Fight Wife

The comforting tar burned down my throat as I took a drag from my Marlboro. The cigarette felt sticky between my lips, coated with excessive cherry gloss. It’s a bad habit—the cigarettes, not the Lancôme—but I get a sick pleasure from it, doing whatever the fuck I want.

Between puffs, I breathed in the briny air, pulling my leopard coat tighter around me. When summer decides to be over on the Atlantic, it’s over.

Through my knock-off Tom Fords, I zeroed in on the digital sign outside the arena.

Jordan Holly vs Frederick Callaway: Friday, September 9th, 9:00 pm

Weigh-in: Thursday, September 8th, 11:00 am

10:24 am. Only thirty-six minutes to weigh-in. My hands were shaky, but only minutely. Some people let their nerves slip through the cracks, like dandelions growing through concrete. Not me. My anxiety was like a high pitched frequency that only Lassie her fucking self could hear. 

You see, my husband, Jordan Holly, was a local phenom and undefeated MMA champ. And given that tomorrow’s fight was in the shit town that had raised us, there was a lot riding on him keeping that title. 

Jordan’s dedication to fighting was my biggest turn on. He was a fucking weapon. His abs were reminiscent of the Appalachian skyline. He’d come a long way from being the highschool dropout who pulled lobster traps onto a fishing vessel in the dead of winter. 

I used to be a real piece of trash growing up, and let’s be real: I still am. I never had much to say for aspirations. That is, until an ambition personified slid a solitaire diamond engagement ring onto my finger.

Jordan was my goal. I was going to make him a fucking star. 

I’d been by Jordan’s side ever since we were sixteen. 

“Tori, I’d like you to be my girlfriend,” Jordan told me, plain and simple, that day on the wharf. The suspenders from his waders were draped over his shoulders. 

My eyes glistened, “I’d really like that.”

Jordan made me feel wanted, which was a stark contrast to my cesspool of a family.  

“You think you’re better than us,” my dad's voice echoed in my mind, gravelly and harsh as he slurped up his Swanson dinner. 

“Always with your head in the clouds, dreaming big,” my mom slurred, her bitter words laced with Labatt Blue. 

“I ain't never seen you do an honest day's work,” my little sister, Violet, challenged, her eyes hardened with resentment.

"Yes," I'd snap back, my fists clenched. "I fucking do think I’m better than you."

Making Jordan successful fueled my iron-will, but there was more to it. I would have walked over scorching hot spikes for the rest of eternity to prove to my family that I wasn’t destined to follow their pathetic example. 

You build quite the shield of armor, when the people who are supposed to love you the most get off on constantly breaking your fucking heart.

It was 10:34 am. Only twenty-six minutes stood between me and the weigh-in stage. The fog off the ocean added a grim layer to the parking lot where I stood. I grinded my cigarette between the sole of my shoe and the damp pavement.

I tousled my lion’s mane, making sure my clip-in extensions stayed put, and marched towards the entrance. The scales awaited. So did a defining moment.

****

“There she is!”

“Oh my God that’s Jordan’s wife!”

“She’s so hot!!”

The whispers washed over me like the wind humming through tree leaves as I strutted down my imaginary red carpet, towards the stage. The attention made my mouth froth. I was never much a whore in the classic sense of the word, but for fame: guilty as charged.

I sat down, front and center, as though the folding chair was my throne. Jordan stood stoically on the sidelines. Pulling off my shades, I gave him a cheeky wink. He nodded, never breaking focus. Jordan looked like an Adonis, something that only forces of nature—or maybe God himself—could have possibly sculpted. And rightfully so. He’d been training for months, and his diet was so heavy on plain, boiled chicken that it would make anyone yack. 

****

“Can’t eat this shit anymore,” Jordan clanged his plate in the middle of the table, ten days out from the fight.

I cleared my throat and slowly pushed my chair away, standing up with both hands planted on the table.

