Chapter 2
Rafi
"You finally gonna ask her out?" Stetson asks jokingly, taking a seat next to me on the bench. He asks me this daily, so I ignore the question and sip my black tea. I don't even like tea, not really. But I don't drink coffee when I'm training, so tea it is.
He sprawls out, legs wide, taking up entirely too much room. It draws attention to us, and people walking by start to take notice. We're semi-famous in this town, so that doesn't help.
I like this bench. It has a perfect view of Storybrook Coffeehouse, and I get to watch Emma for as long as I want, serving coffee and smiling at strangers. You can't see the bench I'm on, across the street in the park, from where she is. It's the perfect spot, obscured by a large oak tree and a busy crosswalk. The beachfront is a few minutes walk from here, so it's a busy area, with enough people you could get lost in the crowd.
I may be a creep, watching her when she can't see me, but it's all I've got since she barely looks at me when I see her in person.
"Can I ask you something?" He props one foot on his opposite knee, taking up even more space. A couple of girls giggle into each other's ear, staring at us as they bounce on by. Co-eds, looks like. Stetson smiles wide at them, tilting his head to check out their asses as they pass.
I look at him expectantly, then turn back to Emma. She's laughing at something her coworker said.
"Don't get me wrong, the girl is cute as hell. But why her? I mean, you're obsessed. There's definitely easier tail out there. I don't get it." He shakes his head and takes another sip of his coffee.
"You don't know her," I tell him.
"Neither do you," he says, but I don't correct him. He doesn't get it, and I don't want to have to explain. I look back at Emma. I can't see her features too well from here, I can only make out her gestures, her moods. But I know what she looks like up close.
Big brown doe eyes, long wavy brown hair she always ties back in a ponytail. She's about 5'5", and she has the perfect body. She's understated. Thin but not a waif. Tits and ass, but no more than a handful. It's hard to see her curves well because she always dresses in clothes that are usually a little baggy. She hides a lot, both literally and figuratively.
It's not just her appearance, though she is beautiful. I know what Stetson thinks, that she's cute but in a sweet, soft way. She doesn't look like a centerfold, which I'll admit was mostly who filled my bed the last few years. I had a type only because it was always available and easy.
So no, she's not in your face hot with low-cut, skin-tight clothes and tons of makeup, but I like that about her. I like how she constantly has to push her glasses up when they fall because she's talking too much with her hands. Or how she's a little awkward and stutters when she's nervous, and it makes her cheeks burn bright. How she's painfully shy and can barely look me in the eye when I see her every morning to buy tea, but I notice her watching me when she thinks I'm not looking.
"How are your stats this quarter?" I change the subject.
Happy to take the bait, he tells me, "I'm at 22 and 8. But I'm not training or eating like you right now. I got time."
"You've lost 8 this month? Jesus, Stets. What the fuck did you do, fight hungover?" We're talking sparring matches, not paid fights, but still.
He grumbles. He's been drinking and partying lately. Not nearly as much as other guys our age, but when you want to be the best, you've gotta take care of yourself. That's why I don't drink alcohol and hardly any caffeine when I'm training. I try to stay as clean as possible because it makes a difference in the ring.
"I know. After you win stateside, I'll buckle down. First of the year, I'll clean it up." He isn't concerned, and it's his life, so I don't push it.
"Come on, asshole, time for me to kick your ass," I say, getting up from the bench and walking toward the gym we both train at. It's a couple of blocks away.
Storybrook is a little out of the way. There's a coffee shop closer to the gym, but it doesn't matter because unless Emma starts working at the other one, this is where I go every morning.
I've been coming here for a year since transferring gyms. Stetson and I have trained together for 7 years, since we were 18, fighting our way up the circuit. We kept competing against each other, each taking a win or a loss, but we always beat everyone else in our weight class. One day it'll be me and him up on the big screen in Vegas, fighting for a multi-million dollar contract.
I'm on track to win National Stateside Championships for MMA in my weight class this year, but my coach thinks it'll be another couple of years before I win Internationals. I've edged Stetson out a bit this year, even when he was training hard, but he doesn't seem concerned about catching up.
I throw my paper cup in a trash can outside the gym before pulling open one of the large doors. Double Down Gym has been a staple in this neighborhood since the 80s. They gained notoriety when Max Boseman took over, bringing a collection of 27 medals to the gym. It's one of the country's top places to train MMA, with Max being the most sought-after coach in the league. I was psyched to transfer here, but being closer to Emma just sealed the deal.
