by Emilia Finn
“They’re still coming?” My heart races ahead of me. “The showcase? It’s still on?”
She points a finger. Closes one eye. And makes the clicking sound with her tongue. “Bullseye. She told me she was out. I told them she’d be there.”
“But she…” I look to the ceiling. Breathe through the panic bubbling in my chest. “She’s been training me, Sophia! If she had this life-changing dance this weekend, do you think maybe she should have been practicing for that, rather than lifting with me? Dammit, Solomon. She won’t do it, because she won’t feel ready.”
“First of all, whiny boy, she has been practicing. She’s in my studio every single day.”
“For an hour!” I shoot back. “She’s working on my game seven hours a day, giving herself one hour. How is that fair? Or enough?”
“It’s enough. You know it is. She’s got magic.” Soph presses a hand to her stomach. Presses, and stares into my eyes. “Deep in here, she’s got the magic that so few do. She’ll be a little clunky maybe, and she’ll be nervous, since she hasn’t had time to prepare her head, but she’ll still be the best they’ve ever seen. Because it’s off the cuff, she’ll make it even better. Adrenaline will turn it from a technical dance to something so much more.” She stops, and stares into my eyes. “You have to believe in her the way she believes in you.”
“Shit.” I blow out a breath. Empty my lungs. Stare at the floor. “Fuck, Soph. When is it?”
“Tomorrow night. I wanted to keep it from her right up until it was time to step on stage, ya know, keep her nerves at bay, and all that. But she can’t fight today if she wants to dance tomorrow. Broken legs and leotards don’t really match.”
“And…” Don’t say it. Don’t fucking say it. “And my fight?” I look to Eric. “I need her.”
Soph closes the space between us and lays her hand, open-palmed, over my heart. “That’s something you’re going to have to decide for yourself. Do you really, truly need her? Or do you depend on her like a security blanket? What would happen if she wasn’t there to hold your hand? And if you lose, are you gonna die? Really?”
“It feels like it,” I murmur. “It feels like…” I exhale. “I need her.”
“More than you need her to realize her dreams?”
“Soph…”
“She’s been working with you on your dreams for almost a decade. Selflessly, tirelessly, and by ignoring her own. Even now, she ain’t telling you this. I am. So you need to stand on your own two feet, fight your fights, and be okay with her not being right there at the cage. You’ll still have your friends there, you’ll have Cap, Spence, your mom. You’ll have everyone. And Lucy will go to her showcase. She’ll have just me, but that’s okay. Because she’s strong enough.” She slides her hand up and briefly cups my neck. “If she can do it with just one support person, I’m certain you can do it with hundreds.”
“But the hundreds don’t matter.” I look to Eric. To Spence. “I’m sorry. But I don’t see them. I see her. She’s who I need when I’m stepping forward.”
“Whatever, kid.” Soph steps back. “This is your rodeo. I’m just standing on the side, watching you both reach for your dreams. But she’s got you sitting on her shoulders. You don’t mean to shove her down, but she’s so fucking selfless, she hardly even notices that she can’t reach as high because of your weight.”
“That’s enough.” Eric grabs her shoulder and spins her around. “That’s a pretty fucking epic way to screw with his head just hours out from a fight.”
Her lips quirk into a smile, but the action holds no pleasure. “You know me, Cap. I’m the one who’ll tell the truth, even if it makes folks uncomfortable.”
She tosses the last of her protein bar into her mouth, pockets the wrapper, and comes out with her own set of keys. “I’m going to Stacked Deck now, and I’m gonna find a way to stop her fight. It’ll be delicate, because I don’t wanna tell her why I’m stopping her, since we all know she’ll freak; about being ready, about staying for Mac.” She looks to me. “If you love her, if you care about her happiness, you’ll let me take care of this my way. Don’t tell her, don’t tip her off. Just stand back and let me do my thing.” She walks away without waiting for my confirmation.
“Soph, wait!”
“Shit, fuck, mothershit, shit, shit, shit.”