“When you win this fight, we’re celebrating with the biggest, cheesiest pepperoni pizza you’ve ever laid your eyes on. Grandma’s ooey gooey chocolate chip cookies? You got it, babe.”

I grabbed his plate of bland chicken and pushed it back towards him.

“You’ve been through seven layers of hell to get this far. You’re not giving up now. Eat the damn chicken.”

He grunted and groaned, but Jordan started shoveling in the protein. 

“You’re right,” his mouth was full, “Thanks Tor.”

Everything about our relationship had revolved around fighting for the last few years. Sometimes, I missed the butterflies in my stomach whenever he brushed my hair behind my ear.

I sat down, clasping my hands in my lap. My stomach acid eased off. I, too, had clawed my way up seven layers of hell to get where I was. I wasn’t going to be caught dead giving up, either. 

We went to bed that night, my back facing his. 

****

The arena sounded like a den of hyenas as weigh-in approached. Marty, Jordan’s coach, was beside him, a damn toothpick in his mouth. Marty was as flighty as a squirrel. He leaned in and whispered in Jordan’s ear. I imagined his low yet earnest voice, “Stay focused, J. You’ve trained hard for this. Show them you’re the best.” Sweat was pooling on that bald head of his. Marty was talented, but just enough of a chicken shit to ever be in the limelight himself. That’s exactly how I liked him.

Lou, on the other hand, well… I’d had a vendetta against him from the start. He was Jordan’s manager, and had a gut that rivaled Old Saint Nick’s. He had silver, five o'clock shadow, even at nine am. Lou had owned a carpet store in town, and sold it without question to manage Jordan. 

“I always knew you’d amount to something, J,” Lou’s voice was thick with self-satisfaction when he first came on board. “Just needed the right push, and here you are, ready to make history.”

“Thanks, Lou. I would have been happy in the fishery.. But.. thanks for making me see more in myself,” Jordan said, with a subtle tinge of uncertainty.

My jaw stiffened. As if Lou was the only fucking person to ever be aware of Jordan’s potential. 

****

10:59 am. One minute to weigh-in. My knee bounced like a tattoo needle. The energy in the arena was electric, mixed with the undeniable stench of musky change rooms. The crowd went all cylinders as the announcer—old Donny Deuce—walked up to the mic. The anticipation left me breathless, but still, I couldn’t help but notice Donny’s thick wall of hair. 

That mop of his must be three inches high. 

Standing at the podium as proud as a peacock, Donny adjusted his eggplant coloured suit jacket. “Gooooooood morning everyone. Who’s ready to weigh in?!”

Chairs screeched against the cement floor. The barrage of applause roared from wall to wall. My knuckles went white as I gripped my seat. 

Donny Deuce puffed his chest as the spectators lost their shit. I sneered as he sucked in the attention, but also…. 

Respect. 

“Alright you party animals,” Donny worked the crowd like the karaoke version of Neil Diamond, “I’d like to call up to the stage…the meeeeeen of the hour… two undefeated champions…Frederick Callaway, and our very own….Joooooordan Hooooolly!!”

The arena rolled like thunder, carrying both fighters to the stage. Although Jordan and Frederick didn’t flinch, I knew my husband. Beneath that tight-lipped front of his, Jordan was gnawing the inside of his cheek. 

Jordan and Frederick were face to face, with only a domino-sized space between them. Cameras flashed as media goons circled them like vultures hunting a carcass.

I couldn’t blink. Jordan had to weigh-in at one hundred and seventy one pounds; no more, no less. Every last motherfucking ounce of fat and muscle and water on that man’s body mattered. 

Donny waved his hands in the air in a happy dance, no sooner addressing the crowd again, “First up: Frederick Callaway!”

The floor rumbled as Frederick stepped onto the scale. I admit, the guy looked good. He was lean and cut and holding his chin high, that cocky fuck. Jordan was nearby. His eyes were glued to the ceiling. My pulse pounded in my ears.

