Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 88656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Almost a man.
Miranda and Braden turned off at their section, Miranda waving over her shoulder as I continued on toward the backstage area. My heart was hammering in my chest now, and I felt a little light-headed. What the hell was I supposed to do now? I hadn’t really thought past getting the press badge, and now that I was actually expected to do something, I was at a loss.
Think, Jamie. What do reporters do?
I wracked my brain, trying to come up with any knowledge I’d gained from my journalism classes, realizing belatedly that working in a classroom setting just doesn’t prepare you for the reality of being in the field. Maybe in trying to wow my professor, I’d bitten off more than I could chew.
I suspected the rest of the students were doing reports that didn’t require hands-on work, and here I had signed myself up for a crash course in the realities of making an ass of myself. Because I was pretty sure that was what was about to happen.
A giant with tattoos covering his arms and a mass of scraggly facial hair guarded the door to the backstage area, and I was willing to bet his face had never stretched into a smile. He eyed my press pass and waved me on through without incident, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
Backstage was crawling with people. Organizers rushed from one place to another, radiating nervous energy as they worked to ensure everything was going as planned. There were security guards, men in suits, and guys who looked like fighters but weren’t here to fight.
I’d watched enough MMA shows with Braden to know that the fighters on tonight’s card would be prepping in private rooms with their trainers and coaches. I wouldn’t be able to interview any of them until afterward, if at all. As for fighters who would not be fighting, there were a few of them milling around backstage talking to reporters already.
I’d never been so intimidated in my life. Besides the fact that I was here in a professional capacity but knew next to nothing about how I was supposed to conduct myself, I was surrounded by guys who were in crazy physical shape. My muscles seemed almost like facsimiles of the real things in comparison to the sinewy muscles that stretched along the bones of the fighters. These guys had honed their bodies into killing machines in martial arts training facilities around the world, while I had languished on the cushioned seats of stationary weight machines at the YMCA, half-assing it when I got a little winded.
To say I felt physically inferior was an understatement. Watching fights on TV had not prepared me for how these guys would look in person, or for the overwhelming hum of testosterone-infused excitement in the air. I could feel my entire being vibrating beneath my skin.
I froze when I caught sight of a young fighter standing in the center of a group of people. Two men in suits hovered close to him, flanking him like guardians, effectively and wordlessly establishing themselves as part of his entourage. A couple of women with press passes and cameras slung around their necks gazed at the fighter with a kind of rapture as he talked, and I couldn’t blame them.
The fighter had longish hair, a dark chocolate color infused with subtle caramel highlights. It was pulled back from his face and twisted into a tight little topknot. Don’t ask me how I knew he was a fighter, because he was dressed like he was ready to hit the runway.
His face was vaguely suggestive of a Latin heritage, with a strong jaw, large, black-rimmed eyes, and a straight nose that looked like it had miraculously never been broken. Beneath the designer clothes, his skin had a healthy-looking tan, as if he’d just come back from a week at the beach. But something in the way he carried himself left no mistake as to what he was.
This guy was a professional ass kicker.
Before I knew it, my feet had carried me right over to the small group, and I found myself standing beside the reporters. I knew I was staring, but I couldn’t help myself. I’d never seen a person with such presence. He wasn’t bulky, though. On the contrary, he looked lean and lethal like a panther, with golden-green eyes to match.
If the guy’s fighting was anywhere near the level of his looks, he was destined to be a star— just the kind of person an aspiring publicist might like to align himself with. Then it occurred to me that if he was much of a fighter, he’d probably have battle scars. Maybe he was just a pretty face after all.
“I wish we could see you fight tonight,” one of the reporters said. “I’ll bet that would be something.”