Authors: Terry Bolryder
Jordan Vale winced at the glaring lights in front of him. Cameras, news people, commentators, and reporters from every sports news station were in attendance at the press conference. A wall of microphones and eager faces hoping to get the latest scoop so they could keep their pathetic jobs.
Jordan hated reporters.
Seated next to him on his right was Ken, his manager. Though, as managers went, Ken was much more of a businessman than an MMA guy. Anything that involved fighting, Jordan took care of by himself.
But apparently, that wasn’t enough.
Ken did most of the talking, as he was doing right now, giving a brief overview of their tours of the past few years. Jordan had gone completely undefeated, and he didn’t even bother counting the number of victories he had now.
The purpose of the press conference was to announce the future of Jordan’s career in mixed martial arts.
“So it is with great reluctance I announce a temporary hiatus for all of Jordan’s future plans in professional MMA,” said Ken diplomatically into the bouquet of microphones before him.
After a collective gasp, a loud murmur erupted in the room. Reporters instantly raised hands and began talking, trying to get their questions answered. Ken just held out his hands, shushing the crowd until they were sufficiently quiet to allow him to speak again.
“Now, before any questions, I’d like to remind you this is a
temporary
hold. Jordan has been going full speed for quite a while, and we all think it’s about time he had a vacation and some peace and quiet,” Ken added.
Nice spin
, Jordan thought. The fact was the decision had been everyone’s but his own.
“So with that being said, I’d like to open it up for questions now,” Ken finished.
Hands went sky-high again, and Ken chose someone at random to begin the barrage.
“Mr. Vale, with this hiatus being announced, what are your plans from here on out?” asked a woman in a blue jacket and skirt.
Jordan cleared his throat and started to recite his pre-prepared answers. “I’m not sure. Maybe finally get around to using that beach house? Maybe take up pottery?” Jordan choked out.
Lie. Lie. Double lie.
Ken pointed at another raised hand, and a man several rows back stood this time, holding a notepad and a pen.
“Mr. Vale, with all the victories you’ve had during your career, do you feel your team might be afraid you’re taking up too much of the spotlight?”
“No, not at all. I’m not sure what the team’s plans are, to be honest,” Jordan replied, hoping to keep things vague.
A third person was chosen from the crowd. Another man, this one with glasses.
“Mr. Vale, are the rumors true that you’re being kicked off the team and forced into retirement because of your recent behavior and the loss of sponsors?” the man asked with just the smallest hint of snideness.
There was another gasp from the crowd, this one even louder, at the accusation. An onslaught of camera flashes went off, and the sounds of shutters could be heard intermixed with murmurs and whispers amongst the attendees.
This was the kind of reporter Jordan hated most. An instigator. The kind of reporter that was always trying to stir up trouble in the hopes of making their story juicier.
Hoping to hedge the crowd’s newfound interest in this particular scandal, Ken grabbed one of the mics in front of him and responded immediately. “No, that is not the case at all. Jordan is just taking a brief break and should be returning shortly. We’ll keep you posted when his schedule opens up. No further questions.” He ended abruptly, standing from his chair and walking out.
Jordan was already out of the room before Ken had even finished his statement. He was so tired of the news game. Of spinning things so it pleased the media. Of making up crap to satiate the masses.
Ken began pacing in the small hallway connecting to the newsroom where he and Jordan were now alone. The noise from the room was growing louder as whispers turned to talking and talking turned to near yelling as people tried to talk over each other, speculating about what it all meant or calling their stations to plan out when their segment would be airing.
“Geez, it’s a friggin’ bloodbath in there,” Ken said, running his hand through his hair. He was starting to sweat a little from stress.
Jordan just propped himself up on the wall, leaning against it lazily. “Fun times, right?”
Ken snapped. “You see? This is the exact reason we’re doing this in the first place. You don’t give a damn about anyone but yourself.”
“Whoa,” Jordan replied, getting annoyed. “I don’t like this any more than you do.”
