“What’s the other half? I won’t fit into your jacket.”
“No,” she said, walking forward and taking his hand, “but let’s see if you’ll fit in me.”
Adam jumped to his feet and placed his hand against Jasmine’s cheek. “Really? Don’t fuck around with me about this.”
Jasmine nodded her head slowly, swallowing her fear. She gasped as she found herself on the floor of the living room, his mouth clamped over hers, his tongue performing rushed, forced movements to get past her lips. “Babe... wait... the bedroom.”
He pressed his wet lips into her neck as his hands reached under her skirt to peel off the regular cotton panties she had on. “No... I’ve been patient, but you made me wait too long already.”
“Babe... not... like this...” she started, still trying to speak through the sloppy kisses, that had returned to her mouth, as he wriggled and writhed above her. Suddenly, pain, between her legs, shot through her and she cried out.
Adam did too but not in the same way. He groaned with joy and relief. His pants were still on, but his zipper was open. That was all he needed to enter her, so that was all he had done.
“Finally,” he moaned with relief, pumping slowly. “How does your fiance’s cock feel?”
He was oblivious to the fact her face was scrunched. She buried it into his chest and clenched his shirt with both fists as tight as she could, but nothing could stop her slight whimpers of pain. His repetitions of “oh God” couldn’t drown out her cries as his hand scrunched her hair absentmindedly, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. He slammed into her one final time and shook as he was sated, then rolled off her and giggled.
Jasmine turned away from him and shook as tears came. She covered her mouth to muffle her sobs, but it didn’t work.
After a minute or two, his arm snaked around her. “Don't cry honey. You weren't that bad. Now, you really are mine. It’ll get better. I promise.”
12
“OK, here it is,”Ruben said, pausing the video and then playing in slow motion. “See how she tucks in her elbow there? You know she’s going to swing the back fist when that happens.”
Ava sat on the couch with her legs crossed on the table on front of her, notepad in hand, scribbling notes. “Why wouldn’t she just lead with the punch of her opposite arm? It would be quicker?”
“Because of that exact question. People would expect her to. The second a fighter starts becoming predictable there’s an issue. All coaches and trainers have access to these videos. Hell, a lot of training clips are online, and the fights are on DVD for the public to buy. Everyone can be broken down and studied. But it’s still a matter of stopping their momentum. Knowing something is coming doesn’t mean you will automatically stop it or counter it.”
Ava nodded, knowing it made sense somewhere in her mind. But her eyes, her focus, were on the screen. Tremaine was having her fist raised by the ref in her last victory. A TKO against Jessica Dumas, who had been one of Veronica Nash’s unsuccessful opponents. In fact, this had been Dumas’ first match after her defeat by Nash, continuing the strange trend of everyone who lost to Veronica Nash being defeated in their next match. A kind of carryover or hangover perhaps. Such was the magnitude a loss to Nash carried, her effect was still felt months afterwards. She didn’t only beat you once. She beat you again without even being in the ring.
Ruben switched off the DVD player, handing Ava the remote. She hadn’t even flicked two channels of regular TV over when she cursed her bad luck. The TV blasted an advertisement. “Owen Gasnier v Connor Williams LIVE! See the greatest Australian MMA superstar in action for his first ever number one contender match—” Ava muted it, seeing Ruben’s face. “I’m sorry.”
He stared at the screen for a moment and shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. It is what it is. It’s painful, but it’s no one’s fault but my own. I can’t blame Robert Gasnier much less his son. He did what I should’ve done. He focused and he beat me. I got a much easier ride than most others, but I let it all go to my head and believed my own hype.”
“Is Owen as good as his father?”
“Robert was better,” Ruben replied, “in my opinion. I mean look, Owen’s record speaks for itself. Robert at his absolute best, though, was poetry in motion. Every single action he took was almost technically perfect. Always thinking one step ahead. Two steps ahead. He was the counter specialist. Broke us all down in the ring. When he got you on the ground, he was like a python eating something struggling. He never rushed. He never panicked. Squeezing the life out of you. Owen has very little of that. He doesn’t go to the ground. His technique is erratic, but he backs it up with sleekness. There’s a fluidity in his movements Robert never had, chaining his combos together that fast. A crispness in how he finishes that is beautiful to watch... you know? A lot like you in a way.”
“You’re comparing me to Owen Gasnier? How do I match up?”
“You have a touch more ferociousness about you. More potential for blunt force trauma. Other than that, it would be difficult to split you as to who’s better. But that’s the thing. You don’t have to be better than anyone except maybe the person you look at in the mirror. You just have to be enough to make yourself proud at the end of any given day.”
“How will I know if I’m enough?”
“You’ll answer that yourself after this fight.”
“I don’t want to let you down.”
Ruben bent and gave her a small kiss on the forehead as he picked up his ringing phone. “You couldn’t. Hello? Yeah... Really? Now? Well I guess we... Sure. OK.”
Ava watched him put the phone back in his pocket, looking as troubled as the conversation had sounded. “What’s wrong?”
“That was the promoter of the Tremaine fight. He wants to see us right away via video call.”
He sat next to her and held the phone up as if readying a selfie. Within a few seconds, the screen flashed and a video call was being requested. Ruben clicked accept and Ava’s eyes widened. She had spoken briefly to Max Stanmore, the promoter of many pro fights. She had expected to see him on the screen. What she saw was Max and almost a dozen other people surrounding a table in a boardroom. Men and women looking important and well presented. And all of them were looking at her and her boy, did they look serious.
“Max... ladies and gents. What’s going on?” Ruben asked.