by Finn, Emilia
“Did they fall into a barrel of acid… eyes first?”
He cocks his arm back for a second shot, but I jump up with a laugh and bounce away. He works hard in that gym, which means his shots hurt me as though he were full grown. “Stop hitting me. Grab something to eat, then let’s go. You’re gonna make us late to your own shit.”
“What time’s Mom gonna get there?
“She’s working till noon, then she’s coming down and bringing her pompoms.”
He stops with a line of juice dribbling over his chin. “Don’t let her wave pompoms, Cap. Don’t let her be that mom.”
I lift my hands. “I don’t control her, kid. I’m just the innocent bystander. Plus, she’s cute in her cheerleader uniform.”
“Mm.” He tosses the container back in the fridge and slams the door. “Don’t ever say that again. Let’s go. I’m ready.”
“Grab something to eat,” I repeat. “Grab a protein bar or something. You can’t fight on an empty stomach.”
He sighs but does as he’s told. “I’m not hungry. I think I’m nervous. Which is just weird,” he adds. “I never lose, so why would I get nervous?”
“Your confidence will get your ass beat someday.” Laughing, I follow him out the door and into the hall. The locks noisily snick into place, then we turn and move as Mac’s gym bag hangs over his shoulder and his protein bar is open in his hand. The kid I swore had a never-ending appetite only nibbles now as we move down the stairs. “How’s your leg?”
“It’s fine.” He slowly moves down one step at a time. “Little stiff, but normal. The snow makes it hurt.”
“Make sure you warm up well before you go on. I don’t wanna bring you toast when you bust your leg again.”
He rolls his eyes and grunts when we reach the bottom of the stairs. Moving through the building doors and into the biting breeze, we slide into my truck and pump the heat up as soon as I switch on the ignition.
“Feeling good? You seem a little out of it.”
“Just tired.” He shoves his bag under his legs and places his hands in front of the heater as I pull out of the lot. “I trained extra hard for this one. They moved me up a weight category, so I’m gonna be the little fucker in today’s fight.”
“Only fight worth winning is against someone better than you. No point pounding on a little kid.”
“I’ll remind you that you said that the next time you’re going toe-to-toe with Spence and crying like a little bitch.” He turns to me as we drive through the single set of traffic lights in town. “You wanna be ringside? Benny will be there, and Bobby. But maybe you wanna be there too?”
“Umm…” My heart pounds with elation, surprise, arrogance because I’ve been asked, and Zeke wasn’t. “Your dad not gonna be there?”
“Zeke dropped off the planet again. He asked me to hang out at his place, mentioned how he’s earned it, and Mom can trust us now.”
I’m gonna kill him. I’m going to track that prick down and wring his neck. “Okay…”
“I called him on it. Called him out as a coward, since he didn’t wanna sit where Mom could see anymore. He yelled at me; I yelled at him.”
“Where did this happen?” I slow at the next corner, then accelerate and head toward the gym. “Not at the diner?”
“Nah, he came by my school. Wanted to talk in private, but I was with Benny and the girls, so I didn’t give him much of my time. I told him no, called him a coward, told him to go fuck himself when he called me an ungrateful little prick. Then we walked away. Haven’t seen him since.”
“I’m sorry, Mac.” I reach across and cup his shoulder. “Truly, I’m sorry. Some people just don’t get what they have. They can’t appreciate it.”
“And then there are guys who lose what they love, and they’d kill to have it back again.”
Our eyes meet. I know he’s speaking of Callie. I know he thinks of her almost as much as I do.
“Right. Some men would do anything to have their kid around. And some others don’t seem to care.”
He shrugs. “So if you wanna be ringside, I’d love for you to be there. Mom will sit with Grandpa and Meg, so she won’t be lonely or anything.”
“Okay.” I say nothing more for a minute while I work on swallowing the lump in my throat. He’s gifting me a child. He’s saying he can give me the things Callie can’t. He was always willing to share his mom if the right guy came along. But now he’s saying he can share himself too. “I wouldn’t miss it. I’ll stand wherever you want me to stand.”
In the silence, he watches the road and grins.