The fact of the matter was Ken was a good manager. Maybe even a great manager. But he had the tendency to keep too much inside and then explode on people, even his own friends.
More importantly, Ken was a wolf-shifter, like Jordan, and thus understood him a little better than most.
“I know you don’t. But if you’re going to come back to pro MMA, you’re going to need help.” Ken looked Jordan straight in the eye, now in coach mode.
“What the hell does that even mean,
help
?” Jordan replied, exasperated.
“It means someone to assist you in improving your image. Someone that can make the public like you better.”
“Why does that even matter? I win, don’t I?”
“Winning isn’t enough, Jordan. If nobody likes you, nobody is going to watch your fights. No viewers, no sponsors. No sponsors, no money.”
Jordan was silent. He wanted nothing more than to get out of there and go to town on a punching bag.
“Look, I’ve already got someone. She’s done great things with other fighters before. If you can prove to me you’re able to turn this around and put on a good face, then we can talk about scheduling fights for you again,” Ken said.
“And what if I’m not able to?”
“That’s for me to decide,” a third voice chimed in. Both men turned to look at the newcomer to the conversation.
“Senna. Senna Christy.” The woman reached out her hand to Jordan. He just stood there, watching.
She was a good deal shorter than him, though since he was 6’3” almost everyone was. She was wearing a black suit and had a curvy body that belonged in the bedroom. She also had a pretty, heart-shaped face with straight, shoulder-length brown hair and blue eyes.
“Is this what you call getting someone?” Jordan asked his boss dryly.
“I’m one of the best in the business,” she replied formally. “I don’t have time for games, so if that’s all this is to you, Mr. Vale, then I’ll be leaving,” she replied, beginning to turn around.
“No, wait, please,” Ken implored. “Jordan, it’s either this or you can kiss your career good-bye.”
Jordan groaned. “Fine. But don’t expect me to come out of this all starry-eyed and kissing the fans’ butts.”
“Good. In the meantime, I have interviews to get to and some major damage control to do. Call me when you get back to your place,” Ken said, leaving them and waving behind him as he trotted down the hall.
And then there were two.
For a moment, they sized each other up. Jordan peered down at the much smaller, but still feisty woman in front of him. Senna evaluated her newest client, looking unintimidated.
Senna spoke first. “So a perfect win record. No violations or law breaking. On paper, you’d look like the perfect professional.” She pulled out a folder from a leather briefcase at her side.
“Thank you. Why are you here, again?” Jordan asked.
“Because in your last fight you KO’ed the fighter with one punch, walked out of the ring, and disappeared for a month without a single statement to the press or your fans,” she said, her voice rising slightly.
“I don’t see a problem with that,” Jordan said with a shrug.
“It makes you look like an ass. You have a sterling reputation for being unlikable,
Jordan Vale
,” she said, punctuating his name. He loved the way his name sounded from this woman, even when she was angry.
“So what are we to do about this travesty, then?” Jordan asked sarcastically, pushing off the wall and starting to meander down the hall toward the exit.
Senna followed closely behind him.
“Over the next little while, I’m going to be your PR manager. I’ll be in charge of your schedule, planning any events you attend, and ensuring all public appearances you make have a positive impact on how the MMA community and your fans see you. In short, I’m here to make you look good,” she said curtly.
Jordan looked to his side and enjoyed the way her hips swayed as she walked. “Make me look good? If you say so.” He still wasn’t sold on the whole idea, but at least the person he was going to be working with was incredibly hot. “So when do we start?”
“Right now,” she replied, matter-of-fact.
“Wait, what?” Jordan asked, caught off guard.
“My things are already in your car. I assume you’re heading back to your place. I have a hotel rented nearby where you can drop me off.”
“So you really are going to follow me around
everywhere
?”
“Exactly. What’s the point of having a PR coach if you screw everything up when I’m not watching you?” she asked, as if this seemed perfectly normal.
“Believe me, some of the places I go, you won’t want to follow.”
“Try me,” Senna challenged.
“Very well, have it your way.” They were already at Jordan’s car, and he hopped inside, turning on the engine before Senna was fully inside and buckled up.
