cage for a prolonged moment, wondering how long we’ll be here.
Keon walks up the stairs to the octagon gate and swings it open. “Wanna check it out from the inside?”
“Uh….”
“You’ll like it. Come here.”
I walk up the stairs, my hands tucked tight under my armpits. The inside of the cage is larger than I expected. Wide enough for two grown men to fight, and then some. I jump when Keon shuts the gate, trapping us inside.
“How many fights have you been in?” Keon asks as he throws his duffel bag into one of the corners.
“None,” I say.
“Not even in elementary school?”
“No. I’m a civilized person, thank you very much.”
I led a boring childhood, honestly. My parents were more concerned with Lala—as they should have been, so I’m not complaining—and I was content to read and study in my room most nights. I have friends, but not many, and most went out of state for college. It’s hard to get in fights when my interactions with others are so limited.
No lights shine over the arena seating. I can only imagine what it’s like to hear the crowd and the announcer while trying to fight a guy at the same time. The pressure must be intense. Too intense. I don’t think I could do it.
Keon stretches and twists. Then he gives me a sidelong glance. “Fighting requires a lot of skill and training. Not unlike med school.”
“You think they’re the same?”
“No. But I know I have to learn and execute hundreds of moves.”
“How hard could that be?” I ask.
“Let me show you a few.”
I mull over the rest for a moment. “Okay.”
“Stand in the middle.”
I comply with his demand, but I watch him closely. What’s he planning? Is he actually going to show me a few moves? Or is he going to mess with me, like he did when he signed my shirt?
Keon walks up behind me, and I glance over my shoulder, trying to keep him in sight at all times.
“I’ll show you how to do a rear naked choke,” he says.
I jump away, my shoulders bunched at my neck. “Okay, knock it off. Let me out of here.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m not stupid. I can see a prank coming from a mile away. There’s no move called the rear naked choke. Well, maybe a sex move, but no way it’s a fighting move. You’re just making fun of me.”
Keon laughs long and hard. Then he wipes away water from his eyes and shakes his head. “That’s what it’s really called. I’m not making it up.”
“Stop it.”
“I’m telling you the truth. It’s a pretty common jiujitsu move. You have a phone, don’t you? Look it up.”
I bust out my phone and google the term, half expecting a flood of porn to assault my screen. To my surprise, a whole host of Brazilian jiujitsu articles show up, demonstrating the proper technique for the rear naked choke. I lift both eyebrows, stunned. I didn’t know the world of MMA could be so… colorful.
“Believe me now?” Keon asks.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“So stand in the middle. I’ll show you how it’s done.”
I put my phone away and stand in the middle of the cage. Keon walks up behind me and slides his arm around my neck, until the crook of his elbow is below my chin. I grab his forearm with both hands, my whole body stiff. I didn’t think he would get this close, I just figured he would motion or mock perform it himself.
I love the scent of his spring-fresh deodorant. It messes with my thoughts, along with his well-muscled arm and warm touch.
“Wait,” I say.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, his hot breath on my ear.
“No, I’m not—er, well—I date men, okay? I’m into men.”
Not the most eloquent way to put it, but I have to get it out there. Some guys get weird about knowing my sexuality. They don’t want to get near me, like homosexuality is a contagious plague they could contract if they got too close. I don’t want Keon to think I was secretly trying to touch him in any way—best to be upfront.
Keon doesn’t release me. “Was that a warning or something? I’m pretty sure if you try to force yourself on me, I can fend you off.”
“I’m not going to force myself on you!”
“Then why bring it up?”
“I, well….”
“Let me tell you a secret,” he whispers, his gruff voice sending a shiver down my spine.
“O-okay.”
“I don’t care where you stick your dick.”
I hold back a laugh. Not caring is a fantastic response, considering I’m trapped with him in a fighting arena. Better than him being offended.
“Ready to learn this move?” he asks.
I nod.
He tightens his hold around my neck and pulls me into his chest, so that my shoulder blades press up against his pecs. He locks his other arm around the back of my neck, forcing my head forward and choking me in an instant. My face and brow feel engorged, and I know he’s cut off the blood flow to my head. With a choke like this—a blood choke—I’ll pass out in a matter of seconds. I grab at his arm and attempt to pull it away from my neck, but his grip is solid and reinforced with his other arm.
Before I black out, Keon releases me.
I stumble forward, rubbing at my throat, relieved to feel everything returning to normal.
“Okay, now you try it on me,” he says. “And then I’ll show you how to counter it.”
“You want me to use it on you?”
“Yeah. Wrap one arm around my neck.”
“You’re a little tall,” I say, motioning to our difference in height. It’s not much, but it’s enough to become a problem.
Keon kneels down, his back to me. “Okay. Go ahead.”
The novelty of learning MMA moves with a pro fighter invigorates me. I step up behind him and slowly wrap my arm around his neck. His whole body is solid rock wrapped in a thin layer of skin. His bulging shoulders, his tight neck, his perfectly sculpted back—I swear his body-fat percentage has to be less than ten. It’s hard for me to focus on anything else.
“Use your other arm to torque the first,” Keon says. “Make sure your grip is tight. Really pull back.”
I do as he says, but I know I must look like a fool doing it. I’m nowhere near his level of athleticism, and all I can think about is Justin’s weird fantasy, the one about two fighters duking it out, the winner getting his way with the loser. Just imagining such an event, me and Keon here in the cage, has my mind going to all sorts of crazy places. Sweat dapples my skin, and I’m not even straining, I can’t seem to keep the heat from my body.
“Pull harder,” Keon says.
When taken out of context, his command only adds to my daydream.
I torque back, and Keon taps my arm. I release and jump away, worried I actually hurt him.
He brushes his shirt off. “Not bad. See? Wasn’t that hard. You had a good stranglehold then.”
“Y-yeah.”
“Now let me show you how to counter it.” Keon motions me back over with a jerk of his head. “Wrap your arm around me again.”
I go to comply, but Keon dips his chin close to his body, preventing me from wrapping his neck. Then he brings one hand up to his shoulder and pushes my arm aside. “See that?” he asks. “Simple. Try to choke me again.”
Hoping to be clever, or at least impress him, I throw my arm around his neck as fast as I can. Keon gets his chin down before I can secure anything, and then he rips my arm away in the next instant. He stands and whips around, facing me in the matter of a split second.
“You’re skilled,” I say. “You must have studied these moves and practiced a lot. I’m impressed. Genuinely.”
Keon pats me on the shoulder. “And I’m impressed you tried your damnedest to get me in a choke hold.” Then he chortles. “Maybe next time try to concentrate. I could feel just how much you like to date men that entire lesson.”
Icy dread and red-hot embarrassment mix in equal parts throughout my system. I turn away, bright red in the face, and shuffle to the gate of the octagon, adjusting my pants the entire way.
“I am so sorry,” I say, unable to look at the guy. “That was, I mean, just—unprofessional. Ungentlemanly.”
I grab the gate and shake, but it doesn’t open. I shake harder. Nothing. How does this thing work? I need to get out of here. I slam my shoulder onto the fence, but it doesn’t budge. I want to leave and avoid this awkward moment before it kills me.
“How do you open this?” I ask, half a shout, half a demand.
Keon laughs. It grates on my patience, but what can I do? I grit my teeth, straining my jaw to hold back some choice words.
I cross my arms. “Just open the damn gate!”
Keon saunters over, like he’s going to take his sweet time about everything, but the slam of the arena door draws both our attention. A group of men walk in, each wearing a black T-shirt and pants. Keon straightens his posture, his expression shifting to something unreadable, and I hold back any questions to avoid making any noise.