Some people may walk into a gym and feel differently, but it's like coming home for me. The smell of rubber mats, cleaning supplies, and sweat has been one of the few constants in my life. There's no receptionist, no front desk. It's just a huge open floor plan, a simple old-school gym. The sharp squeak of sneakers on linoleum, the loud hum of the A/C, and the faint sound of Coach shouting at some poor up-and-comer assault my ears as we enter the main floor. Brings a smile every time.
The perimeter of the room is lined with hanging punching bags and sandbags, some tires, and a couple of rope walls. All the equipment is up-to-date, but Coach believes in more traditional training techniques, so there's no fancy electric equipment, save for a few treadmills. Even then, he prefers to send you for a jog out into the real world.
I follow Stetson into the locker room, navigating around young newbies who watch us reverently, trying to catch us in conversation. They look up to us, and we try to set a good example. Work hard, be humble. Some of these kids will go far, I have no doubt, but right now, Stetson and I are the top-ranking fighters in the region—soon to be country.
I pull all my stuff out of my locker. I practically live here, so all my shit is here when I need it. I dig a change of clothes out of my bag and a pair of lightweight shoes that are easy to box and grapple in and get changed.
Stetson is my roommate and, unfortunately, also my best friend. We rent a pretty sweet house on the west side of town, about a half-hour walk from here. The whole place is sick, way too big for just the two of us, but we both won all of our fights last year, and cash has been flush for a while. I have a big televised fight in two weeks. If I win—when I win—the payout is 50K. Not my biggest pot yet, but it leads me to Nationals, which is over 2 million.
I wait before following Stetson back out of the room for warm-ups and pull out my phone. I tap the email app, open the last letter I got from her, and reread it, leaning my forehead against my locker. My pen pal from the last 15 years, my longest, oldest friend.
She's thinking about making herself go on a date or join a dating app because she's feeling lonely, and I keep trying to formulate a response. I have been for weeks now since she sent the email, but no words come. She doesn't ask me for dating advice often, for which I'm grateful, but when she does mention anything sex-related, I freeze up. I bang my head against the locker in frustration, turn off my phone and tuck it into my bag and head out to start jumping jacks.
* * *
Dodging his left hook, I uppercut with my right, knocking his head, so he snaps up and back. He corrects quickly and drops back into place, hopping left, right, left, right. This is why Stetson and I are a good match. We fight differently. He's quick, springy, and moves like a feather. I'm more of a brick wall, hard to knock down. We still grapple and roll, but when we box, I pack a fucking punch.
"What's the matter, big man? Somethin' on your mind? Can't land a hit?" He taunts, weaving left and right.
"Raze, let's go! Watch his knee, watch his knee!" Coach yells at me from the line. I take a second to glance, and I know I'm off my game, I should have seen it before now. He's favoring. I knew he ran too hard yesterday, and his knee was bothering him.
"Nothin' wrong with my knee, son!" Stetson laughs, dodging my right hook, but I follow up with my left and clock him. Still, he bounces back. He hasn't landed a hit on me yet, but he's recovering quickly from mine.
"You know, Raze, I think I might ask that cute brunette out tomorrow. I think you might be onto something, that shy act is a total turn-on. I bet she's just waiting to get fucked—oof," I sweep my leg behind his right knee and tackle him as he drops down. I land a hard punch, roll so he's on top of me, and use my leg strength to toss him off the line of the ring. He lands hard. He doesn't move, but he's still chuckling, so I know he's fine.
"What the fuck took you so long, Raze?" Coach barks at me while moving to check on Stetson. One of the trainees brings him water and starts cleaning him up. I stand, crack my neck, then shake out the energy, bouncing lightly on the balls of my feet.
"I forgot about his knee." It's a sorry excuse, and I should have had him down five minutes ago. I was distracted. By the email. By Emma.
I walk over to Stetson, who's already climbing up to a stand, albeit slowly, and we tap palms twice, our own little handshake to say we're both cool. I know he's not really going to ask out Emma, and he knows it's my job to bring him down in the ring.
"Alright, get your asses cleaned up. I want you to stretch for a full 30 minutes when you get home, use the hot tub, and do another 5-mile jog when the sun goes down. I'll see you in the morning," he points to me.
"Yes, Coach," I say before walking back to the locker room. I shower quickly, ready to start the long walk back to our house. I meet Stetson out front, who's flirting with some fangirls. They aren't allowed in the gym. This place has housed many famous MMA champions, and random chicks like these two are a distraction, always trying to sneak in and land a meal ticket. Still, the gym is closing for the day, and I wouldn't be shocked if Stetson was the one that let them in.
