by Emilia Finn
“Luce! You got it.”
Slowly, hesitantly, she lifts her gaze and meets mine. Any other fight, any other day or year or tournament, her smile would be blinding. Even a fight with such a close call, she’d be smiling and riding her wave of adrenaline. But today, a lone tear slides along her cheek and slashes at my heart.
“She’s so sad,” Smalls murmurs.
“I’m gonna make it better.” I pull Smalls in when she rests against me. “I promise I’m gonna make it better.”
We wait a minute for the fallen opponent to collect her senses. For Mitch to make sure she’s going to be okay. And then for the referee to call Lucy back to her feet.
Her face contorts as she moves. Grimace. Pain. Even a groan as she straightens her legs, and walks to the center of the octagon to take her opponent’s hand.
I don’t miss her limp. Her shuddering chest. She’s already injured.
The referee lifts her hand in victory, announces the win, and advances her into the next round. But all I see are the sad eyes that search for Jimmy. Her limp as she moves toward the octagon gate when instructed, and then her shuddering breath when she tries to hold her grief in and pretend she’s not devastated.
I rush around and meet her at the gate, pull her into my arms before Smalls can, and hold on for a minute, despite the shoving crowd. Despite the new fighters trying to move past us. And despite Soph’s scanning gaze.
“You got the win. I’m proud of you.”
“Worst fight of my life,” she chokes. Her arms wrap around my neck, but when the cameras make their way over to us, she buries her face against my chest. “Nearly lost, and had to hurt her to get the win.” She shakes her head. “I didn’t like that. It doesn’t feel good to hurt people.”
“Come on.” I reach up to remove her hands from around my neck, but I don’t release them. I hold her close, and move people out of our way so we can head upstairs toward the office.
My first inclination is to take her out the back, but Jimmy’s there, and I can’t trust myself not to wring his fucking neck for doing this to her. For hurting her so much because of something that doesn’t mean a damn thing.
I lead her up the metal steps, past fighters, around people hyped on adrenaline and bouncing on their toes as they prepare to step up. We even pass Iowa, who gives me a gentle smile and an inclined chin as we pass.
He and I aren’t enemies until Sunday. He and I will never be enemies ever, except for the three minutes during a round.
I approach the office door at the top of the hall, and push it open to reveal a small handful of fighters milling around in the silence. “Can we get a minute in here, guys?”
“No.” Lucy waves them back when they start to move. “It’s fine. Don’t leave. I just…” Sighing, her limp becomes more pronounced as soon as the door closes. “Fuck, that sucked.”
“You’ve got blood on you.” I lead her to the desk, reach into the drawer, and take out a rolled towel. Below that sits a packet of wet wipes.
Gently nudging her to sit on the desk, I plop into the chair and tear the packet open. “Are you bleeding, or is this all hers?”
Her eyes are facing toward me, but when I glance up, I notice that she doesn’t really see me.
“Lucy?” I take her hand and start wiping the blood from her knuckles. “Hey. Are you injured?”
She shakes her head. A lie, since I can see her limp just as clearly as I see the desk she sits on. “I’m fine. Nothing that’ll put me out.”
“All this is hers.” I wipe away the blood that makes my stomach roll. Not because I have an aversion to blood in general. But on her… on the outside of her body… that fucks with me. “She clipped you on the jaw too?”
She reaches up with the hand I’m not cleaning, and cups her face. “Someone gets my jaw every single time.”
“Keep forgetting to lift your hands.”
She laughs. So fucking fake. “Was… um… where’s Daddy? I saw you go outside with him.”
“You did?” I look up into her eyes. “You weren’t concentrating on your fight very much.”
She shrugs. “I notice things. Is… uh… was everything okay?”
I nod and switch hands. “Everything is fine. We were talking. He mentioned he’s sad you haven’t been home. He’s missed you.”
Finally, her eyes come to mine. “You’re such a liar. If he missed me, he’d come and get me.”
Lucy
Curtains
Stacked Deck, day one, goes off without a hitch. Seventy-five fights move through our octagon, half of those fighters are sent home, and only one person took particular issue with their dismissal.
