22 The Heavyweight Champion of the World
TWENTY-TWO
The Heavyweight Champion of the World
The ballroom was packed with actors, artists, musicians, and even politicians, all of whom were the cream of the social crop.
Annie and I said our hellos to Diana, scanned the room, and made our way to the long, crowded bar as the DJ spun records in the background.
Drinks in hand, we then edged into a circle of people, one of whom was a man in his forties with a soul patch and dark handlebar mustache.
His jaw was firm, and his eyes were intense, and I recognized him but couldn’t put a finger on who he was.
When I glanced his way, I could also tell that he had his eyes on me.
“Great to see you,” I said when we were close enough to each other to start a conversation. In a room full of people this influential, I didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot by saying “Great to meet you” and then discover we’d already met.
“You’re Hayden, right?” he answered.
“I am,” I said, hoping he didn’t notice that I hadn’t said his name.
We chatted for a few minutes, never touching on anything personal, but our small talk veered dangerously close to sweet talk as the champagne I was drinking started to go to my head.
Whoever this man was, he was way too old for me, and I didn’t want to give the wrong impression.
When I realized we were about to cross over the line of harmless flirtation into something intentional, I decided my best move was to say goodbye.
I nudged Annie in the ribs. “Hey, I have to go to the bathroom,” I said. “Will you come with me?”
Annie grabbed my hand. “Of course.”
“I’m sorry we have to go!” I said to my friend with the mustache. “Maybe I’ll see you around the party.” Then Annie and I turned and marched toward the bathroom.
“Do you know who that was?” Annie asked.
“No, I’m clueless,” I answered.
Annie snorted. “What is wrong with you? Did you sleep through the nineties? That was Anthony Kiedis from the Red Hot Chili Peppers.”
I didn’t have a chance to register my shock because—as I turned from facing Annie—I nearly walked into the chest of the largest man I’d ever seen.
I jumped back and looked up toward a broad face with a jawline that could have been chiseled out of marble. “Oh my God!” I said. “You are huge!”
“And you are tiny,” the giant man answered in what I thought was a Russian accent.
Annie inched closer to us. “Wlad, I don’t know if you remember me, but I did the makeup for Room 23.” She then looked at me. “Hayden Panettiere, this is Wladimir Klitschko. He’s the heavyweight boxing champion of the world. Hayden is an actor and one of my best friends.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said because I was positive we’d never been introduced.
“I watched a lot of boxing as a kid because my dad loves it.” I decided to leave out the fact that every time Dad turned on boxing, I tuned out.
I thought choosing to get hit in the head for a living was the pinnacle of stupidity.
“Hayden,” Annie said, “I still have to go to the bathroom. Do you want to join me?”
“That’s okay,” I answered, waving her off because I didn’t mind being stuck with this man. There was just something about him I liked.
“So, Wlad, you’re in Room 23?” I asked.
“I am,” he answered.
I smiled, looked up at him, and noticed that he was studying me, not in a flirtatious way, but like I was an artifact on display at Ripley’s Believe It or Not!
“Why are you looking at me that way?” I asked.
His concentration broke as he started talking. “I’m sorry, you are just so small. I’ve never stood next to anyone who is…” He made a motion with his hands, and I interrupted.
“About a foot and a half below you? Maybe two feet?”
“That’s right,” he answered. “Wait a second…” He paused and started to bend down. “I bet I’m taller than you even when I’m on my knees.”
I began to laugh as Wlad lowered himself to the ground so he could rest on his knees. “Look at this! We just met, and you’re already kneeling down to me,” I said. Then I took off my heels, shuffled closer to him, and saw the final result: even on his knees, Wlad was taller than me by an inch or so.
“Here, let’s take a picture,” he said, smiling as he stood up and a photographer approached us. “I don’t know anything about you, but you are the only person at this party who’s made me smile.”
After the photographer walked away, we kept talking.
Wlad had some quality that I couldn’t put my finger on.
I wouldn’t say he radiated warmth—his larger-than-life features made him pretty intimidating, to be honest—but the temperature in the air between us felt just right.
I liked him, and he seemed to like me. In a room full of people trying to see and be seen in a superficial way, he’d noticed me as a person, and I’d done the same.
Now we were just two individuals at a party, taking photos, making jokes, talking, and laughing about nothing in particular. It was nice. Really, really nice.
Just then Diana approached us and grabbed both our arms.
“Wlad! Hayden!” she said loudly. “I see you’ve met! Wonderful. Now Hayden, you do know that Wladimir Klitschko is the heavyweight champion of the world, right?”
“I do,” I answered, realizing that two of my best friends had identified Wlad that way within the last hour. Maybe, I thought, that meant he was someone important and not just some idiot who got hit in the head for a living.
Wlad and I exchanged numbers that night, and I didn’t think much of it.
I was navigating a single life for the first time in years, so I tried not to project into the future or worry about whatever potential might exist with another person.
All I knew was that Wlad and I had sniffed each other out, and we liked what we smelled.
He seemed strong and steady and like someone you could count on.
He was polite and friendly and didn’t cross any boundaries, but at the same time there was something exotic and new about him.
If stability and excitement can exist at the same time, it was what I’d encountered when I met Wlad.
I was also curious about him, so I did some research.
I learned that Wladimir Klitschko, pronounced “Vladimir,” was thirteen years older than me.
He’d been born in Kazakhstan while it was still part of the Soviet Union, and he’d moved to Ukraine with his parents and older brother, Vitali, when he was a young boy.
He and Vitali had boxed their entire lives, and both were considered two of the most accomplished heavyweight boxers of all time.
Vitali still fought professionally, but he was also an important figure in Ukrainian politics.
Wlad, as I now knew, was a reigning champion.
Ukrainians loved the Klitschko brothers, too, and they treated them like national heroes.
Well, maybe I can show him how to feel like a regular ole guy in LA, I thought. So, the next night, when Wlad called, I invited him out to a club with my friends.
“You shouldn’t go alone,” Wlad said on the phone, “I’ll pick you up in a car.”
While I was perfectly capable of getting to a club all by my lonesome, I’d take it. A few hours later, a black car arrived at my house right when Wlad said it would, and I slipped into the back seat next to him.
“Thanks for picking me up,” I said, looking up at him.
“You’re welcome,” Wlad answered. I noticed that not a single muscle in his face had moved while he was speaking.
“You know,” I said, turning to him, “you have the best RBF I’ve ever seen.”
He was, again, expressionless. “What does ‘RBF’ mean?”
“RBF is ‘resting bitch face,’” I answered. “And you look like you invented the term.”
There was a noticeable pause. “Resting bitch face?” he asked. “You call me a bitch? Okay, so I am a bitch.” Then I heard a sound I hadn’t expected to hear: Laughter. Wlad erupted into loud, raucous, belly laughter, and I joined along. It was positively delightful.
“We’re almost here,” Wlad said a few minutes later, and I noticed the RBF had returned.
Our car pulled into the valet area, and the driver exited and came to my side. As he began to open the door, flashbulbs erupted, and a crowd of paparazzi descended on us.
“Hayden! Hayden!” they screamed. “Give us a smile! Who are you here with? Is he your new boyfriend?”
“Sorry about all this,” I said to Wlad as I shielded my eyes and got out of the car. “I’ve been putting up with it for two years.” Wlad and I made our way through the crowd and into the club. When we were safely inside, I turned back to him. “Again, sorry about that. Are you okay?”
Wlad was still wearing his RBF, but this time his eyes were as big as saucers. “Who… are you?” he asked.
“I told you, I’m an actor,” I answered.
He paused and laughed. “Well, you must be a very famous actor.”