One of them, I think her name is Nina, or Tina or something, I can't remember?—she's been here a few times, always tries to get my attention. She's hot. And a year ago, before I moved here, I may have been interested, at least for a fun night. I had no problem letting groupies suck my dick. But I haven't been with a chick since I got here, and I'm sure as fuck not gonna start with her. She's got stage-5 clinger written all over her face.
"You ladies buy tickets to my boy's match?" Stetson asks the girls.
"No, it was sold out! We're going to rent it on TV, though. Unless you want to get me backstage?" One of the girls shifts her attention to me, grabbing her braided hair and twisting it around her finger, biting her lip. The other chick, Tina or Nina or whatever, shoots her friend daggers.
Ignoring the girls, I tell him on a sigh, "Stetson, I'm leaving without you, bro," and move around them out into the late afternoon, pushing the doors open with my shoulder. It's sunny here like it always is in California, and since it's early fall, the weather is still warm but not oppressive. Better than Vegas, anyway, which is where I've considered moving to when? my career takes off. I'm not leaving any time soon, though. And not without her.
I make it about half a block before Stetson catches up to me. "Thanks for waiting, dick. Hey, that chick Tina asked for your number."
"Tell me you didn't give it to her."
"Don't be pissed, but I did. You need to get laid." I stop abruptly and shove his shoulder hard enough that he falls slightly off the sidewalk.
He starts laughing, "Bro! You know me better than that. Of course I didn't give her your number. But I did invite Roxy over later because, unlike you, I am not a monk. I can't promise she won't show up with her friend, but if she does, I'll take care of them both. Don't you worry."
"How generous of you." I turn and keep walking.
"I don't get it, man. We used to talk about all the free pussy raining down on us before we won our first fights. Now we're both famous, you even more so, rakin' in the cash, literally drowning in chicks. And you're, what? Celibate?"
"I'm not talking about this with you, Stets," I round the corner and cross the street. It's faster this way since the coffee shop where Emma works is closed by now. I don't know where she goes after work, I rarely manage to catch her later in the day.
Fortunately, he changes the subject, and we stop at a taco truck a couple of blocks from our place. They make good food that doesn't make you feel like shit, and since I'm on a pretty rigid diet, it's helpful on the rare occasions I eat off my meal plan that it doesn't ruin me. Plus, tacos are great.
When we get home, I type in the 4-digit passcode to the gate out front, and Stetson shuts the door behind him. "Don't give them the code, please. Something about the way that Tina chick was eyeing me, I don't trust her not to sneak in and steal my underwear." I involuntarily shudder at the thought of her creeping into the house at night.
"Don't worry, I'll come down and let them in," he nods in agreement. I can't complain. This is the life I chose to lead, living with my best friend. Random chicks and wild parties are not uncommon here, though I rarely partake. Plus, the house is big enough that, as long as it's not a rager, he can host a fuckin' orgy for all I care, so long as I don't hear that shit from my room.
I open the basement door to head downstairs to our home gym so I can get my stretching routine started, but Stetson stops me. "What if you just ask her out?"
I can't even be mad anymore, but it's exhausting that he won't leave this alone. He doesn't get it. "Stets?—"
"You have a picture of her framed by your bed. You think I haven't noticed that?" I hold the door open and lean against the door frame. I try to explain, I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. How do you ask out a girl you're in love with? Who won't even look you in the eye? Who knows everything about you and nothing all at once? Complicated doesn't begin to explain it.
In the ring, I'm a cocky motherfucker. I've been undefeated for over a year now. I'm on track to win the National Stateside Championship, the highest level in the country, and women throw themselves at me. I get tit pics on my socials constantly. After I win my next fight, the pot after that is millions.
But one look at Emma Baker, and suddenly, I forget how to talk. When she finds out who I really am, why I have a framed picture by my bedside, one I don't deny having jerked it to pretty much nightly, she's going to be pissed.
I don't want to take the chance that she won't forgive me. Or that she won't like the real me. She's gotten to know a different side to me, one other people don't see. She only knows me as Rafi, her best friend, pen pal, and confidant.
She has no idea that Raze?—the guy who buys tea from her every day, just to get a glimpse of her in real life?—is completely in love with her. Has been for years.
I head downstairs to the gym and stretch. I work out until the clinking sounds of partying and high-pitched giggling reach me, and I escape to my room.