Barbells & Suits

Simple beginnings do not guarantee simple ends…

The clang of metal echoed through the gym as Paige slammed another plate onto the bar, locking the weight in place with a pair of bright orange and yellow tie-dye clamps. 

Her candy-red ponytail bobbed as she moved. Sweat collected along her brow and dripped down the side of her neck, leaving her bronzed skin glistening under the commercial lighting. 

Only a few other regulars were around at this hour. The early hours were best. She could train without fighting other members for machines or, worst of all, doing her program out of order. No one was hovering, waiting for her squat rack. 

Paige exhaled slowly, lining herself up beneath the bar and gripping the textured steel with both hands. She settled the weight against her shoulders and unracked the bar. 

Stepping back, she took one last deep breath before sinking down into a deep squat. The weight pressing into her was a familiar, welcome burden. Then she drove through her legs, the force pushing the weight back up with a faint grunt. She repeated seven more repetitions before nearly failing the last and reracking. 

This place was her sanctuary, her workshop. The gym was where she forged her body into something that could endure anything.

Paige thrived in structure and reveled in routine. Being a professional fighter allowed her to train and build her physique, which fed her desire for control. 

“You're always here so early,” came Thomas's voice, cutting through the steady rhythm of her workout.

She glanced back over at him, still holding the bar despite it being racked, and gave a nod to the tall man in a pale gray suit.

Her manager leaned against a steel beam that had a fire extinguisher hanging from the other side of it. He looked out of place amongst the racks, weights and punching bags, but the expression on his face was familiar and welcome, a mix of amusement and mild exasperation.

She released the bar and glanced down at her fitness watch, checking her heart rate and the time simultaneously.

“Got to stay sharp,” she half yelled, realizing only after the fact that her headphones were still blaring music, pulling them down around her neck.

Then she bent down, grabbed her towel and wiped the sweat beading down the sides of her face and chest.

“What's got you up and out the door at dawn? Thought you'd be at home nursing a hangover from schmoozing sponsors last night, Thomas,” she said, wiggling both brows in the mirror at him.

Thomas just pushed off of the post, shaking his head. Holding his nose up, he slipped into a well-to-do tone. “I'll have you know I'm a professional,” he said, sauntering forward, holding up his coffee as if it were some sort of staff. “No hangover, just business. Speaking of which, we need to talk about tonight.”

Paige tossed the rag back to her well-seasoned gym bag, as curiosity piqued while she began reracking the plates.

“Yeah, it's a meet and greet. Pretty straightforward, right? Smile, sign some autographs, shirts, and do some selfies. What's the catch? Seems like the standard protocol.”

“No catch,” Thomas said, though his tone suggested there clearly was.

“Then what is it?" she said, tossing her bag on the plyo block, rummaging through it.

 Thomas took another sip of his coffee, gaze flickering to her hands as she began to wrap them for some bag work. 

“They’re expecting a large crowd. Lots of eyes. Keep your energy up, charm them a little, sell the brand.”

Paige snorted. “Right, because I'm the poster child for charm.”

Thomas chuckled. “You got more charm than you think, Red. Just don't scare off the newbies.”

“No biting. Got it,” she said sarcastically, causing him to roll  his eyes as he paced behind the rack.

Paige just mimicked him, rolling her eyes right back at him, but couldn't help the faint smirk that tugged at her freckled lips.

“So you came all the way down here to tell me there’s something you're worried about but don't have anything solid to go on?" she said, starting on the next hand.

"Kinda. Rumor mills with nothing substantial, unfortunately,” he said with a disappointed sigh. 

Annoying as he could be with false alarms, Thomas had been in her corner for years. Half manager, half big brother, and the occasional overbearing mother hen.

Thomas hesitated again, and she finally paused after a few practice swings, dropping her shoulders and looking at him.

“Spit it out, dude.”

“Just keep your eyes open tonight. Promise me, okay?” His tone dropped, losing its natural smooth flow. “People are on edge. New faces asking the wrong kind of questions lately. Probably nothing, but I just want you to be ready.”

“Trouble? Another private investor trying to take a street fighter crew pro or something?” she said, shifting her weight onto one leg.

“I don't know yet,” he said, running a hand through his platinum-blonde thinning hair. “But you're smart. You'll notice things before I do. You always tend to.”

“Fine, yeah,” she said with a short laugh. “I'll keep an eye out, Thomas, but respectfully, last time you got one of your feelings it was heartburn. If this is another one of your dramatic hunches, you're buying me breakfast tomorrow.”

“Deal,” he said, though the tension in his shoulders lingered. Checking his watch, he straightened. “All right, I'll let you get back to it. I've got others to check on. Don't burn yourself out. You got to be that firecracker by this afternoon.”

“No promises,” she said, sticking her tongue out at him.

As he started to walk out, he just laughed and gave a half-hearted wave with his free hand.

His gray suit disappeared heading toward the front.

Paige got back to work. Picking up her gym bag, she moved over to one of the hanging speed bags and began throwing timed punches, the chain rattling overhead in time with each swing of the bag.

Thomas disappeared through the front doors, already digging out his phone as he headed back to his car. 

He never noticed the man across the street, motionless in the shadows just outside the morning light. 

A cruel sneer rippled on his lips as he watched Thomas. 

Maybe Paige would have skipped the event if she'd known. 

—

That evening, the event was in full swing. 

