Page 132 of Ella Gets the D
Julian
Three years later
Watching an eight-year-old lay out a grown man would be concerning if it wasn’t regular Friday behavior. Haile hooks a leg over his neck as she leans back perpendicular to the burly frame under her with his stretched arm in tow. She is a shining star under the hanging halogen lights on blue mats among her counterparts here for open practice. A shark in the deepest end of the ocean.
With the pressure from her leg blocking his airway and the threat of hyperextending his arm, Levi taps the mat with his free hand. Haile rolls away in a flash of fuchsia shorts and a lilac rash guard. Strands from the jumbled nest of curls on her head stick to her skin. She kneels in wait for her coach to slow down the sharp inhales clutching his chest—the aftermath of contending with a ball of energy.
I’ve been on the receiving end of an arm bar, and I would take five in a puddle of my own sweat too. That shit hurts, though Haile reminds me that “it’s not meant to be comfortable.”
“Haile Bear, wrap it up. We gotta go.”
“Okay!” She turns back to Levi, who gives her a wide grin and a fist bump before standing to his full height. He towers over her by more than a foot and a half but trains her with a gentleness that contrasts the broad muscles etched into his body from years of fighting.
He lifts his chin to the cluster of chairs that have become my front-row seat to their one-on-one and pulls Haile in for a side hug. “Tempted to call my old manager about this one.”
“I need her out of high school first.”
Ella would beat my ass inside an octagon. She still gets nervous that Haile will hurt herself but doesn’t want to discourage her daughter’s passion. I offered to take her to Friday open mat so Ella wouldn’t see her training with older kids and adults. Haile is really good, the result of hard work and a coach who saw raw talent the moment they met.
Levi retired as a professional MMA fighter years ago and started his own gym, Ground and Pound, to teach the next generation. It’s a southeast gym in the same neighborhood that raised him. He’s a cool dude with what Erica calls “the Morris Chestnut appeal.” He’s been with Haile since she was five and works with her and other kids in her age group on their ground game and striking throughout the week. What started as a few jiujitsu classes soon morphed into boxing and kickboxing. My girl will have the UFC knocking before middle school if she keeps up this pace.
“There better be some ribs when we get there,” Jackson says loud enough for his sister to roll her eyes. “At this rate, we’ll have to fight Aunt Morgan for one of her salads.”
At ten, the kid comes to my shoulder and shovels down as much food as I do. We’re a house of athletes, which keeps me at the stove whipping up three meals a week.
A text buzzes my phone in my slacks. I check the smartwatch on my wrist and smile.
Ella
You have ten minutes to bring my babies. All of them.
“Looks like your mother left Bright Spot. Time to go.”
Jackson snorts, his face morphing between the little boy he was and the young man he’s becoming. He glances at his sister asleep in my wrap carrier with an evil grin. “Told you to stop breaking her out. Mom doesn’t play about Anite.”
The smirk touching my lips hopes she isn’t. El tackled me the last time I took our six-month-old from the center and kept her with me for the day. Our baby girl played, ate, and conked out, just like she did today in the office. It’s Take Your Daughter to Work Day at least once a week, and I have a mini fridge in my office with Anite’s baby foods and the pumped milk I bring in for the day.
My father gets extra time with his granddaughter when Morgan doesn’t steal her, and I’m on the receiving end of Ella fucking out her frustration.
A win-win.
“Some battles are worth the fight.”Like your mother turning feral in the basement once you all go to sleep. “Come on before she hunts me down.”
We pull up to my parents’ house in record time, but we’re a few minutes past her ten-minute warning. I park the car in the garage and grab the wrap carrier. Anite is wide awake in her rear-facing car seat, babbling next to Jackson. She squeals when I reach for her, moving her little mouth at warp speed.
“Da-da-da-da-da-da?” Hickory-brown eyes stare back at me from under thick lashes. That’s all Anite got from me. Everything else, from her heart-shaped face to her full lips, is her mother.
“Vin jwenn, Papa,” I say to my baby girl.
She jumps in my arms and tugs on my goatee with squishy mahogany hands. We’re a blended family in a house full of languages—Japanese and Creole flavor many conversations.
Haile darts to the door and enters the passcode in a rush to get to the shower. “Say hi to your grandparents!” I yell to the petite frame and yellow backpack. She throws back a “Wi!” before rounding the corner.
Jackson pulls his bag out of the trunk, circles back to kiss Anite on the head, and goes in. The kids are spending the weekend here while Katharine is away on a cruise around the Mediterranean.
Life settled into place after the divorce heard around the DMV. Katharine’s bombshell dominated headlines and sparked investigations after several women came forward with sexual harassment allegations against her husband.
Charles Sr. dodged accountability with his wallet and got a slap on the wrist—through a reduced charge and a six-figure fee he didn’t blink to pay. His fall from grace was swift. It came with professional exile and a judge awarding Katharine half of every asset he owns.
