From the Ashes

More matches continue, but neither Roman nor Sage have been called yet. There are quite a lot of kids here at this tournament. The number of participants looks to be about matched by those who have come only to spectate. I notice with a grin that there are a ton of chicks that have come just to watch the masculine action. They’ve got the right idea, I think with a silent laugh.

An announcement is made, saying that there will only be 3 more matches tonight, and the preliminary rounds will continue next week.

“I took a peek at the bracket,” Roman’s voice appears in my ear, and I turn to see him return from sliding off into the crowd a few minutes ago, “I’m up in the next match. You ready?” My heart leaps.

Us? Next?

I nod, my heart thumping like a rabbit’s, and Roman takes my hand and starts to push through the crowd toward the mat. True enough, the wiry referee calls Roman’s name when he announces the next match. After names, they refer to the warriors by the titles that they give themselves. As I stand in the corner of the mat with Roman, my heart hammering, I wonder what warrior name he has. The ref comes over to us.

“I understand you’re a noob when it comes to all this?” the tall kid asks me, gesturing around the gazebo briefly with his whistle. I nod, and try to radiate the same cool confidence that Roman is. “Alright. Well, your job is take care of this guy.” He jabs his thumb at Roman. “Towels over there if he gets bloody, case of water bottles right next to it.” I thank the kid before he walks across the mat to Roman’s opponent.

“Bloody, huh?” I say as Roman stretches the muscles of his arms out, bouncing back and forth between feet. He grins at me.

“Occasionally.” He grasps my arm in that familiar way of teamwork as their titles are called.

“Now we have Matthew, the Mountain... against Roman, The Phoenix!” My heart swells at such an appealing title, and I meet his calm, lowered gaze.

“Nice title,” I lean up to say in his ear, over the roar of the crowd, “Any reason for it?” The corner of his mouth hitches up into a half-smile.

“I don’t die.”

With that, he’s out in the middle of the mat, standing poised and still, while the huge guy across from him bounces on his feet to limber up. My heart drops into my stomach at the sight of my Roman beside Matthew, The Mountain. He looks tiny in comparison, and I fear for his safety as I cock an eyebrow at the towels for a brief second. The whistle is blown, and in my heightened state of nerves, I almost forget to yell my support for Roman as the two contestants move.

“You’ve got this Roman. No hesitation!” I yell with my hands cupped around my mouth, trying to show him my support, and all. They circle one another, Roman with an air of chilling calm, Matthew like a giant, hulking predator. The crowd reacts when Matthew lunges for Roman with a guttural roar. I give a jolt, then relax when Roman side-steps around the monstrous teen. This happens a few more times, Matthew leaping to take Roman down, Roman dancing circles around him. The Mountain may be a giant, but my Phoenix is quick as fiery lightning. In my overactive imagination, I picture flames roiling off his spinning body, his arms, his back. The very picture of his namesake.

I stand in heart-pounding suspense as the match goes on, the light from the flickering tiki-torches around the gazebo casting tribal, fiery light over the fighters. My heart is at my throat with every second at Roman’s fighting style with Matthew. The Mountain throws a right hook, and Roman ducks a hair below it. Not a second too late. Every dodge, every twisting escape, every dive that Roman makes to avoid Matthew’s blows and charges, he executes at the very last second. It’s scaring me to death, and I’m just waiting for one of Matthew’s blows to connect with Roman.

About ten minutes into the match, the crowd is hungry for blood. Matthew is big, but not exactly in the muscular way. He is wheezing now, his charges becoming slower, his swings becoming strained. Sweat runs down Matthew’s face in streams, his thick face flushed and red. He totters when he runs at Roman, and now my warrior just hops effortlessly out of the way. He has barely broken a sweat.

“How you doin’, Thea?” he calls out toward me above the noise of the crowd, and I see heads turn in my direction. I cross my arms over my chest and swipe one hand through my pink bangs.

“Gettin’ bored over here, Rome,” I shout as I put on a lazy smile, the crowd becoming hushed as they focus on our conversation, something that never happens in the matches. Roman grins devilishly at me, and I throw him a cocky wink. Quick as a flash, Roman charges Matthew, going low for his legs and making him tumble to the mat with a crash.

The crowd goes crazy as Matthew tries to fight Roman off of his back as he lies face-down on the mat. Roman maneuvers his body to the side of Matthew’s, the muscles on his bare arm flexing as he weaves it under Matthew’s armpit to snake his hand up behind The Mountain’s thick neck. In one deft twist, he uses the hold to turn Matthew over and press him against the mat with his body. A count is started, and the whistle is soon blown. The crowd cheers hard as Roman floats up to bound to my side. I throw my arms around his smirking, sweaty self before he can say something cocky, and he pauses before wrapping his arms around me tightly. I beam and beam as my cheek is pressed against his sweaty one, the ends of his dark hair sticking to my face from where they poke out of the headband.

“I can’t believe you won, you slippery bastard,” I say in his ear as he lifts me a few inches off the ground.

