Page 155 of Gym Bros
As annoying and uncomfortable as it is to acknowledge that being queer would make people underestimate Samuel, I know from life experience it’s true—and probably even truer for male athletes. “I don’t know,” I say. “He’s really focused. I don’t want to fuck with that.”
“Then don’t see him before. Be there after to lick his wounds,” Priya says with a wink.
I hate that she’s making sense. I hate that I’m even considering this.
“Here,” Rachel says, shoving a Bellini in my face and then handing one to Priya after I take mine. “There’s not even a small part of you that’s curious about knowing what he’s capable of in a cage match?”
I flick a glare her way. “I thought you said I didn’t have to watch.”
“Since when did you grow such delicate sensibilities?” she challenges.
I sip my drink and lick my lips. She’s not wrong. I might be pretty, but I’m not delicate. My favorite parts of the Marvel movies are the fight scenes. Blood doesn’t freak me out. Gore doesn’t either. But it’s Samuel.MySamuel.
Suddenly I realize I can’tnotgo.
I can’t not be the first one to hug him when he steps out of that cage—win or lose. Or at least—one of the first few people—I don’t know what level of hugger he is with his trainers and teammates, but I do know he likes my hugs. A lot.
“Okay,” I say. “I think I can do it.”
Priya claps. “I knew it!”
“How?” I ask.
“Because he’s your l-o-y-l.”
“And,” Rachel says, “If anyone has shit to say about it, they’ll have to go through me.”
“And Sam,” I add. “But to be clear, just because he’s the love of my life doesn’t mean I plan to make out with him in front of anyone, so don’t be assholes.”
They promise not to be and then come with me into my closet where I finish my Bellini and get dressed.
This is one of those times where I have to decide whether to try and blend in and therefore fail miserably, or lean in to who I am.
It’s an amateur MMA tournament, and logic dictates the dress code is casual, which leads me to don my newest, nicest Tom Ford suit in black, a white satin button down shirt open to my breastbone, and a gold necklace that rests above my collarbone.
I leave my hair touchable in loose waves and refine my face with enough product to make myself look airbrushed and flawless.
I lean inhard.
I even wear boots with two inch stacked heels. I always walk better when I feel taller.
When I look like this, people look at me like I’m someone they should recognize. Like a famous person they’re trying to place. If looks can be used as a weapon, they can also be used as a shield.
In my case, today, I’m using mine as both.
Priya and Rachel clap when I come downstairs, ready to go. As we’re leaving the townhouse, Rachel says, “Feels like we’re on entourage duty.”
“You asked me to come,” I say, sounding more blasé than I feel. “I hope you don’t expect me to drive.”
Priya cackles and opens the back door of Rachel’s car for me, and then we’re on our way.
The expo is being heldin an old auditorium near the bridge, and the parking lot is packed. We walk into a large lobby with concession stands and other miscellaneous vendors. The crowdis a mixed bag of young and old. Lots of t-shirts, beer bellies, and ill-fitting jeans on men, and very tight garments on women. I’m not the only person in a suit, nor are Rachel and Priya completely alone in having any taste, but I get the types of looks I was expecting.
Breathing deeply, I ask, “Now what?”
“Now we find a seat,” Rachel says.
There’s one octagon at the center of the arena, surrounded with nets and chains. It’s not the type of venue that features a Jumbotron for better viewing, and I’m glad about that. The tickets were general admission, so sitting or standing appears to be up to the onlookers, and I’d much prefer to sit.
