Peering at me with a scalpel-like perception that has me fighting not to gather up my shit and break the door down trying to get out. I’m used to MMA fans recognizing me, ogling me, mentally weighing me. In the gym, in the ring, during an interview, and now, from a tattoo chair—they don’t bother me. I’ve become accustomed to it. But sitting here, one-on-one in a small apartment with only feet of space between us, I feel exposed in a way standing in an Octagon with just a pair of shorts on and cameras and thousands of eyes focused on me never has.