“Thanks for the faith,” he laughs. He sets me down, but doesn’t let me go just yet, hugging me with such strength, that I think I’m about to burst until he finally releases me. He takes my hand and holds it in what now is our signature gesture, this time pulling me in so our foreheads touch. The ref announces that the victory goes to The Phoenix, and Roman leads me off the mat. We get cheered for and congratulated as we brush through the throngs of kids, and we finally find peace behind the stone fireplace outside the gazebo. Sage and Mazie find us there.

“Great win, Rome,” Sage says, smiling under his paint as he claps Roman on the back from where he sits down on a chair I pulled up for him. He chuckles, and Mazie hands me a clean towel to wipe the sweat-smeared paint from Roman’s face. I thank her as Roman and Sage talk about the match. I take of the headband, the fabric damp from the sweat on his brow, and tuck it into the back pocket of my white jean shorts.

“Unfortunately, my match will be next week, Maze and I checked the brackets.”

“All that pretty paint for nothing,” Roman croons. I bend to push his sweaty hair aside from his eyes, and dab at the running paint on his brow.

“You scared the shit out of me, I thought that huge kid was going to take your head off with your lazy dodges,” I say as I continue to clean his face. He gives a soft laugh as he wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me down to sit on his lap as I work. I stiffen at first, wanting to protest, but it’s definitely a lot more comfortable on my back than leaning over.

“I know what I’m doing, darlin’,” he chuckles, one arm wrapped snugly around my back to grasp my hip on the farther side, the other resting comfortably across my lap. He laces the fingers of both hands at my hip as I tell him to close his eyes so I can wipe the paint and sweat from around them.

We all start to talk about Bennen’s quick match earlier today, and we discuss what kind of warrior Sage might get next week. I use pretty much all of the previously clean towel to get most of the paint off of Roman’s face, and Mazie helps Sage with his since he won’t be fighting tonight. We all sit and talk for a while, Roman casually keeping me on his lap even after I’m finished cleaning him up. But I’m not complaining. He thoroughly impressed me with his match tonight.

“Yo, I’m being eaten alive by the mosquitos,” I say flatly, rubbing my arms and pulling my legs up slightly in Roman’s lap. He grunts, moving one hand to rub my bare legs.

“By the thermometer that is your skin, it’s getting pretty chilly tonight, too,” he chuckles. I nod vigorously.

“What time is it, anyone know?” Sage asks. Roman and I shrug, but Mazie pulls out her phone.

“11:38, gents. And lady,” Mazie gives a cheesy grin, and Sage peers at Mazie’s phone.

“I always forget mine exists here.”

“We have a booster at our cabin, you guys are welcome to come down any time and make use of it,” she giggles. Sage looks down at Roman and I.

“You’re a peach, Maize. Well, we better head back, then,” Sage says, and we all say goodbye to Mazie. I sprint to Roman’s truck, scuttling in and slamming the doors to huddle in the middle of the seat. It takes the boys a few moments to catch up, and they start making fun of my haste.

“I’m freezing cold!” I say in my defense, grabbing one arm on each of them and huddling beneath.

“Well, duh, you’re like a stick. No meat to keep you warm,” Roman says, sliding his arm out of my grasp to shift gears on the truck. He replaces it behind my back to pull me close to him on the seat.

“Shut the fuck up!” I curse, shivering. “It’s just a cool summer night!” They laugh at me, and I hunker down against Roman’s furnace-like body. We bump along down the road toward the cabins, and I help the boys check to make sure all of the paint is off of their faces before we return. Any that we just can’t scrape off looks like dirt, anyway. Mine comes off just fine.

When we get to the cabins, all of the kids have been put to bed, and only a few adults sit around a campfire, socially drinking and chatting. We’re greeted by a pair of barking dogs as we slam the truck doors and head up to the upper cabin. A sprinkling of rain causes the adults to head in just as we reach the porch.

After taking a shower in the upstairs bathroom, Roman and Sage saying that they’d go downstairs to take theirs, I sit at the vanity in my room, blow drying my hair. Upon entering my room, I had discovered with horror that the air conditioning had been turned off because of the cool evening weather, and my window was wide open. The wooden floor of my room was like ice when I had padded across it in my bare feet. Reluctantly shutting off the blow dryer, I give a shiver once the hot air is gone.

“Why is it so damn cold...” I mutter to myself as I shuffle over to my bed, clutching my elbows. The sheets are freezing at first as well, and it’s a painful 5 minutes of huddling into the tiniest ball and waiting for my cocoon to warm up. Once I’m warmed up a bit, I switch the lamp on the bedside table off. The room plunges into darkness, and I squirm deep into my covers.

I sigh as I realize I forgot to ask Roman about the... thing he’s hiding on the back of his right shoulder. He said he’d tell me later... But from the glances I saw, it looked like some kind of birthmark. He must be self-conscious about it, or something. Now that I remembered it, my curiosity is bugging the shit out of me.

Shifting under my covers, I give a grunt as I hope to remember tomorrow, and curl up against the permeating chill of the rainy night. Wishing I had more blankets, I drift in and out of sleep miserably. I only notice that I had fallen into a deeper sleep when movement on my bed wakes me up.

“What is it?” I mumble through my drowsy haze, sitting up in the cold darkness.

“It’s Roman.”