* * *
“Alright, boys. I want a good, clean fight. Listen to my commands at all times, defend yourselves at all times. Touch gloves and step back.”
Mac stands in front of a kid who has an easy twenty pounds on him, at least four or five inches in height, and legs that start at his armpits. But they’re both still kids; they both wear head gear, mouth guards, cups in their shorts, and sixteen-ounce gloves.
It’s as safe as any kid fight can be, so I enjoy today for what it is, rather than take a page out of Katrina’s book and freak the fuck out.
Her dad, introduced to me barely an hour ago, holds his daughter down with a laugh, but his eyes stare right into mine while he does it. His wordless expression tells me everything I need to know and reminds me of his if you hurt my daughter, I’m gonna stick my Ruger up your ass and see if I can blow your brains onto the ceiling talk. George Blair ain’t playing, but that’s okay. Neither am I. I’m in love with my girlfriend and hope to change that title soon. Girlfriend is so juvenile, and according to everyone in the universe, I’m old, so that just won’t do.
Katrina DeWhit.
Maybe she’ll like that.
“Alright, boys. Gloves up, get ready.”
I stand just two feet from Bobby Kincaid while he calmly talks to his fighter. The other side is already shouting, throwing words, empty instructions to “smash him.” But Bobby talks of footwork, of strong legs, of long reach and infallible arms. He speaks of breathing, of confidence, of the fact Mac has already won, because no one has trained as hard as he has.
A calm washes over our side of the ring, led by the world champion Kincaids and Benny’s presence. Mac studies his opponent in silence, his brow already sweaty, his mouth almost swollen as his lips stretch around the mouth guard. His limbs are skinny – legs and arms – but he’s muscly too. His thighs, his biceps. He’s growing into a fighter’s body, and only has to give it time before he’s winning championship belts and funding his mother’s retirement.
He doesn’t need to worry about Katrina anymore. That’s my job now, but he’s the man of his house, so I don’t tell him as much. He can continue his role, and I’ll pick up in the background. I’m the add on, and I’m not coming in here to change their routine or demand roles that have already been filled.
“And fight!”
“Oh God!” Katrina’s cry is louder than anyone else in this gym. I turn with a smile and catch her eyes, then I turn back to Mac and watch the way he steps forward on strong legs. His feet move as though he’s been choreographing a dance, not a fight. His limp is gone; the exhaustion in his eyes is gone. He ducks in fast and pops his opponent on the chin, then moves out again so fast, the other kid’s head is still spinning.
“In and out, Mac!” Bobby has to shout to be heard over the crowd. “Legs, body, legs, body. Do it, Mac. Legs, body, legs, body. Good!” He nods approvingly when Mac does exactly as he’s told. These rounds supposedly last three minutes each, so time both rushes and crawls as the boys trade jabs and dodge legs. The other kid develops a limp and provides Mac with a satisfied smile. But he doesn’t go easily. He hammers Mac’s leg with fast, axe-like snaps.
Mac’s eyes darken with each slam, his face screws up into a painful grimace, and each time his guard slips and he takes a solid strike, his eyes almost always come back to mine. He’s not losing this fight, but he’s not winning either, and the way his ch
est laboriously lifts and drops hurts me on my deepest levels. It’s a recreational competition, and no one is truly hurting him, but letting him go wars with my instincts the way I never wanted Kane to step into a ring.
The bell dings after the world’s longest three minutes, so both boys separate with an almost relieved sigh as they go back to their corners and Mac’s shadowed eyes come back to mine.
“You’re doing fine.” Bobby tips the water bottle so Mac can drink. “You’re doing great. You’ve hurt his leg. He’s limping, so keep pounding it, and you’ll win on points.”
“Wanna knock him out.”
Bobby chuckles. “This isn’t the world title, Blair. Slow it down; don’t burn yourself out on this. Take your victory on points; save your fire for the bigger fights.”
“Is my mom watching?”
“Yeah, she’s watching.” I wait for his dazed eyes to come to me. “She’s crapping her pants, but she’s watching. She didn’t bring the pompoms.”
He smirks. “Tell her she doesn’t have to be scared, okay? I got this. I’m gonna be world champion, then I’m gonna kick a Kincaid ass.”
