Chapter 23
Kas
Davina (Gym): Mari LOVED it. The masseuse took a liking to her and he gave her a free scalp massage. I also got a free foot massage. HEAVEN.
I don’t like that. “He” and “massage” in the same sentence isn’t something I particularly want to hear in reference to Mari. Unless the “he” is me and I get the pleasure of weaving my fingers between her braids and hearing her relieved sighs.
Mari is the most likable person to ever exist, so when that likability allows some random dude to do something I’d kill to do, I end up feeling a blistering heat that prickles up the back of my neck and snuffs out any reasonable thought I have. Now and then, I’m reminded that our camaraderie of being close during this trip means that I’m not the only person experiencing her.
It’s infuriating.
Dash and Bill nicknaming her Sunshine has me fighting to call her the Polish equivalent of S?oneczko , just so I can give her my own nickname. I also care too much about a masseuse doing his job—I shouldn’t give a fuck about any of these things.
I’m about to place my phone back into my gym bag when a small notification drops down from the top of the screen. It’s another email, one of many I’ve received today each time Mari purchases a book off the device I gifted her. I’m glad Mari’s decided to make use of the gift, but goddamn. How much is she planning on reading?
Dash strolls into the gym with his arms outstretched. “Yo, why is half the team out?”
On any other given day here, this would be the time that Mari takes some footage and regroups with Davina about fight business. With both of them out of office today, it’s on us to behave while a videographer from the SFL films what Mari describes as a “long-form vlog.”
“Mari’s birthday. The girls are at the spa, remember?” I explain.
“Shit, I still need to get Mari a gift. What did you get her?”
“A reading device, this spa day, and I’m gonna give her the camera that I fixed.” My chest puffs a little.
Dash sputters out a chuckle. “Look at you, raising the bar for all of us men.” He walks toward where I’m standing and nods politely at the videographer sorting out his rig. “What’s next? Will you be at her doorstep with the head of her worst enemy?” He drops onto both knees with his head down and both palms raised. “Your birthday gift, your majesty.”
The head of Isaac. Now that would be fantastic.
“Are you making fun of me, or Mari?” I ask.
Dash stands, smiling wide. “Neither. I’m projecting because I haven’t gotten her anything yet.” He thinks for a moment and taps his forefinger against his chin. “Why do I feel like I need to get her something good? It’s honestly like I’ve known her for years.”
Dash says this offhandedly, but it’s a thought I ponder every single day.
“I get that. I think it’s because we’re always around her, and she overshares constantly.”
Dash pulls a face. “Mari doesn’t overshare, you undershare,” he says.
I’d argue that Mari making us known that she was on her period as a reason for why she nearly started bawling at a rat we saw trying and failing to drag a taco shell down a gutter was somewhat of an overshare. I smile at the memory as Dash removes his hoodie, clearly waking up too late to throw on a T-shirt this morning. When he turns to face me, the first thing I notice is a fresh tattoo on his chest. Unlike his arms, his torso is—was—free from tattoos.
“Can you stop checking me out? Also, where’s Bill? I’m going to ask him if he wants to go halves on a gift.” Dash pulls out his phone from the pocket of his sweatpants and starts typing away.
“Vaping out back,” I say.
Dash’s new tattoo is script, and I can’t make out what it says. It looks like English, yet the illegible scrawl makes it read as some sort of illusion that tricks your brain into thinking it’s a word.
“Bill, what are you getting Mari for her birthday?” Dash asks.
Bill walks through the fire exit door and kicks away the brick he used to prop it open. “Mari? I did a joint gift with Davina. Got her an external hard drive, a disposable camera, and an empty scrapbook for the developed photos.”
Bill looks proud as he lists off the gifts.
“Are you fucking serious? You’re both traitors not including me in the gifts.” Dash points between Bill and me.
I’m still staring at the fresh tattoo on his pec. “Dash, what does your tattoo say?” I ask, starting toward the videographer who is finishing setting up at the edge of the gym.
Bill gets closer to Dash and seems to have noticed the tattoo too, squinting through the lenses of his out-of-date prescription glasses.
“What?” Dash asks, glancing down at his chest.
“What the fuck does it say?” Bill questions.
Even the videographer looks away from his large camera to try and decode the word.
Dash starts hyperventilating and releases a dramatic wail as he falls to his knees. “What the fuck is that?!” he screeches. “I don’t even have my mom’s name inked on me!”
Ah, so he’s got a random person’s name tattooed onto his chest.
Bill stares down at him with a sickening look of satisfaction. “Idiot,” he says.
