Cool

Chapter 1“Is that a harpoon you’re using, Doc?” “Sorry, kid. Just a couple more stitches.” Dan Cole hadn’t been aware of it hurting so much at the time the elbow landed on his forehead, but it had bled like a son of a b***h. After he’d submitted his opponent the cut man had stanched the bleeding, and now the doc was sewing him up. He ached all over. That was the way he usually felt after a fight, win or lose. But his head really hurt, and the doc’s needle wasn’t helping. Oh, well, soon they’d be on their way back to Cincinnati. And at least he’d won. The elbow had been a wake-up call in the third round, and he’d managed to take down Cruz, his opponent, and get him with a guillotine choke. Put the fucker to sleep, in fact. “There!” Doc said. “You’re going to have a scar there. I’m not a plastic surgeon, you know. Use Aleve for the pain, but don’t take too many. They can tear up your stomach.” He turned to Frank, Dan’s trainer, and continued, “I don’t think he’s got a concussion, but there’s a chance. You’d better keep him awake,” he looked at his watch, “until four or five o’clock. Not much sleep for either of you tonight.” * * * * Dan sat up front next to Frank as they sped down I-71 from Columbus. His training partner Josh was asleep in the back seat. Josh had been later on the card, after some people had actually arrived at the arena. He, too, had won his match, but he’d done so more convincingly than Dan had. Well, Dan thought, the winnings aren’t much, but every little bit helps with the bills. “That was a nice hip throw you took him down with,” Frank commented. “Thanks. I’ve got good teachers.” “Shouldn’t have let your arms down, though. That’s why he was able to catch you with the elbow.” “Well, it was the last round, and I could hardly hold ‘em up. I didn’t think he would move in on me that fast.” “Uh-huh. You underestimated your opponent, didn’t you, boy?” “Yeah, I know. Always expect the worst. Never take anything for granted.” “Good rules to live by, not just to fight by. But about the fight…I’m surprised you didn’t go down when he got you with that elbow.” Dan chuckled and then wished he hadn’t because it intensified the throbbing. “Yeah. Like the way Brown caught Faber. But I must have a harder head. Or Cruz didn’t hit me as hard. But the blood began to run down into my eye right away. So I knew I had to take him to the canvas. It would’ve been too dangerous to stay on my feet when I couldn’t see his right coming at me.” “Smart, Danny! You’ve learned a lot.” “Thanks.” It was tempting to put his head back and go to sleep, but the doc had said not to. He didn’t know how long after that it was when Frank said, “You aren’t asleep are you? We just passed King’s Island. Gotta stay awake. We’ll be home soon.” Home was Frank’s house, where Dan had lived in the spare bedroom since he was kicked out of his studio apartment because he was late with the rent. When he woke up it was 2:15 on Sunday afternoon. Frank had stayed up with him, making sure he didn’t fall asleep too soon. At four o’clock he’d said, “Okay, let’s go to bed.” “Thanks for looking after me, Frank. Sorry you had to stay up so late.” He took a bath when he got up, not wanting to get his bandage wet in the shower. He didn’t feel too bad, all things considered. The cut still hurt, but otherwise he felt okay. He left the bandage on even though the ringside doc had said it would be good for air to get to the cut. He didn’t want to shock people with how bad it looked. He went to Bob Evans and had a big breakfast, figuring it would probably be his only meal that day. Frank was out when he got back. Dan used Frank’s land line to call home since it wasn’t a toll call from West Chester to Loveland, and his cell was out of minutes. If his mother answered, he’d hang up. He relaxed when his father answered. “Hey, Dad! How’d service go this morning?” His parents were both musicians, his mother a violist with the Cincinnati Symphony, his father the organist/choir director of a large suburban church. “Danny! How are you? Is everything okay?” “Yeah, I’m okay. How are things with you and Mom?” He could hear the viola playing faintly in the background. “Your mother’s fine. She’s in her studio practicing.” “I hear her.” An awkward pause followed. “Um, Dad?” “Yes, son?” “I had a fight last night. And I won.” He heard his father sigh. “That’s better than losing, isn’t it?” “Sure is!” “And you came through it okay?” Dan wasn’t about to mention the cut. And the probable scar on his forehead. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.” “You know how much we wish you’d come home, Dan.” “And you know why I can’t.” “I don’t want to start a fight with you. But it’s why you won’t come home, not why you can’t.” “You and Mom are the ones who said I couldn’t live there if I wanted to be a fighter.” “We miss you, son.” “I miss you guys, too.” Another pause. Then his father said, “Look, you know as far as I’m concerned you could come home and still be a fighter if that’s what you really want to do. But you know how your mother feels.” “Uh huh. She’s embarrassed that her son is doing something as disgraceful as MMA.” “I don’t think you’re being fair. She’s worried about you. MMA is a brutal, barbaric activity, as she describes it, not a sport. Still quoting her, if you’re determined to get yourself disfigured and brain damaged, she can’t stand to see you while it’s happening.” “I’m not asking to move back, Dad. I just called to say I love you.” “We both love you, too, Danny.” “Well, say hello to Mom.” * * * * Monday morning before going to work as a bagger at Kroger, Dan changed his bandage. The cut wasn’t infected, but it looked awful. He applied Neosporin to it and covered it with fresh gauze, which he fixed in place with adhesive tape. “Jesus, baby, I’d hate to see the other guy! What did he do to you?” Cheryl