It sucks to be a jacked-up fighter, to lose only twenty seconds into a fight that you traveled for, and then for a girl to tell you to move along.
Smalls stepped up for three fights. Won convincingly. Ben stepped up for his, and it did my heart good to see that Kyle Baker was paired with him before the end of the night. For the second year in a row, Kyle Baker’s fat mouth was shut, and no one was sad to see him ejected: like I said, jacked-up, twenty seconds in, told to leave.
Fuck him for coming here and messing with families like he thinks it’s a game.
I fought twice more after my disastrous first bout, and though Daddy stayed away, my mom didn’t. She’s a fighter from way back, and has good advice when it comes to competition. Beside Mac, she stayed with me, smeared the jelly onto my brow, smacked my butt on my way into the octagon, and celebrated my wins with a little too much noise and exuberance when I came out again.
She was trying to make up for my daddy’s absence. But the scowl she wore when she thought I wasn’t watching, the scowl that meant she was mad at him too, did me no favors as I tried to concentrate.
For me to be mad at him is one thing. But for Mom to be mad means he’s really not ready to forgive me. It means she tried to advocate for me, and despite the fact he never tells her no, this one time, he couldn’t give her the yes. He can’t forgive.
And that hurts so much that I can barely stand this morning.
I stand at Mac’s kitchen counter sipping a protein shake in place of the coffee I would normally have first thing in the morning. Deck wanders around, making laps between the living room and kitchen like he has nervous energy to wear off, but I can’t help him. I can’t comfort him.
I have my own nervous energy to work through.
“Hey.”
I jump as arms wrap around my stomach, as Mac rests his chin on my shoulder, and then as his breath feathers along my neck and helps me relax.
“Good morning.”
“Morning.” I set my shake down and spin in his arms. My eyes instantly go to the split lip he now has, thanks to another guy from the gym Smalls fought in while she was away for college.
His bottom lip is puffy and sore, his jaw is bruised, as are his knuckles. But after all of our hard work this year, Mac has finished the first night of fights as victor, and like the rest of us, has moved into the second day.
Today, we work through matching limps.
“You look sore.” I stand on my toes and press a kiss to his darkened jaw. “He got you good.”
He scoffs. “It was all part of my plan. See, if I sacrifice my jaw and let the dude think he’s got one up on me, I wait for his mini celebration, for him to focus on his admirers rather than me, and then I charge.”
“Like a bull,” I laugh. “You’re as delicate as a bull in a china shop. I swear. Slammed him to the canvas and whaled on him.”
“I see you criticizing my technique.” His eyes dance with laughter, and his hands massage my hips. “But I’ll have you know that the MythBusters did this episode already. They put bulls into a simulated china shop, added delicate dinner shit, and they watched.” He smacks a fast kiss onto my lips, hissing when it hurts him, but not pulling away until I taste blood on my tongue. “A friend told me about that. The episode,” he clarifies. “So if you wanna call me a heavy-footed bull with zero tact, then you go right ahea
d. But I’ll have you know that bulls were unfairly judged, and now the reputation won’t wipe off, despite proving they’re sensitive souls.”
“Like you?” I ask. “Are you sensitive?”
“I am so sensitive that I cry a little at night. Three days ago, I said hey as we passed in the hall. You said it back, but it was more of a hey… Rather than a HEY! Honestly? I can’t stop crying about it.”
“You’re a mess.” Laughing, I press my ear to his chest and listen. “And you’re deflecting. You sound strong, by the way.”
“You expected me to drop dead?”
“God, I hope you don’t. I’ve invested so much time into you. It would be disappointing to lose my bull now.”
“See! This is why I cry.” He places a hand beneath my jaw and draws my eyes up to meet his. He’s trying for humor, which we both know is what stole my heart in the first place. “Are you ready for today?”
I paste on my most convincing smile and nod.
My dad passes through my mind. Soph’s dance studio follows that. Rudy. Even Rudy’s baker boyfriend. All of these things I can’t have, but in front of me, holding me, is the one thing I would give them all up for.