The venue was a worn-in old city bar with two stories and more personality than solid structure.

The place was local in every sense of the word. It had community heart, and brick walls wrapped in bold urban murals painted by street artists. The whole neighborhood knew it, cherished it, and protected it.

Cracks ran deep in old asphalt that lay like a broken map in the parking lot. Small weeds thrived, growing up through any open crack, swaying in the night air like they were dancing to the bass inside. The thrum of music within felt like a pulse of life in the busy city block.

Best of all for Paige, it wasn't too far from where she lived. That was a real benefit for her hooptie of a car, named after a diva, which was actually able to make the journey without a cooling-off pit stop or a brake pedal getting stuck. 

Inside, the bar was buzzing with activity, the kind that only came from a successful day for a small venue. The event had been going strong since early afternoon. The deep-green metal door was propped open with a solid wooden block cut at an angle. Both were dinged and scuffed like so many of the other things in the place. The odor of stale beer and tanning spray with hints of too much perfume permeated the space.

Meanwhile, groups congregated at tables ordering themed cocktails or pitchers of beer. Appetizers were being slung out of the kitchen at a steady pace. Fans enjoyed themselves, exchanging excited banter about their favorite feuding fighters. 

Paige stood in the center of it all, an undeniable presence even in the crowd. She wasn't one of the Panda Twins or a headliner. Not yet. Her fame lived in the borderlands of the circuit, big enough to draw a crowd, small enough to still carry her own gym bag.

This was where performers like Paige earned their keep. Her merch didn't sell in kiosks, but it flew off folding tables. Fans loved wearing freshly signed t-shirts while posing with their feral fighting favorite, their passion and admiration palpable.

Once they entered, people were funneled upstairs and strongly encouraged to purchase flair and merchandise. Only then could they come down and meet their favored fighters.

A row of branded backdrops lined up with folding tables covered in black fabric tablecloths. Paige sat among the other circuit fighters, greeting fans from a line of folding chairs. 

Next in her line, a woman approached, dressed in a nice silken layered black dress that gave a gothic-chic Victorian vibe. Her striking blue eyes, highlighted by a smoky black lid, were glued on Paige.

Paige stood, leaned forward, and extended a hand. As they exchanged greetings, the black-and-green glitter on the woman’s nails caught her attention. 

Paige’s own aesthetic was a contrast of vivid color as she skirted around the table in a playful waddle. The fighter was a flash of cherry-bomb red hair pulled up into ratted buns, a shredded merch shirt cut and tied to fit her with cutoff jean shorts that stopped halfway down her upper thigh in frayed, worn edges. Signature rocket-red sneakers and bold makeup finished the signature look.

“Dang, you are stunning. I love your vibe,” Paige said, giving the gothic fan a once up and down, adding a small golf clap as the woman twirled and blushed.

The pair spent the next several minutes conversing and taking selfies, though from the outside perspective, it looked like Paige was the fan meeting her idol, not the other way around.

Lines had been long all day, and things were finally wrapping up. The music switched as a local DJ took over, shifting from the thumping bassline arena music to a classic about shaking off hate and flipping the energy in the room.

The staff moved quickly behind the bar, slinging out last-minute orders as the celebration ramped up with the weekend coming to a close. The bar was a mix of energy as people decided between staying and going.

It was getting late, and Paige, as always, had training in the morning. Everyone that knew her knew she wasn't a night owl. While others on the circuit lingered, reveling in their beer and wine, she stuck with water to the event's end.

A few of the other fighters were already making their big grand exit in sleek black self-driving SUVs, perks of LA gigs as they headed out to afterparties. They loved the dramatic goodbye moment, waving at fans, soaking in the flashes of camera phones.

Though not all were as wrapped up in the excitement of the day's festivities.

In the corner of the first floor, it was darker than usual and much quieter. The aged wooden boards creaked from an occupied stool positioned just under a speaker that no longer worked. A bourbon sat on a faded laminate round tabletop with one of the event napkins tucked beneath it, untouched.

His piercing gaze tracked Paige from afar, sharp features partially hidden beneath the shadow of his short-brimmed fedora, bowed and buttoned with a bright red feather arranged with several speckled copper pheasant feathers.

Something inexplicably cold and ruthless clung to him as he watched Paige.

Paige leapt down off the stage with a powerful thump before nonchalantly checking her watch. Her fiery red hair took on a neon hue under the bright stage lights as she helped the staff break down her section. She gave up on helping after a backdrop flopped on top of her instead of folding up neatly into the rectangular tube. She had to be rescued.

Thomas had insisted she had just been pulling on it wrong. She, however, loudly asserted that the item had targeted her unjustly.

Slinging her duffel bag up over her shoulder, she fist-bumped her manager, Thomas, and bid him a good night, letting him know that he owed her that breakfast and she expected to see him at the gym at 5:30 sharp.

He begrudgingly agreed, and they parted ways as he went off to micromanage some other part of the event's wrap-up.

High-fiving a few more fans, she photobombed a selfie and disappeared out the back, pulling up the hood of her red jacket with ‘Paige’ bedazzled on the back.

Some athletes were at the front door with their entourages, trying hard for that A-lister vibe. Most enjoyed the attention. They craved the scene and the flashing cameras, savoring the spotlight, feeling like they had made it already.

The influencer plague of her industry, as she called it.

Paige did not. This was all simply a side effect of the job when required.

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