was the cashier he usually worked with. She reminded him of Debbie on Queer as Folk. Overweight, with dyed hair and too much makeup. And the proverbial heart of gold. Dan kept expecting her to call him Sunshine. And he did look a little like the twink on that show. But, of course, Cheryl would never have seen it. “I won, Cher. That’s what counts. This is just a scratch.” “It must be a damn big scratch. That bandage is huge!” “Yeah, it goes from my eyebrow almost to the hairline.” “Will there be a scar?” “Uh huh. Doc said there’d be one unless I had surgery to fix it.” She put her hand to his cheek. “Such a pretty face. But maybe a scar will give you character. A lot of girls won’t like it, but that’s not a problem.” He grinned. “Well, I suppose some guys would be put off by it, too. But let’s see how it heals up before we get too upset, okay?” “Sure, sweetie. Hey, I’ve been seeing a product advertised on TV that’s supposed to make scars less visible. Maybe you can try that.” “Okay.” Their first customer of the day was ready to check out, so that ended the discussion. After work he went directly to the dojo, where Tom Denken, the owner, insisted on taking off the bandage and looking at the cut. “Doc did a good job. It isn’t even seeping now. Still, no man-to-man contact for you this week, no sparring, nothing like that. You can work on your cardio, both bags, weights. But nothing that will open up the cut, right?” “Whatever you say, boss.” Tom turned away and then looked back at Dan. “Oh, congratulations on the win, kid.” * * * * When Dan got back to Frank’s after the academy closed, no one was there. He turned on the TV, flipped channels, found a program about Leonard Bernstein on PBS. He had no musical talent himself, but he had grown up with classical music. When he was younger both parents had given private music lessons in their home. So when he arrived after school he had to find something quiet to do so he wouldn’t disturb anyone. In grade school he’d usually changed clothes and gone to play with the neighborhood kids. Later he’d often play computer games with the volume turned down low, sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. By high school his parents didn’t have the financial pressure to give private lessons, though each usually had one or two students they worked with because of their promise. But by that time, Dan was often late getting home because of wrestling practice. His mind went back to the reasons why he’d moved out of his parents’ house. He’d been a wrestler at a hundred and forty-five pounds in high school and was runner-up at the State high school competitions in that weight class his senior year. He’d gotten grades and SATs good enough to get him into any of the state universities. Money wouldn’t have been a problem. He was an only child. His parents had been stashing money into a college fund since he was born. But there was a furor when he told them he didn’t want to go to a university right away. Since he was little he’d watched the UFC on television and had dreamed of being an MMA fighter. He’d talked with Tom Denken at the Cincinnati Mixed Martial Arts Academy, who’d seen him wrestle and who encouraged him to become a student there. His parents refused. His mother was especially adamant that he not do anything of the sort. Words were spoken. Lines were drawn. And Dan had left home. So for the two years since graduation, he’d been working as a bagger at Kroger during the day and cleaning up the dojo after it closed in the evening. For that work, he got his training free. From Tom, Frank, and the other instructors, he’d been taught striking, judo, and jiu jitsu to go along with his grappling skills. But money had been tight, and though he’d fought about every other month—in Ohio, Indiana, and Kentucky mostly—the pay at that regional level was low, and he didn’t always have enough money to feed himself, insure and put gas in his old Blazer, and pay the rent. That’s why he was grateful when Frank offered his spare bedroom. And had gotten used to listening to the noises when Frank had a woman in his bed. One night about a month after Frank had taken him in, he was in bed when Frank got home. Frank had knocked on the door and, without waiting, come in. “Danny boy!” Dan could see the taller, heavier man silhouetted in the doorway. “What’s up, man?” “b***h wouldn’t give me any!” “You losing your charm, big guy?” “Don’t laugh at me, boy. A man’s got needs, you know? I’m hard up here.” “Looks like you’ll have to take care of your problem like the rest of us, with your hand.” “Well, not necessarily. You could help me out.” “Me? You can’t—” “Come on! I know you’re gay. How many times have you brought some guy in here when I’ve been out of town at a fight?” “You know about that?” Actually it had only been one guy. He’d bumped into one of his high school wrestling buddies and, after a few beers they’d sucked each other off. And a week or so later they’d met at Frank’s by arrangement and done it again. Then Tony went away someplace and Dan hadn’t seen him again. “Yeah. And I don’t really mind. I mean I told you to make yourself at home. And you’ve never bothered me. I’ve never had to listen to you and some dude get it on. But you’re getting a real break on the rent, and…I have this problem.” He rubbed the bulge in the front of his jeans. Faced with a choice of being on the streets, crawling home with his tail between his legs to face his mother, or sucking c**k, Dan had caved. So about once a week after that he found himself either going down on Frank or giving up his other end. Frank was a patient instructor. As a corner man he was supportive. But when they were having s*x, it was very impersonal. He wasn’t particularly rough; it was more as if he wasn’t there mentally. Dan, it seemed, was merely supplying a convenient hole.