Well… him, and my dad’s love.
“I’m ready. I really should do better tonight. I wasn’t very convincing last night. The crowd will turn on me soon and say I suck too bad.”
“They won’t,” he chuckles. “And if they tried, you’d beat them into the ground and ask them to reassess their opinion. Come on. Let’s get breakfast, and maybe go for a run to work the knots out.” He takes my hand, only to stop when his phone buzzes on the counter.
Frowning, he snatches it up and reads the screen with furrowed brows. “It’s from Smalls.”
“Yeah?” I turn back and grab my almost empty shake. Tipping it up while he reads, I chug what’s left and hope it will fuel me through today. “What does she want?”
His fingers tap the screen so he can reply. “She said today has been pushed back a few hours.”
“We started early yesterday. Today she wants to start late?”
Shrugging, he hits send, and tosses the device to the counter. “It’s her tournament. We’re just her minions, no? Six o’clock start. She said to rest up and get ready to blow them away.”
“So we get to chill all day?” My eyes widen at the thought.
The day after even one competitive fight is exhausting while our bodies work through the trauma of being hit. But multiple fights means we’re still battling our fight-or-flight responses. Our central nervous system is still jacked up. Our limbs twitch, our hands clench. Our bodies are probably dehydrated, no matter how much we tried to drink before bed. We relive our fights, and pray we can rest enough to be ready for day two.
“Does she need us for anything?”
“Nope.” Grinning, he turns back to me, only to grab my shoulders and slowly lower the dressing gown I’m wearing. It’s gray with black stripes, about twenty sizes too big, but it’s amazingly warm and…
Fine. It’s my dad’s.
I snuck into my home on Thursday evening when I knew he was out, helped myself to his bedroom, and stole a bunch of stuff. His gown, hoodies, a deep, soul-cleansing sniff of the home I grew up in and wished more than anything I was welcome back into without disapproval lingering in the air.
I’ve been wearing this gown every minute that Mac and I have spent behind closed doors, clinging to the first man I ever loved, but now it drops away, pools on the floor, and goes forgotten as Mac steps back with a wicked grin and studies my naked body.
“It fucks with my head, seeing you all bruised up.” His eyes hungrily scour my ribs, my belly, down to my thighs. “Without context, this,” he waves a hand in my direction, “looks pretty fuckin’ bad. So bad that it would make me sick to my stomach. But since it’s not that, since I know you accept these bruises, that you walk toward them, and lay so many more on your opponents…” he grins. “I’m so fucking conflicted. How can I be horny and concerned at the same time?”
Laughing, I step forward and cut off his view of my body, but only so I can step onto my toes and press a kiss to his lips. He hisses again, pulls back a little to escape the pain, but I wind my arms around his neck and pull him close anyway. Fuck his sore lip. Kiss me anyway. “Shower instead of a run?”
“Yeah.” Breathlessly, he skims his lips over my jaw, down to my neck, and picks me up in the same moment he clamps his teeth onto my skin and draws a startled cry up my throat.
My legs go around his hips.
It hurts. My whole body hurts, and I know his does too. But we’re like survivors of war, clinging to each other, as he turns and hobbles toward the hall.
“Bathroom,” he agrees. “Then bedroom so I can do it laying down. Then maybe on the couch too, since we’re all about exploring new shit right now.”
He steps into the bathroom, and turns to kick the door closed, only to laugh when Deck follows us in like he’s allowed to play too. “No, Deck! Sit! Go the fuck away.”
He half stumbles, almost drops me, and still somehow manages to reach out and flip the taps in the shower. Freezing water bursts free, sending a new chill through the air that brings goosebumps to my skin, then the cold turns to hot, and Mac’s laughter turns to a groan when he carries me in.
“Let me just…”
He unapologetically slams me against the wall, and robs the oxygen from my lungs, only to hold me up with his hips and blow away the water that runs over his face, so it hits my chest.
“I just wanna…” He runs his hand over my boobs, one, then the other, then down to my stomach.
My breath races, my chest lifts and drops with fast pants that make me dizzy.