“So how long is this going to be?”
“Three weeks.”
Jordan thought it was going to be the longest three weeks ever.
T
he next day
, Senna woke up early and got ready for the day. The hotel she booked wound up being the crappiest place she’d ever slept, despite reviews online stating the contrary.
“Stupid shills,” she mumbled to herself as she got out of the rental car at the Vale family dojo where Jordan said he would be. When she came inside, she was greeted by a younger man who looked like he could be related to Jordan. Except where Jordan’s hair was a deep, rich auburn, this man’s was pitch black. And where Jordan’s eyes were a striking deep brown that almost looked red in some lights, this man’s were dark as night. But both had the same straight nose, high cheekbones, strong jaw and tall, muscled build.
“I’m Asher,” he said. “Nice to meet you. Sorry, my brother isn’t here. I’m manning the fort until he gets in. Once he does, I have to head out to get a few things done,” he replied cordially.
“Pleasure to meet you, Asher. Are there not any classes today?”
“Oh, there are, just not until the afternoon on Sundays. Morning attendance was pretty abysmal, so we moved all the classes after one.”
“Ah, I see. Mind if I wander around until he gets in?” she asked.
“Suit yourself. Let me know if you need anything,” he replied, going back to his work at the desk.
The dojo was an interesting mix of old and new. It had the feel of a much older dojo, one that had been used for decades and perhaps seen several generations of fighters. But the equipment was new and in good condition and the building was well kept.
As she pondered what it must have been like for Jordan to grow up training here, the sound of a back door closing loudly interrupted her.
“Hey, bro. You’re late,” Asher said to Jordan as he walked in, without looking up from his work.
“Sorry for breaking your heart and all that. I was out running,” Jordan replied unapologetically.
“Next time you’re running, make sure you get here faster. You have company.”
Jordan indeed looked like he’d been running. Or maybe even sprinting. His rippling muscles glistened, almost as if his body had been covered by cool morning dew. He was shirtless, and he looked even better in person than he did on TV. Perfectly defined abs came up to two huge pectorals, and his biceps and shoulders were large and cut. On one arm, a dragon snaked its way from his shoulder down to his elbow.
She groaned mentally, thinking he was the kind of guy that would run shirtless around the neighborhood. But the rest of her body responded to him instantly. Like there was a raw magnetism drawing her to him.
Keep it professional, Senna.
“Did you miss me?” Jordan asked as he grabbed a towel and hung it on his neck.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she retorted. “We have work to do.”
“Do we now?” he asked nonchalantly, walking out onto the mat and beginning to train.
“Don’t break my stuff while I’m gone,” Asher called to Jordan, grabbing keys and heading out. “It was nice meeting you,” he said with a nod to Senna before walking to the door.
“Mmmkay, pumpkin,” Jordan replied with a casual wave, mocking him. Asher gave him a short glare and then left.
“So I have a schedule planned out for you,” Senna said, focusing on business. Jordan ignored her, so she removed her shoes and walked out onto the mat in the hopes it would get his attention.
“Schedule…” Jordan muttered, trailing off, clearly in his own world centered on him and the bag he was currently pounding. He dodged, coming in for another jab combo.
It was getting hotter by the second. Senna suddenly felt the need to loosen the collar of her blouse.
“Yes,” she continued. “Tomorrow there’s a sports festival promoting local teams, clubs, and dojos in the community, and you’ll be going to it. Then later this week, there’s an MMA fighter promo event where you need to make a showing. This weekend, there’s a local tournament I want you to attend. I imagine fans of yours will be there. I also have interviews with different TV stations scheduled intermittently around those.”
“Boring,” Jordan replied with an audible yawn, then resumed his workout.
“This is what I’m being paid to do. Find ways for you to interact meaningfully with your fans and with the community so you can repair your damaged reputation.”
Jordan paused for a moment. “Honey, I’ve never even had a reputation worth caring about before. What makes you think I want one now?”
“Because you want to have a successful career.”