The old weigh-in coordinator approached, pulling his green visor up from his face as he slid the two weighted blocks. The process was painfully slow, like watching paint dry. 

He eventually called out with a hoarse voice, “One-seventy-one!” 

The arena reverberated with primal screams. My bones ached as Frederick knocked his fist against his chest. He was right on target, and Jordan was up next.  

Donny went dead serious as his voice built up the excitement, like a rollercoaster going up the hill before its first drop. “Next up…the one…the only…local legend and undefeated: Joooooooordan Hoooooooolly!” 

Jordan’s fans were like rabid wolves howling at the moon. It was intoxicating. It’s one thing to have people cheer at a sporting event. It’s quite another to hear that same level of hedonism being directed at your husband... your love… your one-way-ticket the fuck out of here. 

I shot out of my seat and screamed like a feral animal, too. 

“Let’s go, baby!!!! You got this, Jordan!! Woooooo!!!!”

Jordan stepped onto the scale with methodical precision. I swelled with waves of pride and admiration. Jordan was at the top of his fucking game. He’d earned this. 

You could have heard a pin drop as the coordinator fumbled with the weighted blocks on the scale. Jordan was a statue as his body inflated and deflated. As time trickled on, the room filled with murmurs. My throat tightened. I glared daggers at Marty and Lou. 

Marty shrugged, wiping the sweat from his brow. He looked like a teen who’d been caught shoplifting. Lou, on the other hand, didn’t falter. He was deadpan, until he flashed me the most pompous grin. My blood ran hot. Lou loved basking in the glory that he was up on stage with Jordan while I was cast away in the crowd. 

Condescending piece of shit. 

Deafening silence filled the gaps of the dissipating hootenanny. The weigh-in coordinator, still tinkering with the scale, no sooner waved over some other old geezer for help. I could see the dew beading on Jordan’s skin. My eyelids twitched. 

“Come on!! What’s the hold up?” Bless the beer gut guy with the mullet who finally spoke up. I swore I smelled the Keystone Light on his breath. 

Donny jumped to the mic. “Okay, okay, settle down everyone.” Wasn’t like Donny, to have that waver in his voice. 

With a sigh, the weigh-in coordinator begrudgingly turned around. His head was shaking as he took off his visor. His face looked like he’d just bitten into a lemon. His hat in his hand, he looked at the crowd from left to right. 

“One-seventy-two point six.” The noise in the arena got sucked out like a vacuum. “He’s over.” 

My guts were ripped out of me. I was paralyzed. The crowd went fucking mental.

Jordan fell back from the scale, his jaw to the floor. Donny Deuce put his hands on his face; for the first time in his life, he was speechless.

I watched Marty and Lou run over to Jordan. Their cheeks were as hot as the sun. Their hands were flying. The weigh-in coordinator’s hands were flying. I couldn’t tell what they were saying but I know Lou was screaming such bloody murder that a good spraying of saliva covered his entire perimeter. He pointed to Jordan, who then instantly and aggressively started doing speed squats. Marty was doing his best not to cower.

My temperature rose. I was about to fucking shriek like a sweltering hot kettle. 

I stood up, my arms over my stomach, and turned around mechanically. The furious spectators flailed, like the turmoil of a bubbling hot spring. The place was as loud as a hundred fucking jackhammers, but I couldn’t hear a damn thing.

And that’s when I saw them, at the far back of the room. As if illuminated by some kind of sadistic spotlight lit by Lucifer himself. There they were; my family. 

My dad’s eyes locked with mine as he took a big glug of beer. Violet shook her head. She was holding baby Cyrus on her hip. 

Where the fuck are her other kids?

I imagined my nieces and nephews running around like heathens, unsupervised on her lawn.

My mom savored my embarrassment. One corner of her mouth lifted, and she started clapping…slowly…cunningly.

That menacing glare of hers looked down at me as I shrunk into my little cotton night-gown, the one I always went to bed with as a child. I closed my hand into a fist, desperate to feel the terry cloth fur of my Bear Bear in my palm. 