And then my mind goes blank when his fingers slide straight inside me without warning.
“There it is.” Smug grin, clever fingers, he slides his tongue over my lips and plays me like the strings of a guitar.
“Let’s go, Mac!” I stand in the living room, in Rollin Gym and Stacked Deck infused merchandise. My pants are black, the gym logo is purple, but right beside that is the joker logo we made up for our tournament last year. My hoodie is basically the same. And beneath all of that, I wear the booty shorts and sports bra I intend to fight in. “Mac? We have to go. It’s a quarter to six.”
“Woman! I’m coming. Let me shake it off before I pull my pants back up.”
I scrunch my nose and turn to snatch up my training bag. “Gross. You need to work on your nerves. Now is not the time for a nervous pee.”
“Now is the perfect fucking time for a nervous pee. Just hush and let me do my thing.”
A moment of silence, a flushing toilet, then water hitting the sink in the bathroom, before he comes skipping out with a goofy grin and crazy hair, wild from running his fingers through it all day long.
We stayed in bed. Watched TV. Made out, and for the first time all week, I pretended the outside world doesn’t exist. We’re just days out from Christmas, and the snow is falling, though it’s more of a light dusting than anything that tempts me to scowl. The apartment is cold as balls, but under the blankets, in Mac’s arms, and with Deck’s two hundred pounds sleeping on my legs, I was so warm that I started to sweat.
I’m heading to day two of Stacked Deck, and I vow not to let my daddy’s indifference hurt me. I know he doesn’t mean it, I know he loves me so much that he’s struggling to work through his hurt. I know that soon, everything will be better again.
And if it’s not… I exhale so heavily that Mac’s brows come up in question.
“What’s your mom and Eric doing for Christmas this year?” I ask. “Anything fun?”
He grabs his training bag and hefts it onto his shoulder. He checks his cell, nods at the time, and slides it into his pocket. “They tend to keep it pretty quiet. Though Lauren is getting bigger now, so who knows, maybe Eric will start doing it up loud and obnoxious.” He grabs my hand and drags me across the living room. “Deck, stay. But it doesn’t matter w
hat they’re doing,” he adds for me. “You’re gonna be busy anyway.”
“I am?” I stumble out the front door and into the communal hall, only to stop and watch as he pulls the reinforced steel door – long story – closed again. “What am I doing?”
“You’ll be at the gym, silly. Breakfast at the estate first, then we do the barbecue and serve everyone else.” He flashes a wicked grin and wraps a rough arm around my neck as we move down the stairs. “Stop being so melodramatic, Lucy Goosey. You know you’re gonna be there.”
“Not if I’m not invited.” I drag a deep breath into my lungs, only to let it out again on a huff. “Ya know what? I’m not doing that today. It’s time to fight, and being a whiny little bitch is counterproductive.”
“Well, I would never call you the b-word.” He presses a noisy kiss to my temple as we round to the next flight of stairs. “That’s a horrible term that makes me mad. But the whiny bit…? Yeah, quit that shit. You’re getting estrogen all over the place.”
“You’re an asshole.” I slam my fist into his ribs, but all he does is skip away and laugh, and when we reach the main doors on the ground level, he prances Deck-style and swings them open to reveal the dark world outside. “Why are you so happy? It’s weird.”
“Am I happy?” He gives an annoying little bow when I pass, only to follow it with a slap on my ass that makes me skip forward. “I guess I’m just pumped for tonight. I flunked out last year.” He pauses, narrows his eyes, and stops in front of the ‘Cuda. “Did you bet on me this year?”
I send my eyes skyward. “Absolutely not.”
He recoils, presses a hand to his chest. “Ouch! You don’t believe in me anymore?”
“No, I believe in you.” I toss my bag into the unlocked car, then turn and meet him by the hood.
My hair is braided back, ready for my fight. There are no wispy bits, nothing in my eyes, and yet, he still cups my face and pushes hair behind my ears. “So why, then?”
“Because I don’t need to put money on you to believe in you. And I learned my lesson last year; no more betting. It’s too expensive.”