Read Online Girl in the Arena by Lise Haines - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lise Haines
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It’s not that I’m famous or anything, but Tommy, at least, always knew about his opponents’ families. Some pictures of me circulate too, a lot more lately.
But Uber does look worn out. Tommy got that look at home sometimes, but then he suffered from bouts of melancholy and I always tried to take that into account and not feel like I had done something wrong. Maybe Allison’s right, that Uber doesn’t have the true gladiator look to his jaw. Maybe he’s just an ordinary guy who pumps a lot of iron, someone who always feels a little down on his luck no matter how things go, his hair thinning in front, which could be the constant grating of the helmet. In any case, not the way Tommy used to look after a match, certainly after winning a title match. Tommy had a playfulness after he won a fight that drove Allison insane. He took us out to big dinners afterward, insisted everyone eat steak.
—You’re not allowed in here, Uber says, like he cares but doesn’t care.
I’m a little short on words for my father’s murderer. There should be something I could say to make him realize he’s the most pathetic man on Earth, but I can’t find it just now.
—What do you want me to sign? he asks, softening a little, as if I’ve been waiting for his autograph.
His autograph, his blood, his baby, his life—Uber doesn’t know what I want, and I’m not saying. I know what I want, but it’s like my whole body is iced. My mouth filled with cold.
His sex, his money, his interview, his aura—he doesn’t know.
The cuts on his arms and legs have started to bleed again on his still-damp skin. His wet hair drips down his shoulders, down his chest. Tommy used to look almost weightless after a fight, luminous.
Maybe Uber’s raking his fingers through his hair now to tame it, maybe it’s a nervous thing. Uber isn’t a bad-looking guy, but out of the arena he doesn’t seem very self-possessed.
—Look, I... he starts to say.
And then it seems like, well, like the way to get this weary soldier is by surprise.
Caging happens when a woman rushes into a locker room and throws herself at a gladiator, slamming him for an imprint of his blood. She has to get him when he’s just come out of the arena all pumped and cut up, before his wounds are dressed. Some women imprint the blood on their clothes—that’s called shrouding . One woman got Tommy like that. He had taken a blow to his brow so the blood had poured freely that day. She got a clear impression of his face in the middle of her T-shirt.
Other cagers hit the locker room with nothing on above their waists and if they succeed, if they get enough blood on their bare skin, that’s called contracting . A woman who contracts will go back up to the stadium and get swarmed by cameras. Some women get married in that state, with the blood on their skin, in their hair. Others, if they’re beautiful enough, get modeling contracts, invitations to appear on TV shows. Or they contract some kind of blood disease and die eventually.
But I have all of my clothes on, my T-shirt back in place, and I just FLY at the man. I push through the air like I’m not moving at all. Suspended, really. Then I smack hard against his body, against his chest, his stomach so he’ll think I’m just there to cage him. I guess I hit him twice. Hitting, bouncing off, hitting again. Cars do that in accidents sometimes. They can hit the bumper and then the trunk.
Somehow I get my legs around his waist, one arm around his neck. Twisting around, I try to wedge the bracelet off with my free hand but he makes a fist so I can’t get it off. We stick together because he’s so damp, my skin burns as I try to pull away. My hand around the bracelet, I feel the design etched into the metal. He won’t give it up. He thinks he has some of Tommy’s power now, but what he’s got is my fetish—my worry, my memory, loss—everything you can pour into metal.
His free hand circles my back. Now he’s holding
But Uber does look worn out. Tommy got that look at home sometimes, but then he suffered from bouts of melancholy and I always tried to take that into account and not feel like I had done something wrong. Maybe Allison’s right, that Uber doesn’t have the true gladiator look to his jaw. Maybe he’s just an ordinary guy who pumps a lot of iron, someone who always feels a little down on his luck no matter how things go, his hair thinning in front, which could be the constant grating of the helmet. In any case, not the way Tommy used to look after a match, certainly after winning a title match. Tommy had a playfulness after he won a fight that drove Allison insane. He took us out to big dinners afterward, insisted everyone eat steak.
—You’re not allowed in here, Uber says, like he cares but doesn’t care.
I’m a little short on words for my father’s murderer. There should be something I could say to make him realize he’s the most pathetic man on Earth, but I can’t find it just now.
—What do you want me to sign? he asks, softening a little, as if I’ve been waiting for his autograph.
His autograph, his blood, his baby, his life—Uber doesn’t know what I want, and I’m not saying. I know what I want, but it’s like my whole body is iced. My mouth filled with cold.
His sex, his money, his interview, his aura—he doesn’t know.
The cuts on his arms and legs have started to bleed again on his still-damp skin. His wet hair drips down his shoulders, down his chest. Tommy used to look almost weightless after a fight, luminous.
Maybe Uber’s raking his fingers through his hair now to tame it, maybe it’s a nervous thing. Uber isn’t a bad-looking guy, but out of the arena he doesn’t seem very self-possessed.
—Look, I... he starts to say.
And then it seems like, well, like the way to get this weary soldier is by surprise.
Caging happens when a woman rushes into a locker room and throws herself at a gladiator, slamming him for an imprint of his blood. She has to get him when he’s just come out of the arena all pumped and cut up, before his wounds are dressed. Some women imprint the blood on their clothes—that’s called shrouding . One woman got Tommy like that. He had taken a blow to his brow so the blood had poured freely that day. She got a clear impression of his face in the middle of her T-shirt.
Other cagers hit the locker room with nothing on above their waists and if they succeed, if they get enough blood on their bare skin, that’s called contracting . A woman who contracts will go back up to the stadium and get swarmed by cameras. Some women get married in that state, with the blood on their skin, in their hair. Others, if they’re beautiful enough, get modeling contracts, invitations to appear on TV shows. Or they contract some kind of blood disease and die eventually.
But I have all of my clothes on, my T-shirt back in place, and I just FLY at the man. I push through the air like I’m not moving at all. Suspended, really. Then I smack hard against his body, against his chest, his stomach so he’ll think I’m just there to cage him. I guess I hit him twice. Hitting, bouncing off, hitting again. Cars do that in accidents sometimes. They can hit the bumper and then the trunk.
Somehow I get my legs around his waist, one arm around his neck. Twisting around, I try to wedge the bracelet off with my free hand but he makes a fist so I can’t get it off. We stick together because he’s so damp, my skin burns as I try to pull away. My hand around the bracelet, I feel the design etched into the metal. He won’t give it up. He thinks he has some of Tommy’s power now, but what he’s got is my fetish—my worry, my memory, loss—everything you can pour into metal.
His free hand circles my back. Now he’s holding
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