I no sooner saw red. 

I was startled when the woman beside me tugged on my coat sleeve, “I’m so sorry,” she said. Her eyes were puddles. 

Clocking her makeshift Jordan Holly t-shirt, my gaze met hers. This woman oozed of victim energy. 

Oh boo fucking hoo. Your favorite fighter weighed over. What are you gonna do about it then?

Well, what are YOU gonna do about it, Tori? 

I straightened myself up, tube of cherry gloss in hand, and slid it across my lips. Tucking it away, I met the woman's gaze firmly. "I'm not sorry."

No one noticed as I purposefully strode up to the stage, hoisted the scale in my arms, and hightailed it out into the hallway. 

I heard Lou’s clunky footsteps and panting behind me as he came after me. The scale was as heavy as a bag of bricks, but my adrenaline made it weightless. I charged ahead.

“Tori! Tori stop!!! What the hell are you doing?! Don’t fuck this up for the team!!!!”

I stopped dead in my tracks and whipped towards him like a tornado.

“Team? Team!!!?” I was possessed. 

Lou’s face was drained of color. Mine was like hell itself. 

I slowed my breath and leaned into him. I wanted to be sure he heard the threatening whisper of what I had to say next.

“If we’re such a great fucking team, then why do I have to do everything myself?”

Lou’s pupils went quarter-sized. The Old Spice seeped from his pores. 

“You might be his manager, Lou, but I’m his fucking wife.”

I lifted the scale over my head, and before Lou’s bumbling mouth had a chance to say anything coherent, I screamed maniacally and smashed it to the ground. 

Lou’s hands went over his ears to the terror of metal crashing into cement. “Have you lost your fucking mind!!!!” 

My stance was frozen as I watched the result of my own destructive behavior, scattered in pieces on the floor. I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing my face to stay blank. Crossing my arms, I pushed past Lou.

I have to find Jordan.

People must have heard the commotion, because droves rushed on either side of me and towards the scene of the crime. I gave them no attention. 

I was met by the old weigh-in coordinator at the arena door. The armpits of his golf shirt were soaked in sweat. I controlled my posture as if my life depended on it, “Scale’s broken,” I started, “We’re gonna need a new weigh-in date.”

He looked at me as though I had two heads, but I kept on moving. 

Every molecule in my body was throbbing as I walked back into the arena. My heart really sank, though, when I spotted Jordan. I knew the downturned corners of his mouth and dampened eyes were directed at me. And his painful expression wasn’t just about the fighting. It was about us.

“Hey,” I extended my hand, but he stepped back. My face went flush.

Jordan shook his head with a sort of disbelief that split me in two. He walked away. 

A bitter taste filled my mouth. “Jordan!”

He was gone. 

I nervously twirled my wedding ring around my finger. What had I just done? Not just with the scale. Everything. I had sacrificed so much for my monstrous ambition that I’d ignored the cracks in our relationship. I realized at that moment, that “winning at all costs” may have just cost Jordan his career, and our marriage.

I imagined Jordan’s weathered teenage hand caressing my cheek on the wharf, the hum of the tide receding from the shoreline. 

My facade of confidence started cracking like porcelain. My mouth contorted. I paced back and forth. When I spotted the now empty space towards the back where my family had just stood, my teeth grinded. I swore I heard them cackling at my expense. 

“You’ve really gone and fucked us this time, Tori,” Lou had appeared, huffing and puffing.

Looking at that garden tomato face of his, I took a breath, all the way down to my asshole, and exhaled. I rolled out my neck. I cracked my fingers, “The party’s not over, Lou. Not without a fight.”

I strode out of there with a Marlboro between my lips, anxiety burning in my kneecaps, and a mission: get Jordan back in the game, and back in my corner. 

I may have been a piece of trash from the wrong side of town, but I was Tori Fucking Holly.

I wasn’t going to lose.