Soph and I pull up at the building that was once named Club 188. It was a dance club that the Kincaids owned and ran for two decades, but in her planning to bring Stacked Deck to fruition last year, Smalls needed a venue. Club 188 became that place. And because this had been the only competition for Rhino’s, the crowds had to jump ship. Hence, the club Lucy danced in plugging their place with a bit of cash and beautifying things up.
Now we stand in the parking lot at eleven in the morning. I triple-check my watch, just to make sure I’m seeing things right, then I look to Soph. “They’ve started.”
“They started early!” She slams her car door and races across the gravel lot. Through fighters, through spectators, we head toward the wall of noise and stop as soon as we get a clear view. “Aw, fuck.”
I swear, my heart drops out of my asshole when I recognize the mahogany hair. The braid. The sports bra.
I race through the fully packed club, shove people aside when they won’t move, and when I hit the cage, I grab Smalls and tear her around to face me. “You started early!”
Smiling, she has to shout to be heard over the cheering crowd. “Everyone but you had checked in. I knew you were coming, and I knew you weren’t on for a while, so we kicked it off. We have more than four hundred fighters, Mac. We gotta move them through.”
“My fucking girlfriend is fighting, and you didn’t think to wait for me?”
She shrugs and turns back when Lucy slams an axe kick down over her opponent’s thigh. “I couldn’t stop it. I’m sorry. We can’t start early, only to slow it all again because you weren’t here. I’m here. Ben’s here. She had people to walk her out.”
“But she’s not supposed to fight!”
Frowning, Smalls’ eyes whip back to me. “What?”
Soph slams her foot into the back of my knee and almost collapses my legs out beneath me. She smiles when Smalls’ gaze flips to her, then she waves a hand toward the octagon. “She’s doing good?”
“Uh huh. She’s a beast. She’s got it.”
She also has red, puffy eyes. Crying eyes.
I cast a glance around the room. “Where’s Jimmy?”
Smalls’ smile falters. Flattens. She lifts her chin in the direction directly across from us, indicates the watchful father who tries to maintain his scowl. Lucy is so skilled, such a good fucking fighter, that she has time to look for him between combos. She can do her thing, hurt her opponent, then take a second to look around for him.
And every time she does, he looks down at his hands.
Every time she catches him so near, but not watching, her chest collapses just a little more.
“He’s going to be the reason she loses. Fuckin’ asshole.” I push away from Soph, away from Smalls, away from the cage. I don’t watch my girl go to war, because she’s got it, and I need to take care of this.
She needs her dad more than she needs a title, so I push through the crowd, race past Aiden and Tina, then Bobby and Kit. I pass Bry, as he stands by the cage, shoves a protein bar into his mouth, and shouts obscenities at his cousin. And because I’m so fast, and Jimmy is so stubborn, he doesn’t see me coming until I’m in his face, slamming him back with both hands on his chest.
“You stubborn, selfish fucking mule! You stand right here, watch your daughter fight, but every time she looks for you, you drop your gaze and pretend she ain’t shit?”
“Watch yourself, you little prick.” He shoves me back with a snarl, and draws the attention of half the people in the club. Lucy’s fight continues, but the crowd surrounding us turn. “You need to get the fuck out of my face. You need to get out of my life.”
“What is your fuck
in’ problem? So what if she danced in a club?”
“Wait up.”
Kane Bishop, Jay Bishop, and Bobby Kincaid arrive like the proverbial watchdogs. Large chests, thick arms, mean scowls, Jay grabs me, and Bobby grabs Jimmy.
“We’re absolutely not doing this in here.” Jay shoves me away from our little crowd, through the watching masses, and straight toward the doors at the back of the club.
I spin in his arms, refusing to be ejected all alone, but then Bobby does the same for Jimmy. Pushes him forward, brings him in the same direction.
The cheers for Lucy’s fight continue to roar as she slams her opponent to the canvas. The octagon shakes, and the fact I’m missing it because of Jimmy pisses me off so much that I see red.
As soon as Jay shoves me out the door, I turn back and surge straight toward the man I once respected.
