Sucker Punch Drunk Love

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Sierra

Tonight, if nothing else, was a showcase of flashing lights.

A flashbulb frenzy of flaring spotlights capturing everything in its wake.

Red carpets weren’t my strong point. In fact, they weren’t my any point, as I had never walked one before tonight.

I wasn’t well known enough for anyone to care about my presence here.

The media outlets, donors and sponsors that gathered here for this high-profile charity event, wouldn’t know who I was.

Neither would the reputable boxers and MMA fighters and trainers.

If I could have, I would have fought at the Velvet Rope Vendetta, showed any curious eye what I was made of…

but I wasn’t ready. And being forward, I couldn’t afford it.

Not when I had spent everything I had, sacrificed everything I owned just to be here for…

A jagged scar stretched from his eyebrow to the side of his face, a memento from his final fight.

Decked out in a tailored suit, he stood much more polished than his fighting days.

As if in slow motion, the whole reason that brought me to the further side of the Tri-State area, whipped past me, stopping for one of the media outlets to perform a brisk interview in Spanish.

A tinge of shame and guilt came and went at the fact that I had had little access to learn.

My mother, with what Spanglish she knew, hadn’t taught me much, and couldn’t learn from a father who hadn’t been there.

A rush of relief washed over me when he went on to the next media outlet, an interview he did in English.

“Josue “El Jaguar*” Mendez, it’s an honor for you to make it tonight,” a journalist who couldn’t hide how handsome he looked so close up, something I hadn’t even been more aware of until now.

I’d probably clocked over a hundred hours of his past fights and training footage.

His hair was a lot longer now, or at least in comparison to his cage days, as he kept running his fingers through it to ensure it’d stay out of his eyes.

It wasn’t to say I didn’t watch female fighters, because if they didn’t exist, I wouldn’t be here.

But before I ever picked up a glove, I’d watched El Jaguar.

That was his name in the cage, or at least the one he’d been given by the public.

Every fight Josue had ever won, he’d won because he was patient, quick enough on his feet to change levels or direction.

He’d been the winner of three UFC titles, and would have taken home a fourth had it not been for his career ending injury.

The scar above his eye. I don’t know if it reminded him of that loss, or made him feel more badass, but in his transition from champion to trainer, I knew that the only man I wanted to train under was El Jaguar, co-owner of House of Beast.

The best and worst part about my pathway to the cage, was that I knew how to take a punch.

Outside of trauma, what I’d developed was natural skill.

But I knew I’d need more than that if I wanted more out of life.

I would need more than that if I wanted to become a real winner.

Fighting couldn’t just be about self-defense or blowing off steam for me anymore.

I’d lost the only person in the world who really mattered to me, and the only chance I had at winning her back was to become a winner. But to be a winner, I had to be trained by one. I had to be trained by the best. I needed El Jaguar.

“It’s really a pleasure to be invited to things like this—” the conversation of Josue’s voice carrying from his interview before being interrupted.

“And you don’t attend many, so the word is, whenever something like this could draw you out your cage, you’re on the lookout for fresh talent to be the face of your new gym. Any particular fighter you got your eye on tonight?” she asked, eager to get his best copy.

“I'll know it when I see it,” he insisted, offering a bored shrug.

“What is it?” the journalist flirted.

“I’ll know it when I see it,” Josue bantered, and in rare fashion, smiled. He'll know it when he sees it. That just meant he had to see me.

While I lacked representation, I had managed to set up my first few fights on my own, most back in Philly, but I’d been riding a three-streak win, and while I know I couldn’t do anything about the losses I’d endured back home, I was ready to make New Jersey my home for the time being, because that was where House of Beast was.

He wouldn’t be able to see me fight tonight, so I figured at a charity event, I could catch his attention another way.

Even just to get a conversation with him.

There wasn’t a ton of money to go around, but I’d been told once or twice, that with a beat face and decent dress, I cleaned up nice, something I made sure to check up on in the women’s bathroom when I had the chance.

At least my face had healed from my last fight.

Normally, I would’ve took more damage to the face, but because I was getting better, I was healing faster given I was protecting my face more.