“What does it say?” I ask. Dash whirls to face me and presses his palms against the side of his head, smacking himself as if to trigger some sort of memory. Oh, Bill was right. “You’re an idiot.”
“Don’t give me that look, Kas. I know it’s a name ... it’s definitely a name.”
“Can you read it?” I ask the shy SFL videographer who looks no older than twenty.
“No, sir.”
Dash is red with frustration. “Fuck! It’s right over my heart. I was saving that spot, man.”
“It’s one thing to get a tattoo while pissed out of your head, it’s another for it to look shit,” Bill says. His crackling smoker’s cough integrates itself into his laugh.
“Oh, fuck, are you recording?” Dash asks the videographer who nods with a smile. He storms up to the videographer and looks directly into the lens of the camera. He points at it like an actor breaking the fourth wall. “If you’re ever thinking about stepping into a tattoo joint after drinking, do a three-sixty and get your ass straight to bed.”
“One-eighty,” I correct. Dash’s shoulders sink like my correction is the last thing he needs.
Bill smacks his hands on Dash’s shoulder. “Are you still piss-drunk, lad?”
“No, I’m not piss-drunk, lad.” Dash mocks Bill’s accent.
My cheeks ache at how wide I’m smiling.
The poor videographer is swooping the camera around to catch each of us speaking. The vlog is going to end up looking like one of those documentary-styled sitcoms at this rate.
“You guys are ruining my vlog,” I say, hopping into the ring.
“We are the vlog.” Dash waves his hands in front of the camera when he passes and glances down at his tattoo again. “I’m such a fucking idiotic piece of—fuck!” Dash shouts.
“Hey, does the SFL have restrictions for cursing?” I ask.
The videographer shrugs. “We normally censor if there’s too much.”
“So we’re good right now?”
“I guess.”
The last thing I’d want is for Mari to entrust us with this vlog and for absolutely none of it to be publishable.
“The word ‘cunt’ was said a total of thirteen times in two hours. Ten from Bill, two from Dash, and one from you.”
“In my defense, I only said it under my breath.”
I sit in the chair in the corner of Mari’s hotel room, like I did when I watched her open her gift yesterday.
She’s tucked under the bedsheets watching raw footage that the SFL videographer captured from our training today. I don’t know what she needs to do that requires clicking and typing at one hundred miles per hour.
“Also, I can’t believe Dash got a random woman’s name tattooed on his chest. Well, I mean, if it’s even a name. I have a theory that it’s not even in English.”
“Didn’t think of that,” I say. “He’s been pissed about it all day.”
The sound of Dash’s wail emanates from Mari’s laptop as she rewatches the same few seconds on repeat. She starts bobbing her head when the recurring audio from the clip starts to make a beat, lip-syncing to the scream before slamming her laptop shut and replacing it with her reading device.
“You’re so lame,” I say.
“Oh my god, do you even believe the words that leave your mouth?”
I smile at her and my heart leaps when she does that little nose-scrunching giggle of hers. Her joy prompts me to jump from my seat and rush into my room. After me and the guys ate dinner, I had a couple of hours to finish up Mari’s camera.
I barely re-enter her room when she starts squealing with joy. “My baby!”
“I fixed it myself.”
I pass her the camera. She spins it around, turns it on and off, and tries out a few shots, temporarily blinding me in the process.
“Cook, gamer, soon-to-be MMA champion, and camera repairman. Is there anything he can’t do!” She hugs the camera close to her and gives me one of the softest looks I’ve ever received. “Thanks, Kas. This has honestly been one of the most enjoyable birthdays I’ve had in a long time.”
I want to punch the sky. One of the most enjoyable birthdays she’s had in a long time. This feels like more of an achievement than if I were to win the fight we’re here for.
She hops out of bed to place the camera safely in its case. My eyes latch onto her ass in her little flamingo pajamas and blood immediately rushes to my groin.
She shimmies back under the sheets and grabs her reading device. “I’ll try and avoid your bad side if more of my birthdays can be like this.”
I know she’s joking, but gifting Mari was fun for me. Her job is busy, the team is chaotic, and her life back home with Isaac seems strained. Providing her with some sort of solace, no matter how temporary, feels really fucking good.
“Noticed you making use of one gift in particular.” I nod to the tech in her hand.
She huffs in amusement. “Was Davina giving you intel on my usage at the spa? I saw her updating you about how the day was going.”
“No, I was just getting spammed with email receipts after you bought them.”
Mari’s eyes widen at my answer. “So you can see what I read?” she presses.
Her eyes grow even wider.
“If I were to read the emails, sure.”
She sits up in her bed and the strap of her pajama top slides off the elegant slope of her shoulder. “Like titles and stuff?”
