Page 2 of Wilde About You

I could peer between the second shelf of towels and the top of the cart to see the room, but I was confident they couldn't see me. It was Buck. His head hung low in defeat, and sweat dripped off his face. He used the towel hanging over his shoulders to wipe it. The door opened again. A man with glossy leather loafers and a blue polo shirt walked in. Unlike the fighter, he was combed, blood-free and doused in cologne.

"What the fuck was that out there, Buck?" He swung his arm in the direction of the fight arena just in case Buck had no idea what he was referring to. That seemed impossible because the fighter looked positively grief-stricken. And that look wasn't easy to pull off beneath a swollen eye and bloody nose. "You caved. Do you know how much money I had riding on that fight?" The man smacked the locker with his palm. The sound reverberated through the room.

I lifted my 35mm and rested it lightly on the top towel. I snapped a photo of Buck's face. It was truly a heartbreaking mess, a mess only Tommy could capture.

"I'd swear it's almost as if your heart isn't in this anymore, son. I don't know what to say. Just majorly disappointed." He strode out on his shiny shoes. His kid was sitting on a table looking about as concussed as a person could look, and the man only worried that he'd lost money on a bet. Terrific dad. Reminded me a little of my own. Only mine never bet money. He never parted with a penny unless it was a "solid financial venture." He also didn't have time or patience for his daughter.

I sat there trying not to move a muscle, which was tough considering the horrendous tickle at the tip of my nose. I moved my face so my nose could graze the cold metal of the camera. It wasn't the same as a good ole nose scratch but it helped. I wondered how long poor Buck planned to sit on the table and stare absently down at the tile floor. My hope was that he'd head to the shower, so I could make my escape. This was a stupid endeavor. What the heck kind of life-changing photo was I going to get in a locker room?

The door opened again, and for a brief second I was relieved, thinking Buck's dad was coming back to administer first aid or retract his earlier awfulness. I was wrong. It wasn't the dad. It was the opponent, the victorious opponent. Was I going to have a solitary, ringside seat to a rematch right there in the locker room? Tension seemed to thicken and heat the air in the small room. My heart smacked against my ribs as I felt a sneeze forming. I wriggled my nose hard, and that seemed to do the trick.

Not a word was spoken as Gregor, also bloodied and beaten, dragged one of the tables to block the door from opening. Was he going to finish off his opponent? I was trapped in a room with two of the most formidable men on the planet. I contemplated my options. There weren't really any except for showing myself, apologizing for the interruption and scurrying from the room as fast as my feet could carry me. I could always swing my camera at them in defense but then it would surely break, and I'd be even further out of a job than before.

I closed my eyes a second to work up the courage to emerge from my hiding spot. I heard an intense growl and then a body was slammed up against the lockers. My eyes popped open as I braced for that terrible rematch. What I found was something wholly unexpected, but it was a rematch of sorts. The two men, fierce opponents in the octagon, were locked in a passionate kiss. Gregor had his hand on Buck's crotch as they passed the blood and sweat from their bodies between them. I froze for long enough to check that I wasn't imagining things and then lifted my camera. I got a nice shot of their open mouths devouring each other. It was admittedly hot to see two hunky, sweaty men go at it so ferociously. I got caught up in the drama of the moment, and my camera slipped and clanked against the side of the cart.

I sucked in a shocked breath. Gregor jumped back. Their stunned expressions shot my direction. I hopped up. "Didn't see a thing," I blurted nervously.

"It's a fucking photographer." Gregor lunged toward me. I pushed the cart into him and ran for the exit. I used all my adrenaline-soaked strength to shove the table back and lunge for the door. His giant hand grabbed hold of my digital camera. He yanked it so hard I fell painfully to my knees. He yanked it again. I shot forward but managed to keep from smacking the ground face-first.

"You'll break her neck," Buck said. "Stop."

I sat up on my knees. "Here, let me take it off my neck." I handed him my digital camera. I'd been needing a new one anyway.

Gregor snatched it and stared at the screen. While his attention was diverted, I raced to open the door.

"It's not here." My shoulders shot up around my ears as I heard my digital camera shatter into a million pieces. "Give me that other camera!" I managed to squeeze out just as his massive hand smacked the door. I narrowly missed being caught in it.

I ran down the corridor, back the way I'd come. Gregor's giant physique filled the passageway behind me. There were too many people blocking the exit. My frantic mind told me to get lost in the crowd. Once again thankful for being pixie-sized, as my family described it, I pushed through the press of sweaty, inebriated spectators, making sure to stop in small clearings like a prairie dog hiding in its burrow.

I clasped my camera as if it was a part of my body. I had it. I had my iconic image. I had my Hindenburg, my Tiananmen Square shot. The contents of my camera would make my career. If Gregor didn't kill me first.

I backed into a new opening behind a group of guys who were talking and finishing their beers. One of them elbowed the big guy next to him. "Hey Z, isn't that Gregor? He looks pissed."

I peeked past an arm or two and gasped when I realized how close Gregor was to finding me. I shrank down, and my gaze picked up the bright pink shirt I'd stupidly worn. In my defense, I hadn't had time to go to the laundromat, and the stupid bubble-gum pink shirt was all that was left in my drawer. As small as I was, I might as well have been carrying around a torch with pink flames.

Gregor's eyes shot my direction. The guy, who I'd ridiculously noticed was really fucking hot, elbowed the big guy again. "Z, I think he wants you to step in the octagon with him." He laughed. "Shit, he's coming this way."

My heart jumped into my throat. I snatched the black sweatshirt off the back of the guy's seat and took off.

"Hey, what the fuck? That's my sweatshirt!"

My camera bounced like an anvil against my chest as I scooted between rows and yanked on the sweatshirt. It came nearly to my knees, and my hands disappeared in the sleeves. If only I could disappear completely because now I had two angry men chasing me.

two

. . .

Colin

My knee surgeon's warning not to run for the next three months flashed through my brain as I tore off after the small scoundrel who'd stolen my sweatshirt. I'd have let her keep the thing if it weren't for the fact that both my phone and wallet were in the pockets. She was fast and wily like a squirrel, and with my recently repaired ACL, I was slow and lumbering like a three-legged camel. I trampled across the top row of seats.

"Hey, bro, you're not supposed to run on that knee," Zander yelled up, unhelpfully.

I paused and easily spotted my giant brother in the sea of heads. "Well, you wanna chase her?"

"Nah, it's your sweatshirt," Zander called back.

I looked around for a fast-moving black sweatshirt, but the little stinker was good at this.