“With your impeccable record, there are already whispers you’ve been getting added help. I would’ve thought you wouldn’t want to draw this out. Gives a bad impression.”
“Jeez, ask a guy to hold your dick and he suddenly gets all offended,” Owen replied, turning his cheesy grin away from Gerald. He waited a few seconds before saying, “Could you do a whooshing sound maybe? A Niagara falls type of thing?”
“Mr Gasnier!”
Finally, Owen let out a long groan, filling the cup quickly. “There she blows! Eureka!” He turned and offered the cup to Gerald, who looked like he’d calmed down. Owen moved to the sink where his trainer, also his father, Robert Gasnier stood leaning.
Owen didn’t have the hangers-on one would usually find with cage fighters. And that’s the way he liked it. His father, a former fighter, had been so against Owen following in his footsteps, he went to great lengths to prevent it. But Owen would not be denied, and when Robert attended one of his earliest training sessions, he relented. Not only did he threaten to break the trainer’s legs for the wrong advice, he showed Owen the correct way to strike.
From that day, though he never said he approved of Owen’s career, he had never left his side. They were a team. Robert handled all the contracts, all the money. He ensured Owen received the best rest in between matches and was kept away from the shadier areas of this world they now shared. Father and son had become one of the most fearsome teams in all of MMA, but Robert kept Owen grounded.
“Why can’t you just piss in the cup and be done with it?” Robert grumbled.
“Can’t I have some fun?”
“It’s a bad look.”
“Look,” Owen said, unwrapping his hands. “Everyone reckons I’m on something because of my record. I get that. It comes with the territory. But the guy tried to shove the cup in my hand before I was even in the hallway. I was still signing autographs. Little kids saw that for fucks sake. Nowthatis a bad look. It’s bullshit.”
“O, this is what we signed up for. I’ve always told you the higher you go the more attention you get. I see the way you treat the fans, and they love you for it. But you can’t be so bitter about the rest of the business. It’s a complete package. Good and bad. It’s time for us to focus. You think it’s bad now? You win the next fight, you get a shot most fighters only dream of. Everything we have worked for. But there are elements of the business that hate you. That will try to take you down. Believe me, I know.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Take the cup thing for example. I’ll lay a bet someone paid them off to ensure you’re tested more harshly than others. Turns out your sparring partners in the last few weeks weren’t sick. They were backing away from us and going to Dominov, or Ricardo, or Gaines. Or, I dunno, anyone with a bigger pay cheque. Also, just before you went out, I got a message saying they made an error in booking our return back to L.A. We have to stay an extra three days.”
“What?” Owen said, crossing his arms. “Why didn’t you tell me all this?”
“You’re clean. Let them waste their money. And the booking thing was just childish.
Whoever it was that did it, or had it done, just wanted to delay our return to camp. Good on 'em. They know if we book an earlier flight, even if we pay for it ourselves, we'll cop a huge fine under your contract since the company contracted all fight related air travel with this airline. Who cares? We get extra time in Straya. Don't let it get in your head. That's what they want.
“It’s fucking wrong. When I started, you said I was crazy for not going to the ground. I never wanted to be a target. I just wanted to fight. My way. I always have and I always will. Put me up against someone in the ring. If I win, I win. If I lose, I lose. But if it isn’t fair, if deals are being made behind our backs, I want to know. I can’t inspire people if I’m oblivious to this kind of shit.”
Robert rolled his eyes. “This is what I’m talking about. This, right here. Inspire people? You inspire people by winning clean the way you do. Forget the backstage politics. Let me worry about it. We are so close. You can’t let anything derail us now. Drug testing? Do it and let it go. You get tested more than others? Let it go. They stop you in the middle of the street and give you a cup? Smile and piss. They will come after you worse than they ever have. Because you’re different. You’re special. Let it drive you, not piss you off.”
“It does. More so than you think. If I get that belt, I’ll finally have the ability to change things. I will not be who they want me to be or who they think I should be. If I have to crack a few lame jokes to keep from that, so be it.”
Robert smiled and shook his head. “Just make sure you aim straight. Now, get ready. Meet and greet starts in ten.”
* * *
Tegan grabbed champagne off a silver tray and took a big sip. The place they were in looked like a huge corporate box. Windows overlooking the arena adorned the entire right side of the room. Just in front of them were tables lined with white linen and platters of seafood, sandwiches, salads, soups and breads. The place was full but didn’t seem overcrowded. There was more than enough space and staff to accommodate everyone, but she was struggling to enjoy herself.
After treating herself to a few prawns and washing down the fish breath with alcohol, she found herself wandering the room, looking over the walls at the framed memorabilia of events from previous years hanging side by side. Concerts, boxing matches and even set pictures of blockbuster movies that had been filmed there. It was interesting, but truthfully, she was just passing the time. She had been here ten minutes, but it felt like three hours.
Her mind-numbing walk was interrupted by Fiona almost bowling her over. “Your phone, babe, quick!”
Tegan didn’t need to ask what the rush was for. Fiona’s expression said it all, and Tegan looked over to the far side of the room. Owen Gasnier had entered. He wore tightish blue jeans with a white tee under a tucked in, black, button-up, long-sleeve shirt which gripped the muscles of his arms like a wetsuit. He was mobbed by fangirls, all scrambling over themselves for an autograph and a picture. Tegan noticed the devilishly handsome face break out into a smile. Nodding polite thanks and acknowledgment. He took the mayhem in stride, obviously used to it.
“I need to get a picture with him,” Fiona breathed. “How the hell will I get through them?”
“Tell him you wanna sit on his face,” Tegan replied, gulping the last of her champagne.
Fiona turned and smirked. “What good is that when all of them would be offering to suck him?”
“He’s a fighter. He’d like strong women. Women who take charge. Women who know what they want. Women who would wear his lips like a g-string and ride that boy to glory.”
Fiona gave a burst of laughter. “Babe, you’re pissed.”