“You disgust me!” I slam my hands to his chest as soon as Bobby releases him and the doors close. “You fuckin’ disgust me, coach. How can you stand in there, watch her fight, but every time she looks to you for a little love, you look away and treat her like scum? How dare you treat her like she’s disposable?”
“She’s not disposable!” he shouts back. “She’s my child. She’s my baby. And she treated herself like she was cheap and disposable.”
“Because she danced at a club? Wake up, Jimmy! She’s wearing exactly the same now as she did in that club. Less, actually! In the club, she wore a tank. Here, today–” I point toward the door, “she wears no tank. But because she’s fighting, it’s okay? Because it’s part of your plan, it’s fine?”
“Step the fuck down,” he snarls in my face. “You do not get to square up to me, you little prick. You forget your place around here.”
“I’m not a kid anymore.” Our chests clash when I surge forward and he doesn’t back away. “I am not fourteen anymore. I’m not the punk kid who thought you were the coolest fucking dude on the planet. You used to be my hero, but then you threw your own daughter aside like you’d planned to do it all along. Now I’m disgusted.”
“I didn’t toss her!” he shouts. “She’s my baby, Blair. She’s my fucking child. I held her in my hands.” He places them between us, cups them. And does his damned best to hide the way they shake. “I held her when she was born. Held her in my fucking hands, comforted her when they kept sticking her with needles. Her mom was bleeding to death in the birthing suite, but I had to follow the baby, take care of the baby.” He slams his fists to my chest, right over my heart, and shoves. “I held her until her mom was well enough to come to us. I did not put her down once. Those nurses, they called me ‘Daddy,’ but they chastised. ‘You can put her down, Daddy. Let her sleep in her crib.’ I was her daddy from the second she was born, and it didn’t matter to me whose blood was in her veins. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t part of the plan. None of it fucking mattered, because she was mine. And I swore, I swore, that I would never let her fall.”
“You swore, but now you’re the one sticking his foot out, tripping her.”
“No!” he cracks. “I trusted her to you. And you watched her degrade herself. That was my mistake. That’s where she fell.”
“She danced! On a stage. So fucking what? She loves to dance! And if you’d just ask her, you’d know that.”
“She danced in her underwear, and collected cash when she was done.”
I snatch the phone from my pocket, bring up my photo album, and scroll, scroll, scroll. I find her celebratory picture from last year, then I shove it in his face. “Octagon. Bra. Money. She was paid to put that show on, too. So why is one okay, and the other worth killing your relationship over?”
“Because…” His face contorts with rage. “Because! The day she thought she had to dance for money instead of asking for help is the day she fell. She didn’t come to me, she didn’t ask.”
“She didn’t come to me either! She didn’t ask for help. Because that’s who she is, isn’t it? You raised her to be strong and independent. That’s literally on you. You raised a strong woman, but the second she shows that strength, the second she takes care of her own business, you get mad. Are you really raising strength, Jimmy? Is that what you want? Or do you want her to be that tiny baby in the NICU that you don’t have to put down? Does your happiness rely on her depending on you? Would you rather she was a sniveling fuckup, so you get to ride in and save the day? What, Jim? What would make you happier?”
“I want her to be safe.” His words crack. Break. “She could have gotten hurt dancing. She was out in the middle of the night, walking around a shitty club.”
“That’s why I followed her every step. I made sure she was safe. I was doing the very thing you trusted me to do. I let her keep her independence, her autonomy, and in the darkness, I kept watch and made sure she was safe.”
“You should have grabbed her off that stage and brought her home!”
“So you could have this same argument, but sooner? If I’d stepped in, she’d still be facing your wrath, and she’d have to live with the fact I think I can control her. There is no way in hell I’m going to ruin our friendship with implied distrust when I do trust her. It might make you feel better in the short-term, but I’m here for life. I’m in her life, I love her, I intend to fucking keep her,” I grit out. “And I’m not willing to give that up just to earn your approval. If you want a controlling boyfriend for your daughter, then you’re wrong, and a fuckin’ asshole. But if you want someone who will always trust her, will always keep her safe, and will always support her, then here I am. I can live without your approval. I never thought that was possible, but you’ve lost my respect this week.” I shrug. “I honestly don’t care if you like me. I care about what she thinks. I care about what she wants. And you…” I shake my head. “You care about controlling her to soothe your male pride. Get the fuck outta here with that bullshit.”
