Tyed

I figured the violence in the first video I watched was a fluke. I thought that MMA must be like WWF wrestling, with a lot of flamboyant role-playing cowboys and heavy-metal knights. You know, when men in customs jump on each other after a theatrical twenty-minute speech.

But I was wrong. During my in-depth research (yeah, fine, I googled it), I discovered the men of MMA literally beat each other up to oblivion. There is blood. Everywhere. There are black eyes, torn ligaments, broken bones and enough medical staff to open up a field hospital at every match. It is all real and painfully brutal.

My initial conclusion is that any guy who would want to be an MMA fighter must be brain damaged. When I hit Dawson Alba with this psychological assessment this morning on the phone, the trainer serenely confirmed, “Yeah, the guys all get hit pretty seriously in the head.”

Fun times ahead, right?

As I pull into the parking lot of The Grind on Saturday, I’m shivering not because it’s a chilly afternoon, but because the thought of researching this bloody sport is grossing me out to the max. I stare at the huge, two-story hangar on the outskirts of town. The XWL logo is proudly painted in red, white and black on the front and sides, the stylized symbol seemingly visible from every freeway in the Bay Area.

I park my pink Mini Cooper among the black Ram trucks and Jeeps. I inherited the Mini from Izzy for free so I shouldn’t complain, but it’s so devastatingly pink, it stands out among the other testosterone-fueled vehicles like a juicy pimple on a prom queen. A half-dozen guys stroll by and peer through the window, staring at me like I got lost on my way to the nearest mall.

A tall guy shakes his head in amusement as I release the custom-installed, pink-patterned Hello Kitty seat belt. Damn you, Izzy. I want to yell that a supermodel chose the car, not me, but keeping a low profile seems to be a higher priority right now.

I stumble my way out and light up a blunt, frowning at the guy through my Wayfarer sunglasses (another discard from Izzy) as I attempt to calm my nerves. I'm not going to smoke the whole thing. Just a few drags to take the edge off won't do any harm, right?

Say what you will about my pink car, there's no mistaking me for Izzy and her designer clothes once I step out in my Subhumans black tee and Boyfriend ripped jeans, my messy bun tied carelessly at the nape of my neck. We're a different species, she and I. I take another deep drag, frowning.

That’s it. Breathe in, breathe out.

I’m getting kind of good at it.

“Yo. You’re not allowed to smoke here.” It’s the tall guy again. He’s wearing a black-skull bandana mask covering the lower part of his face, presumably because he thinks it makes him look badass. (It kinda does.)

“I’ll put it out in a second.” I grunt my irritation and puff a cloud of smoke skywards.

“Oh, man, you're smoking pot?” He jerks out his SkullCandy earbuds, puffing his cheeks. He is athletic and muscular, his chest and thick arms bulging through his black XWL tee. I scan his gray sweatpants and flip-flops and catch a glimpse of the huge snake tattoo crawling up from his back onto his neck.

Crap. I need to say something. “We’re outside. How the hell is it your business if I smoke here.” I puff my blunt coolly, but inside, my pulse is racing. “Keep walkin’, cowboy.”

No, not that, you idiot. I want to shut up. Correction, I need to shut up. He is three times my size, pure muscle and male arrogance, and he has this dusky stare that makes my skin tingle.

But I can’t seem to stop myself, and to my horror, my mouth continues firing more stupidity. “If you care so much about your health, second hand smoke should be the least of your worries. You realize getting punched on a regular basis damages your brain. It affects memory and all kinds of other stuff.”

Fantastic, Blaire. You basically just called the guy brain dead. My chances of leaving here in an ambulance have just dramatically increased.

He closes the space between us and plucks the blunt from my lips, flicking it to the other side of the parking lot with his thumb and forefinger. My mouth is still agape when he pulls his bandana down to his neck, exposing his whole face.

“That’s a very bad idea,” he warns in a low, husky voice. His breath smells of mint gum and mouthwash, and he is standing so close I can feel the heat pulsing from his body despite the fact it's ludicrously hot today as it is.

“You mean smoking or running my mouth at you?” My voice cracks. I’m tongue-tied. It feels like my mouth is full of cotton wool.