Tyed

He’s not my type, mind you.

I always go for the preppy hipsters, guys like Shane, who are into deep stuff like indie music, beat-generation books and…Lord help me, his butt is just so firm and round when he climbs up the stairs, how is this even anatomically possible?

I don’t trust myself around this guy. My body can get rebellious sometimes. Charlie Hunnam can testify.

Upstairs, Ty leads me down a catwalk, then stops and tilts his head at a closed black door. “That’s your guy.”

“Thanks.” I send him a tight-lipped smile.

He nods grimly.

“Sorry about earlier,” I say. “I rarely smoke pot. I may have relapsed the last couple of weeks, but it's not a recurring thing." Oh my God. I'm babbling like an idiot and I bet he doesn't give a damn. Get to the point, Blaire. "I'm just so out of my element here....” I circle the floor with the toe of my chucks, arms behind my back. "I guess what I'm saying is I needed to...I had to...well, never-mind. Thank you."

It's amazing that I'm studying communications, considering my lack of ability to articulate a full sentence.

Ty nods again.

“Jeez, are you a chatterbox, or what?” I say. “Shut up for a sec!”

He ducks his head to hide a slight smirk, and that’s when I see it. His unbelievably boyish smile, with dimples and all. No wonder he’s trying to fight it. He looks like such a sweet, innocent guy wearing this smile, even with the tattoos and buzzed hair. Before I realize, I’m smiling too.

We’re beaming like two idiots, for a bit longer than socially acceptable. I look down and he fiddles with the black rubber bands on his wrist.

Ty is the first to wipe the grin from his face. “Take care of yourself, huh?” He takes a step back, momentarily allowing me to pick up the pieces of my heart without having my butt metaphorically kicked. “And stop smoking pot.”

“Yeah, whatever. Ciao.”

I knock on Dawson’s door and watch Ty already heading back the way we came. I can’t help but feel a pang with his departure. He must be a mind reader, because just when I’m about to let out a gloomy moan, he turns back in my direction.

“I know you'll do the right thing, Blake.” He’s walking backwards as he speaks.

“It’s Blaire!”

I see those dimples again. Is it wrong to be bummed about the fact he doesn't seem to want to remember my name?

Then Dawson Alba is opening the door and I remember why I'm here.

Alba wears his forty-something age well, and looks military sharp, with a natural tan and broad shoulders. He sits with his feet propped on his desk and talks to me enthusiastically about the XWL and what they do. Even though he knows my article will never see the light of day, he is eager to help.

“Way this thing works, every MMA gym has a group of elite XWL fighters who participate in professional matches. I’ve got a few, including two stars that are actually top fighters in their leagues. They travel all over the world, meet international opponents and fight them to the Xtreme Warrior title in their unique weight division. They make a living out of this thing and have dedicated fans all over the world. But clearly, they also have to make a living. You can't rely on the few bouts you take every year and the occasional endorsement. So they also work here and teach people what they know about the art.”

“I admit, up until now I thought MMA was all about illegal cage fighting and broken teenage boys looking for redemption.” I bite back an uneasy giggle, thinking about Ty. The posters behind Dawson’s head, of upcoming events, make my skin crawl, and so does the crazy twinkle in his eyes when he talks about violence.

“But that’s exactly what my guys are.” His mouth curves into a smile. “What they were, at least. Now? Now they're a sliver of the American dream. Power, money, brutality. Can’t get more primal than that.”

I thank Dawson and arrange to visit his gym at least four days a week while I’m working on my assignment, but he isn’t satisfied with my huge commitment. Nope. Dawson insists I should participate in one of the gym’s classes, see what all the fuss is about. I explain I’m grateful for the opportunity, but that I would probably kill myself by accident if I ever tried MMA.

After a long exchange of “no’s” and “yes’s”, we settle for me participating in a class of my choice sometime next week. Yay, right?

Wrong.

I’m so out of my depth here. The sport, the blood, the men…the Ty.

I'm not even sure how he drilled himself into my head, but I'll probably outgrow our encounter within the next couple of days. It looks like Brain and Hormones are in for a fight. Just as long as Heart stays out of the ring.