Page 1 of Wilde About You

one

. . .

Sadie

"The killer viral shot, that's all I want. The V-J day kiss in Times Square, the Hindenburg frying to a crisp, raising the flag on Iwo Jima. Is that too much to ask for? Not gonna get it here. Ouch!" An elbow speared me in the side. My two cameras bounced off each other and thumped against my chest. I was one of those stubborn photojournalists who still liked to use both film and digital. My 35mm had been with me since my teens, and I cherished it. I'd even named it Tommy after a boy I had a crush on. I paused to catch my breath and turned to the man. He was so glued to the action in the octagon he hadn't even noticed that he'd all but assaulted me with his damn elbow.

"You still there, Sadie? Or did they toss you in the ring?" My best friend, Gigi, was taking a little too much pleasure in my misery. "Hey, you there?"

I rubbed the tender spot with my free hand. "I'm here, unfortunately. Look, I've got to get a few shots for the magazine, or Bradford is going to fire me. I'm going to squirrel my way up to the netting and see if I can get a close-up of a grimace or agony-of-defeat kind of thing. These two have been going at it so long, the whole room reeks of the sweat of anticipation. Talk to ya later." I pushed the phone into my pocket.

I wound my way through a gauntlet of elbows, angry fist pumps and sloshing cups of beer and managed to reach the netting. I was small, and, other than my very stupid decision to wear a bright pink tank top to the assignment, mostly unnoticeable in the chaotic crowd of overzealous spectators. I was sure more than half had big lumps of cash bet on the fight. It was the two top-ranking heavyweight fighters, big rivals. I was not a follower of the sport, but Bradford sent me as a last resort. It was always a good feeling when your boss told you everyone else was busy. It was like being the last player picked for the dodgeball team.

The smell of sweat and blood made me nauseous as I moved closer to the netting. The fighters were locked in what I would creatively describe as a rage-filled embrace. So much of the sport was static holds it was hard to even get a decent action shot. I'd noticed on the poster out front of the fight venue that the fighter with short dark hair and a massive tiger tattoo on his back was named J.J. Gregor, and the bald one with enough tattoos to make it look as if he was wearing a sweater was named Buck Finch. At the moment, it seemed Gregor had the upper hand but then I didn't know shit about the sport.

A cage fight didn't warrant using my precious Tommy camera, so I grabbed the digital, pointed it toward the center of the ring and waited for something, anything, to happen. Buck's leg wobbled, and he lost his footing. Gregor took advantage and slammed him to the mat. I managed to catch the look of despair on Buck's face just before I was sprayed with warm moisture. I reached up and swiped my hand across my forehead and gagged when I saw the viscous blood on my fingers.

A big hand smacked down hard on my shoulder. I gasped and dropped the camera. The leather strap tugged on the back of my neck. "What the fuck!" I hissed and turned back to face a man with deep set eyes and bushy eyebrows that seemed to have a life of their own as they crouched into a glower.

"You can't be up here," he growled. "Where's your press pass?"

I moved my shoulder out from his painful grasp. "Uh, I don't have one on me. I'm with Sports World. Tim Bradford, the editor, sent me. I should be on your list. Sadie Rivers."

"Don't know what list you're talking about, Miss, and I don't know anything about a Sports World photographer having a pass to be here. Out you go."

"Wait, what? I'm out? But I need to finish my assignment."

My pleas bounced off his barrel chest. "This way or I'll carry you out."

"You don't have to carry me. I have legs." We made our way back through the rambunctious crowd. It seemed that last slam to the mat was the end for Buck, and the judges had named the winner. One good shot. That was all I had. I was going to get fired for sure. Maybe that was for the best. Bradford obviously lied about the list, and now I was being ejected from the fight with little to show for it except a bruise on my side.

"Hey, Oscar, we need you over here," someone yelled. It seemed the big bully escorting me out was named Oscar. He pointed his thick finger ahead. "Exit is right there, and don't let me catch your skinny butt in here again."

"It's not all that skinny," I protested.

Oscar hurried off in the direction he was called. I took a few steps toward the exit and spotted the door that said "staff only." I'd read many books on photography, and according to the pros, you never landed the "killer shot" unless you took some risks. Sneaking into the staff corridor wasn't exactly standing in the middle of Vietnam ducking gunfire, but maybe luck would finally catch up to me tonight. It certainly hadn't followed me into the venue. And that reminded me, I had a call to make.

I glanced around. The fight had just ended, and there was too much ruckus for anyone to notice a tiny pink pill bug rolling through the staff doors. I stepped into a long, dimly lit corridor that smelled only slightly fresher than the dank air on the other side of the doors. Several of the overhead lights were flickering, giving my entire escapade a touch of horror-movie ambience. I hurried down a hallway and turned left down a second corridor. I pushed through a slightly open door and found myself in a locker room. There were two padded tables like the kind you were forced to sit on in a doctor's office. Metal lockers spanned two walls, and the mildew smell that permeated the whole room assured me a line of tile showers was around the corner. One of the heads was even dripping a steady beat on the tile floor. Considering how worshipped and exalted the two fighters were, it was a pretty shabby locker room.

The roaring crowd on the other side of the wall caused the lockers to vibrate. It let me know all the action was still out in the fight auditorium. I wasn't going to get many photos tonight, that was for damn sure. But it was my boss's fault.

I dialed Bradford, and surprisingly, he picked up. I'd been ready to leave a long, ranting diatribe about the predicament he put me in but upon hearing his voice, most of it went out of my head. And it was going to be a fabulous rant, too.

"Hey, Sadie, I'm watching the fight at a friend's." The loud voices, music and distinct crunching of chips assured me that was the case. "I hope you got some good shots."

"Do you mean the shots of two massive, muscle-bound, tattooed men in constant bear hugs? Yeah, there are some real action shots coming your way. And by the way, there was no list. I've been escorted out of the venue."

I sensed he'd snuck into a quieter room because there was less background noise. "They kicked you out?"

"Turns out you need a pass to take photos of the fight, a pass I don't have."

"Uh, yeah, about that," Bradford started sheepishly. "I meant to⁠—"

"Shush, someone's coming," I whispered into the phone.

"Huh? Thought you were kicked out."

"Yep, I was … technically. Bye." I frantically searched around and found a rolling cart of towels parked near the door. I ducked behind it. Sometimes being small had its advantages. The footsteps in the hallway grew louder. I held my breath and closed my eyes as if that would make me disappear. My heart sped up when the door handle clicked.