Bobby laughs. “You can fight Jimmy. He’s still agile and stupid enough to step up to fresh muscle.” Bobby’s head comes up when the warning bell dings. “Okay. Round two. Legs, body, legs, body, head. It’s tried and tested. Get his hands down, slam that leg; if he falls for it, take his head. You don’t have to get fancy, okay?”
“Okay, Coach.”
Bobby, Benny, and I climb off the canvas and take our water bottles. Mac has no visible injuries, no cuts, nothing to mend. These kids aren’t whaling on each other, so our job as guys on the ropes is to basically have a chat between rounds and provide water. But now Mac steps forward and meets his opponent and the ref in the center of the canvas.
They’re told to bring their gloves up; the bell is rung, and they start again.
Mac is slower off the mark this time, slower to lift his hands, slower to duck and move. While Mac was talking about kicking Jimmy Kincaid’s ass during the break, that other kid was formulating a real plan with his team and has come out with guns blazing.
“Hands up, Mac!” Bobby’s shouts come louder when Mac’s head snaps around. “Hands up, or I’ll tape them to your fuckin’ head!”
Mac shakes his head and skips around to escape his opponent. Jab, jab, jab, he gets some of his own back, but he’s still slow, so he takes as many hits as he delivers, and trips on his own feet as he tries to skip around. “Mac Blair!” Bobby angrily roars. “You have ten seconds before I call it. Prove to me that you can take that big fucker, or I’ll pull the plug. I don’t send my fighters in just to take a beating.”
Whether Mac hears his coach or not, he stands taller, straightens his shoulders, lifts his hands. Then he rushes forward and smashes his opponent against the ropes so fast, the other kid’s team has to jump back or risk getting trampled.
The girls who spend so much time in the diner with these boys stand no more than twenty feet away and scream their instructions. They’re not stupid instructions, but real technique, real combos that Mac takes into his arsenal and uses. The blonde screams at the top of her lungs. The other one, the brunette, shouts instructions too, but she’s not as crazy about it.
She’s more interested in watching than coaching.
Legs, body, legs, body. Mac does it over and over again. Fists. Feet. Legs, body, legs, body. When his opponent drops his hands, Mac goes for it, steps back, chambers his leg, and strikes out so his shin slams over the padded head gear and knocks the other kid to the canvas with a floor-shaking boom.
“Yeah!” The gym explodes with cheers and wolf whistles. The fighter girls jump on each other in celebration, and Bobby and Benny do the same. The referee pushes Mac away and helps the other kid to his feet, and when he’s steady, and the screaming celebrations continue to deafen every person inside this gym, he holds the boys’ hands, waits, builds the anticipation, and when our side, our family, is ready to explode, he lifts Mac’s hand in victory.
I press my fingers between my lips and wolf whistle until his laughing eyes come to mine. “Yeah! Mac Blair! You did it!”
My heart throbs with pride, and my stomach twists with nerves. My life has involved a whole lot of dangerous shit, but I’ve never been to an interclub fighter tournament for a bunch of teens before. It’s strange that it makes me nervous, considering there’s no real danger. I watch Mac’s every move with an almost painful grin and adrenaline zinging through my body as though I was the one in the ring. His eyes bounce around from face to face. He looks to me, then Bobby. He laughs at his cheer girls, then blows a humble kiss toward his mom.
This is only a fight gym and kiddy fighters, but the celebrations last for minutes.
I don’t move from my spot right where he put me, but as time goes on and his hand is lowered, Mac’s eyes change from laughter to something else. From animation to… empty.
“Mac?” I throw a fast glance over my shoulder in the direction he’s looking in hopes of seeing what he sees. To see what’s changed his mood. Maybe Zeke is here, or maybe Katrina tripped and fell on her face. But nothing. Nobody we know. Looking back to Mac, I frown while everyone else obliviously celebrates.
I lift a foot onto the canvas before I realize my moves, and still, everyone else cheers.