I didn’t think I was pretty for a Black girl by any means, but I’d certainly heard it most my life, especially in Latin spaces.

Being Boricua, I embraced every part that made me Puerto Rican, but I’d be delusional if the reflection I saw staring back at me, was anything but a Black woman.

I’d made the choice to make that even more apparent by getting locs a few years back, and honestly, I never loved the woman staring back at me more.

Grateful that the dress I choose covered up my more obvious tattoos—something I’m sure would have given away my fighter background right away—when there was downtime to mingle, I was relieved to find him sitting by himself at the open bar, in the part of the venue they’d hosted the lavish dinner.

I couldn’t afford to attend both, so my only real chance to shoot my shot with Josue, was an isolated situation like this.

He would be on his guard, and I was good at breaking guards, so I just had to approach him in a way he wouldn’t see coming.

My heel game could use work, but the low heel I’d chosen to wear did make my calves look softer.

It was hard to always look soft when the body that carried you through cage fights required a lot of strength, but my hope was he wouldn’t be immediately able to tell that I was a fellow fighter, just a woman who worked out.

Choosing the seat not far from him, I stretched my arms out, showcasing my newly manicured nails.

With what I got paid, I couldn’t afford to get my nails professionally done, so I had two ways of celebrating when I won or lost a fight.

I’d either do my nails really nice, because I know I’d only have about a week or two until they were ruined.

Or…let’s just say the other thing wasn’t the most appropriate thing to be thinking around a man this fine up close.

“Dirty martini?” Josue demanded, catching the attention of the bartender. Feeding his curiosity to the sight of feminine hands not far from his line of vision, I noticed the sly glance he thought I hadn’t caught, looking in my direction. “And whatever the lady’s having.”

Smiling in his direction, I was unprepared when he didn’t smile back, as his cold, brown eyes never betrayed what he was thinking.

Meanwhile, I probably gave off the vibes of a groupie.

To say I didn’t notice his attractiveness watching his pasts fights would be a lie.

While he was a lot slimmer in his fighting days than this jacked up version of him sitting next to me, I’d been paying more attention to his technique, than his attractiveness.

Watching him pre and post scar, I didn’t know how mesmerizing his stare would be this up close and personal, but I had to remember, I wasn’t trying to come on to him, but I was trying to get his attention.

Not wanting to be rude, I wasn’t in the mood for much, so I thought by asking for something I assumed the bartender would be unable to make, would allow me to turn down the offer without feeling rejected.

“Do you know how to make chichaítos*?”

“?Chichaítos?” he cocked an eyebrow, the scarred one, before spewing a handful of Spanish too fast for me to catch. Maybe if he spoke with more a Puerto Rican accent, I could’ve broke down some of it, but given his travels, he spoke with a combination of slang, despite his Cuban roots.

I hadn’t missed everything. He’d definitely said “Disculpe, creo que me debe un trago, porque se me cayó mío al verte*,” which loosely translated into him saying I owed him a drink, because he’d dropped mine locking eyes with me.

But some of what he said, my brain just hadn’t been fast enough to translate it.

Now I had to go through the whole “I don’t speak Spanish” conversation, which I dreaded as an Afro-Latina. “Sorry, my Spanish isn’t that good.”

“I was just saying,” as he took the toothpick with the olive on it, and made it disappear between his lips. “To be ordering a drink like that, you better know how to move those hips,” he managed to flirt without even cracking a smile.

My Spanish may not have been perfect and I may not have been the best cook, but when I danced, there was never a doubt that I was Boricua, so if I didn’t shoot my shot now, I may never get this close to him.

“It’s funny you should say that, because I could go for a dance.

” He looked me up and down, with what I assumed to some extent he liked what he saw, as he downed the remainder of his martini, led me to the dancefloor by the hips and took control.

Thank god a Marc Anthony song was playing, otherwise I would have made a fool of myself trying to adapt to a pop top-forty song. Two things about a Latino man on the dance floor, was he wasn’t going to turn down an opportunity to dance, and when he did, he was going to test you.