Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 88656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
And there it was. The lie that had the potential to get me in trouble. My mother always called me her little flimflam artist. Said I could sell ice to an Eskimo, which is a ridiculously overused cliché, but she made her point.
“No shit.” Kage turned fully toward me, his eyes wide. “What if I did something really, really fucked up? Could you get me out of it?”
“Why, are you planning on killing someone?” I laughed, but he didn’t, so I cleared my throat. “Uh, yeah. I’d do my best to keep you smelling like a rose. I’d even help you hide the body if you paid me enough.”
I was at the mercy of my ego, talking shit I probably couldn’t back up if my life depended on it. But who really cared, anyway? He could tell me he was a brain surgeon, and I could tell him I was a fighter pilot. Neither one of us would ever know the difference.
The lady reporters stared at me, and one of them put her hands on her hips, clearly irritated. “Fascinating, I’m sure,” she said flatly. “But I’d like to know more about this upcoming fight of yours, Kage. What promotion will it be with? Do you foresee a future with the UFC?”
Without missing a beat, Kage turned to the reporters and smiled. It was the first time I’d seen him purposely attempt to be charming, and I had to admit, he was damn good at it. Dimples for days. “Actually, ladies, I need to take off. Gotta get to my seat so that I don’t miss any of the fights. It was nice talking to you, though. Maybe we can catch up some other time.”
He sent a subtle wink in my direction, and my heart sped up. I felt like I’d just been invited to sit at the popular table. Like he and I had something between us, some secret that the ladies weren’t privy to.
But then Kage just turned and walked away, followed by the two silent men who had been hovering behind him. He didn’t speak, didn’t say goodbye or nice to meet you, or even kiss my ass you little wannabe.
Damn. So much for the popular table.
The reporters spared one last prickly glare at me before clicking away on their sensible heels, leaving me by myself and reeling from shame. I had come here planning to keep my head down, learn enough to ace my school project, and get a little job experience. But it appeared that I had only succeeded in running everyone off.
THE tournament was everything Kage had painted it to be and more. I’d never attended a live fight of any kind, and it was so much different than watching it on television. I wondered if any of my other MMA-obsessed friends had ever seen a live fight, or if Braden and I were the only ones.
I was able to push my way out from backstage into a press-only seating area, but all of the seats were taken, so I stood off to one side. I was squished uncomfortably between two overweight reporters, one of whom smelled like corn chips and stale cigarettes. But it didn’t take long to forget they were there altogether. Being so close to the action was surreal.
I recalled Kage’s words about smelling the fear, and I thought I knew exactly what he meant. On TV, the action was sterile, just another sporting event with rules to follow and some exciting action to watch. But when you were here watching from mere feet away, it became real. It was a transplanted street brawl, with real people and real injuries. It was one guy trying to beat the shit out of another guy, and someone was going to lose. Someone was going to have to limp home with a broken ego, possibly even some broken bones or scars.
It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once, and as I watched through eyes stretched wide, my teeth dug painfully into my bottom lip, I thought maybe I was already addicted.
I decided to try to get some action shots of the fights, but it became clear soon enough that my photos were not going to be anywhere near Sports Illustrated quality. Cell phones were great for taking selfies and posting them on social media sites, but if I was even going to try to pretend to be a sports reporter, I’d have to have a good digital camera. That would be a perfect gift to ask my parents to get me for my twenty-first birthday coming up in a few weeks. Until then, I’d just have to make do with blurry fight shots.
I was particularly interested in chronicling the fight between two Brazilians— Kage’s future opponent, Davi Matos, and some guy whose name I didn’t bother committing to memory. Honestly, I didn’t care about Matos beyond getting his name right for my assignment. Somehow I’d gotten locked in on the first guy I’d come in contact with in the world of mixed martial arts, and now everything was about Michael Kage. Already my brain was trying to figure out how to spin this whole project to focus on him, and he wasn’t even fighting.