I turn away, ignore our watchful audience, and reach for the door handle. “She’s inside right now, fighting, and she’s doing it with a broken heart. She’s fighting with puffy eyes, because you’ve made her cry for a week straight. I’m going in there to show her what unconditional love looks like. And you…” I open the door, try to ignore the loud cheers that roar into the alleyway we stand in. “You’re throwing away one of the most important people in your life.”
I step through the doorway with the intention to sweep her up out of that octagon and bubblewrap her as discreetly as possible from now until tomorrow night. But then Jimmy’s broken voice penetrates the noise from inside.
“I don’t know how to fix it,” he murmurs.
I turn back as he swallows.
“I hurt her. She hurt me. She doesn’t come home anymore. She hasn’t slept in my house for three nights, and that’s on me. I feel like it’s already broken.”
“Look again.” I point in the direction of the octagon. “She’s been with me, safe and sound, but all along, she’s cried for you. You’re not broken, Kincaid, you’re just proud. And if you’d just look at her, you’d see that you only have to open your arms, hug her, and it would all be fixed.” I pause, and shake my head. “Fuckin’ pride, man. Gets us every time.”
I turn back to the door and head though the crowd. I school my features, replace my anger with a fake smile, and I wait. I stand in clear view and wait for her to look between combos.
Legs, legs, legs, she sweeps in with a hook to the ribs, and while her opponent stumbles back, her eyes sweep the crowd. She’s searching for her dad, but she finds me. And I smile. I smile so big that my cheeks hurt.
It takes her a moment, a solitary moment as the clock on her fight winds down to twenty seconds remaining. She and her competition are both standing, so if she doesn’t end it now, they’re both out.
Finally, she accepts my smile, stops searching for her daddy, and smiles back. It’s as forced and fake as mine, but she’s trying.
Then she’s slammed against the canvas when her opponent gets a running start and tackles her in he
r distraction.
“Aw, shit.” I race to the cage, stop beside Ben and Smalls, and watch as the timer counts down.
Fifteen. Fourteen.
The girls grapple for dominance, roll together in an effort to get mount.
“Sprawl!” Smalls shouts. “Bean, put your hips down!”
Fists rain down between them both. Four arms, four fists. Lucy throws a knee in, and with that distraction, she dives onto her opponent’s back and wraps a strong arm around her throat.
My eyes fling to the clock. Ten, nine, eight.
With her hooks in, her feet wrapped around the other chick’s thighs, what might have started as a plan to get the tap from a choke now turns to a brutal flurry of head strikes, since there’s just not enough time for the tap.
Heavy fists, heavier than anything I’ve ever seen her give before, slam onto the side of her opponent’s face. Her cheek, her temple, around to her nose and lips.
Five, four.
Instinctively knowing the clock is running down, Lucy switches from fists to elbows. She half slips around the other woman’s body, works her way into a bastardized version of a side mount, and at the two-second mark, slams her elbow down onto the woman’s jaw, and dives away when she collapses and goes slack.
The buzzer sounds, and the referee jumps between them, despite the fact Lucy has already stopped.
Mitch, one of our EMTs on duty for tonight, races up to the girl while, bloodied and puffy-eyed, Lucy backs halfway across the octagon and rests on her knees, facing the crowd. Toward me, Ben, and Smalls.
Her hands, bloodied and bruised, rest on her thighs, her head is bowed, and her eyes remain on the canvas while Mitch works the smelling salts, and flings himself out of the way when the other chick wakes and almost flattens him. She swings an instinctual fist out in defense, only for her brain to catch up and send her sprawling to her back.
“You got it,” I call out.
Lucy’s a mere three feet from me, but the crowd is loud.