Chapter 1 #2
Dominican, Cuban, Puerto Rican, or Haitian, he was going to sweep the entire floor before he let you sit down. But in this instance, I don’t think he figured I was going to be able to keep up.
In Cuban fashion, he tried to trip me up with all those fancy hand movements they relied on, but my old Philly neighborhood had been diverse enough to know what to expect with a Cubano.
Once I studied his style, I just adapted.
So, imagine my surprise to find his initial stoic face melt into a smile, liberating him from resting grump face.
But it could have been my ability to move with his swaying hips that caught him off guard; I know grinding pelvis to pelvis with a legend had certainly thrown me off mine.
“Damn girl, you could dance. Si cocinas tal como te mueves, me comeré el menu completo*,” he ended in a bit lip. He was being fresh, which is what I’d half expect from a Caribbean man, but I can’t say that my heart didn’t skip a beat a bit at his voice deepening every time he spoke Spanish.
I know he’d said something like, “If you cook as good as you moved, I’d eat the menu,” but since I hadn’t anticipated a hook up, I knew I had to get down to business before I lost my chance to seek his guidance.
“Well, if you really want to be impressed by moves, I’ve got a hell of a fighter for you,” I challenged. Instant withdrawal erased his once flirtatious smile, as he adapted his signature stern expression.
“You a recruiter?” he asked cautiously. “Because you sure as hell don’t look like a damned talent scout,” he accused.
“Better, actually. I’m the fighter you’ve been looking for,” I asserted. His once sullen features lit up once more, bringing attention to the lack of symmetry to his face.
“You're joking, right?” he asked through a laugh. Caught off guard, I stood my ground.
“Does it look like I'm joking?” trying to keep my exterior calm, like him laughing hadn’t bothered me.
He leaned in, holding his position. “I don’t train girls.”
“Good thing there aren’t any girls around, only a woman,” I defended.
“You know what I meant,” he spoke over the music. If by backward and sexist, I knew exactly what he meant.
“I'm running on a three-fight finish streak, and I haven't seen a fourth round in nearly seven of the fights that I fought in—”
“It wouldn't matter if you were chasing an eighteen-fight streak. I don't train women,” he boldly interrupted.
Not willing to accept defeat, I argued my case, following him outside the ballroom. “Trainers can juggle half a dozen or more on their roster. What could it hurt to have one woman amongst the many you’re recruiting?”
“Did you not fucking hear me?” he stopped, and while his words might have offended some, they hadn’t offended me because he was known for being a foul mouth, even in interviews.
“I don’t train female fighters. They aren’t worth it for me.
Not enough fighters amongst each weight class—what are you lightweight? ”
“Bantamweight,” I corrected.
“Yeah, that weight class brought one of the most well-known female fighter in UFC, but I don’t think the draw to chick fights is enough for me.
I’m looking for someone with work ethic, talent, and most of all, can put their emotions to the side.
I don’t think a female fighter can really promise that type of commitment for me. ”
It took everything in me not to react and prove him right, but if I had been a man, I would’ve uppercut him right in the chin for that comment. Men being too emotional was why I had started fighting in the first place.
“Plus, it'd be a shame to mess up such a pretty face,” as he caressed my jaw, unaware of how close he was to taking one to the gut.
“I've got a match Saturday night. If you just took a look and saw a sliver of something you liked—”
“The answer would still be no,” he interrupted. “But I did see a whole lot of other things I liked,” he countered with a sinister smile, making me wonder why I had even considered having him train me in the first place.
“I'd go a round or two with you in another way, if you knew what I mean,” his last suggestive comment, before I took what little dignity I had left, spewing a nasty “Screw you!”
Storming in the opposite of where he was going, I walked around aimlessly until I found an empty park bench. The tears I held back finally broke free, and time seemed like it was starting and stopping, if only to remind me of the sacrifices I’d made, just to speak to him.
I’d lost everything to be here. Now I had less than when I’d came here with.
Maybe he wasn’t meant to be my dream trainer.
Maybe he took one look at me and could already tell I didn’t have what it took.
But I couldn’t give thought to people who discarded me with one look.
I still had something, someone, that I was fighting for.
And I wasn’t about to let some cabrón misdirect me from reaching my final goal.
With or without El Jaguar’s help, I was going to get my daughter back.
* The Jaguar
* A Puerto Rican drink made with anisette liqueur and rum
* Excuse me, I think you owe me a drink. Because I dropped mine after seeing you
* If you cook as good as you move, I’d eat the entire menu