“I’m doing okay,” I said, still giving my best smile. “I’m looking forward to tomorrow’s weigh-in, though. It’s going to be my first.”
“Well, enjoy it, it’s a lot less stressful than the fight cards full of the little guys,” he replied. He looked around the party, pointing out the one fight that was at a lighter weight, two guys who were fighting at one hundred and eighty-five pounds for the number one contendership. “They look and act like rabid zombies during these events, they’re so drained from cutting weight. Half of us are big boys, we don’t have to cut weight at all. All I need to do is eat clean and I drop below the two seventy weight limit.”
I nodded in understanding on both of his points. The man was a giant, easily six foot six, not an ounce of fat on his body. On the other hand, like any model who had to do photo shoots in swimwear and lingerie, I knew the temporary advantages of wringing out some water from under my skin right before going in front of the camera. I guessed the same idea applied to the fighters who were mostly worried about making a weight limit. “So how’s your weight looking?”
“I did well this camp,” he replied casually, taking a drink from his flute of what looked like champagne. “This morning I was an easy two sixty, so I’ll be able to relax tonight and make weight just fine. It’s actually easier on my body than when I was in college and playing football. Then we had to try and pack on weight as well as stay high-impact athletes.”
“Never had that problem,” I replied, chuckling. “My father was always worried about me keeping weight on. Just the way my metabolism was back in my childhood years, I guess.”
“And now?” the fighter asked, curious. “What does he think of your modeling?”
I shook my head sadly. “My father died years ago. I hadn’t seen him in years, so I doubt he ever got a chance to see me do any modeling at all.”
The man looked apologetic, so I smiled despite the emotional pain. I was there to make the party more enjoyable, not rain on someone’s day. “You didn’t know when you asked, so don’t feel bad. Good luck with your fight.”
“Thanks,” he said, and I drifted off, keeping to the rule the UFC executives told us, which was to not monopolize our time with any one fighter. We were eye candy, and if we spent all of our time with one person, that could lead to not only a poor event, but rumors on Twitter that the UFC didn’t want to have. For the rest of the party, I tried my best to enjoy myself, chatting with the fighters who said something or waving, posing for photos, and even getting in on the planned “spontaneous” water fight, which ended with the girls throwing the president of the UFC into the pool.
The party was just starting to break up when I saw my boyfriend, Sydney, on the fringes of the pool area near the drink table. He had finagled a deal with the UFC to get a press pass for the event, ostensibly as a photographer. He had a reputation among the glamour industry, especially for his sexy shoots. While I didn’t approve, he’d even done some shoots for Playboy and Penthouse, earning a reputation for being able to walk that fine line between sexy and slutty that aroused readers and increased sales. How that translated over to being able to photograph two men beat the hell out of each other inside a fenced octagon I didn’t know, but Sydney loved the UFC and he had the ability to talk people into almost anything. I knew from personal experience.
I resisted the urge to wave to Syd, knowing I couldn’t be seen with my boyfriend as I worked. As I looked closer, I felt my heart break. He was standing with some woman, a pretty half-Chinese, half-Brazilian girl who I thought was there as one of the fighter’s girlfriends or sisters or something. They were sipping drinks and chatting when she started laughing and giving him the look. I’m pretty innocent, but I could read the signs in her face. What was even worse was how Sydney nodded and leaned in, whispering in her ear in such a way that I knew his lips were doing more than just forming words. The woman pushed her body up against him and nodded. They walked off, his arm resting far too low on her waist for my comfort, heading inside the mansion that the UFC had rented for the party.