My instincts scream that something is wrong. Instincts borne from the career I chose, and in which I trained among the best of the best to be sharpened and trusted. Instincts I know I shouldn’t ignore as Mac’s opponent is walked to the opposite side of the ring. The referee goes with him, since he was the one knocked to his ass, but that leaves Mac standing all alone in the center of the ring while he dazedly looks around. For every second that passes, I watch with my own fucking eyes how his skin turns gray. “Mac?” Bobby’s laughing chatter with Ben stops when he catches my shout. He turns to me with a frown, then to Mac as I dive through the ropes.
Mac drops.
Like one of those toys that crumble because they have no bones, he collapses just half a second before I can reach him. His head bounces off the canvas as elated cheers turn to horrified screams. Panic erupts louder than any of the cheers from moments ago as Bobby dives into the ring beside me, and I hurriedly press my ear over Mac’s mouth in search of his breath.
The Roller girls scream against whoever tugs them away. Bobby’s hands wrap around Mac’s wrist, but I bring my ear to his chest and pray.
“There’s no pulse!”
Bobby and I shout the same thing at the same time. It’s as though we were asking for confirmation, but because we both said it, the horror hits, and my hands instantly go to Mac’s chest. My stomach rolls, and my heart clogs my throat, but I push against my kid’s chest and pray George has brains enough to keep Katrina away. “Mac. Mac. Mac. Mac.” I pause, drop my ear to his chest and find nothing.
Bobby helps me tear the headgear from his head, and when I open his mouth to try to breathe for him, I tear the mouthguard out and toss it away. “Come on, Mac.” I pinch his nose and press our lips together. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Mac’s lungs fill and lift his chest with every breath I give him, but there’s no miraculous recovery. “Call an ambulance.” I look to Bobby with wild eyes. “Call an ambulance!” I cup my hands and begin pumping Mac’s chest. I can’t believe I thought of his chest as broad just minutes ago. I considered him strong and badass, but beneath my hands now, he’s just a boy.
“Not again. Not again. Not again.” I stop and come back to his mouth. Pinch his nose. I breathe for him. “Don’t leave us, buddy. Don’t leave your mom. Please don’t leave.” My tears drip from the tip of my nose and mingle with his sweat, but my hands remain strong.
For twenty full minutes that feel like five fucking hours, I compress his heart and breathe for him. Katrina fights George’s arms. I see her in my peripherals, biting, scratching, screaming to be let free, but I can’t help either of them. I can’t get her free, and I can’t help him hold her,
because my entire being is consumed with counting my compressions. “Please come back, Mac. Please come back to us.”
“Cap!” Luc Lenaghan slides to his knees beside me and slams my hands away. He’s my friend in another world, Jessie’s loud brother and the jokester whenever he comes into the office, but now he’s an EMT, doing what he knows, and that includes shoving me the fuck out of the way and tearing his bags open. He and another guy in uniform work on my boy and shove me and Bobby back, while another pair in uniform clear the ring and push spectators back.
Luc tears a yellow case open and flicks the switches on the machine inside. Voice prompts begin, and lights blink while Luc’s partner continues the chest compressions I started. Luc peels plastic backing off what I know is a defibrillator, then he places the pad on Mac’s chest. One pad, then another. “Back up, Mitch. Hands are clear?”
“Clear.”
Luc hits the switch; the machine beeps, then Mac’s body jumps against the canvas and drops down with a dull thump.
It’s happening again.
I trip backwards and stop only when Kane presses his hands to my back. It’s like Derrick’s office all over again. How’d he get here? Where’d he come from?
“Go to her.” He looks to my left, toward Katrina as she howls and fights her dad’s arms. “She’s here; she needs you, and he’s getting help. It’s not the same.”
* * *
The waiting room is packed full of people we know, some we don’t, many crying, and many more trying to comfort. Kane sits on my left and doesn’t leave my side for a single beat. Jessie sits to his left with her heavy twin belly, and her sister sits beside her.
Benny sits with his mom and stepdad. His head is low, his eyes red and puffy. The Rollers fill the room, and those fighter girls who were so eager to fight and cheer earlier now sit with their dads. All of these kids who think they’re so badass and grown up inevitably go back to their parents when they’re in need of comfort. When their world has dropped out and hell has come up to greet them. When their best friend is pronounced clinically dead, but the EMTs refuse to stop trying.