Page 3 of Danger Close

“I’m a charming guy,” Ambrose said, dryly.

As I climbed down to the ground, I knew he would not let this go. He crossed his massive arms over his chest, where the emblem of “Mad Dog MMA”, with an angry bull dog, winked at me. He, himself, resembled the bulldog.

“Lean the fuck in, go on the attack. Otherwise, that’s gonna happen again, or maybe worse,” he pointed to my eye. “Give as good as you get.”

I pulled off my glove, holding it between my bicep and ribs. I unraveled the rough textured wraps around my fists.

Ambrose was my age, around his early fifties, if not a little older, and in peak physical shape. His terse, stiff demeanor might have turned off another woman, but me? I found his standoffishness comforting. He was all business, even if he knew that I was far too old to be one of the athletes he trained for the UFC, or the Underground Circuit.

“Lay off her, old man.” Harrison jogged back, slapping Ambrose on the back, a bag of ice in his hand.

“I will not!” Ambrose never took his eyes off me. “I don’t know why you insist on coming here, week after week, training with people half your age to fight in the octagon you have no plans to enter. I don’t know what lights a fire under your ass to keep working as hard as you do. But until you learn to get on the attack, you’ll plateau where you are, and you’re never going to get to the skill you’re looking for.”

With that, Ambrose walked away, as I took a seat on a nearby wooden bench, Harrison’s proffered ice pack against my eye.

Ambrose was right. But something in me still loathed to attack someone. Had I won a few sparring matches? Yes. But that was because I’d used their attack against them and just happened to get the drop on them. It was more self-defense than offensive.

“Don’t mind him,” Harrison said with a big smile. “You’re doing great.”

He sat beside me and lifted his water bottle, squirting it into his open mouth.

“I’m doing mediocre.” I laughed a little, looking away from my young sparring partner.

“You’re doinggreat,” he said with emphasis.

Harrison had fought for years in the Underground Circuit. His skill, and his good looks, were always a big draw for the crowds. If only I were twenty years younger…

“The guys and I are going out to the Fight Ring.” That was a small bar that the young ones like him frequented. They had some kind of agreement with the elusive organizers of the Underground Circuit, and could televise the fights.

The young could go and beat their chests and cheer on their fellow fighters, surrounded by adoring fans–mostly women–who were like moths to their alluring flame.

I had no place there.

“It’d be cool, if you wanted to come,” he said bashfully, when I did not answer his implied question.

Oh, mon pouvre petit… my poor little one.

“That sounds delightful, but I think I’m too old for such raucous company." I tried to keep the smile from my lips. “At my age, after a class like this? I need an epsom salt bath, an ibuprofen, and sleep.”

“Hey, Harry!” Ambrose called Harrison. “Stick around and help me clean.”

“What?” he said, confused.

“Rudy disappeared,” Ambrose sighed. “He went home on vacation, and who the hell knows what happened.”

Rudy was an Italian man who paid for his training, room and board with custodial work. He cleaned the mats, organized the equipment, and maintained the gym. He’d taken me to thehospital when I hurt my shoulder and couldn’t drive myself. He’d always helped me.

But people who helped me always got hurt…

“Has anyone heard from him?” Fear crept up my throat.

“No, I’m getting in touch with his family,” Ambrose said. “In the meantime, Harrison, quit flirting and start cleaning.”

Harrison sighed, then looked at me. “You know, if you wanted to get a drink sometime…”

I felt bad having to quash his little heart.

“Harrison.” I tried to keep my expression neutral, but understanding. “I’m old enough to be your mother. I have a daughter that’s your age. Find someone a little closer to your generation.”