Her voice maintains a high pitch, and I’m questioning if I’ve said something wrong.
“Product, date, time, price. Normal receipt shit. Why?”
“Oh, I didn’t know that you could see the book.”
“I don’t see the book because I don’t read the emails,” I repeat. “I know that the first book you bought was some fantasy with ‘dragon’ in the name.”
It’s usually just an email of a confirmed purchase, the subject doesn’t show in its entirety, and I don’t read the email before deleting them to keep my inbox at zero.
Mari is trying hard to hide her reaction to our conversation. Her tight hold on the sheets makes it seem like she’s about to hide under them, and her upper teeth gnaw into the plump flesh of her lower lip.
“Thank you for the gift,” she whispers.
“Anytime,” I say hesitantly, offering her a small smile.
I stand from the chair and edge toward my room. What the fuck is she reading?
I rush into my room, and scramble to dig out my phone from the depths of my training bag. My thumbs freeze above the screen when I open the most recent email receipt I never got around to deleting.
Claimed by the Rugged Fighter
“No way.”
I cast a look at the door leading to her room and back to my phone. A deeper investigation into the account attached to my card reveals that almost every book she’s purchased has been a mixture of fantasy, celebrity autobiographies, even poetry. This is the only book she’s purchased that’s labeled as a romance and it’s about a fucking fighter.
It could mean nothing. It could also mean everything.
I scroll to find any information about the specific book. The synopsis is vague, and the reviews don’t reveal too much with some readers describing the book as “quick” and “hot.”
After a quick search on how to download book purchases, I receive a copy on my phone. It opens up some random book app. A brief scan is enough to get the general gist of things.
Mari is reading porn about fighters with me in the next room.
Fiery red heat floods my body; it rages from my scalp to my toes with a detour straight to my dick.
Is Mari reading this because of me ?
Fuck .
Is this what I’ve come to? Silently hoping that someone I lust for thinks about me in the same way? Because that’s what it is now, lust. A crush is too weak of a word.
I strain my ears to hear Mari’s muffled chatter; she’s probably on the phone to her cousin. She wouldn’t be speaking as much if it was her auntie who’s so talkative Mari responds with a lot of “yeahs” and “mhms.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t believe I’ve familiarized myself with her speech patterns. I should pick up my keys, get into my car, and go to the gym to obliterate a poor little boxing dummy until the thought of Mari escapes me and my brain can start working again.
So why am I knocking on her door? And why am I walking into her room?
Mari hangs up her call and tosses her phone nervously in her hand.
“I saw what you purchased,” I say.
She closes her eyes and exhales before speaking. “I know. Can we please not talk about it? We’re both adults. I don’t even like romance books.”
“Fine.”
It’s obviously not fine. She’s acting exactly like she was when she was suffering with severe motion sickness on the way to Vegas—deep breaths and obsessive fidgeting. I settle on the foot of her bed, prompting her eyes open with my movements. I thrust a finger at her, then squeeze my palms together and open them to act out the word book .
“Oh my god,” she says. “When I said I don’t want to talk about it, I didn’t mean act it out instead, you strange individual.”
I repeat the same sequence as before, this time adding a little shadow box so she can understand that I’m referencing the fighter book.
“No,” she says. “No, no, no.” She buries her face into her palms. “Go away, Kas. You’re not funny, or clever. You’re insufferable.”
So insufferable that I catch her peeking at my gestures between her fingers. With a sigh she sits up and the bonnet she wears slips off to reveal a few braids.
I do the same three moves again and she shakes her head. She replicates my three signs and adds a fourth by placing her fingers against her temple in the shape of a gun.
“It’s only a fucking book,” I say.
“So why do you care?” she asks, eyes blazing with frustration.
“Because you’re being avoidant. I wanna talk about it tomorrow because I’m not having another sexual thing impact our working relationship.”
She answers no by shaking her head, and I sigh.
I make my way back to my room and pause when I reach the threshold. Fuck. I don’t want to leave.
“Good night, Kas,” she says. My annoyance spikes. For someone so pushy about communication, she sure likes to avoid it when she’s embarrassed. “Dobranoc, Kas,” she says with firmness when I step through the door. I spin slowly and meet her wary gaze. She shakes her head like she knows exactly what I’m doing. “Say it so we can end this conversation,” she whispers.
Since the first night here, we have made it a habit to say good night. It signals the end of the day and puts any thoughts and feelings to rest.
“Kacper, say it.”
My full name on her tongue has me itching to close the gap between us and still, I abstain from speaking the word. We’re both waiting on my good night because it is conclusive as much as it is ritualistic.
Which is why I make an active choice not to say it.