Love T.K.O.

by Pamela Yaye

  “Do you, Rashawn Bishop, take this woman to have and to hold, vowing to love her and only her from this day forward until death do you part?” the minister asked, facing the groom.

  A hint of a smile, then “I do. She’s all I’ve ever wanted, all I ever need.”

  Female guests sighed softly, wishing they could trade places with the bride.

  “Yasmin Ohaji, do you take this man as your husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and health for as long as you both shall live?”

  Beaming, she squeezed her fiancé’s outstretched hands. Yasmin opened her mouth, but the words didn’t come. Silence infected the air. Behind her, Imani urged her to speak. From the front row, her mom sniffled, her dad nodded fervently, and Eli grinned. She commanded her lips to move but the harder she tried to speak, the tighter her throat felt.

  Stirring from her sleep, she opened her eyes. Brilliant beams of sunshine bounced around the room, signaling the dawn of another day. The air was perfumed with their love, coaxing memories of the previous night. The bathroom door was closed. Rashawn had probably gotten up early, gone for his jog and was now about to take a shower. Puzzled by her dream, she rolled onto her back. When Yasmin thought of marriage, she didn’t think of a Vera Wang gown, a six-tier wedding cake or a thousand-guest reception. She thought of commitment, trust and a lifelong friendship.

  A low, murmuring sound shattered the silence. Her eyes shot open. Either she was dreaming or the wine she’d had last night was still having its way with her. She sat up. Maybe she was hearing things. Maybe it was a figment of her imagination. But the sound continued, growing louder, more intense. Yasmin crawled to the foot of the bed.

  Rashawn! He was sprawled out on the floor, in nothing but a pair of shorts. Seeing him, unresponsive, she leapt from the bed and scrambled to his side. He was sweating profusely and his breathing was shallow. Fear surged through her. Images of Eric’s lifeless body flashed in her eyes and mingled with her tears. “Oh, God! Not again!”

  “Rashawn! Wake up! Baby, answer me!” she begged, shaking his shoulders. Praying earnestly, she reached out, swiped the cordless phone from its base and punched in the three numbers that meant the difference between life and death. Returning to his side, she smoothed a hand over his damp face.

  “Hello, nine-one-one. What is the nature of your emergency?” a calm, controlled female voice asked. A pause, then, “Hello? This is nine-one-one. Is anyone there?”

  Yasmin forced the words from her mouth, “My boyfriend’s unconscious.”

  “Is he breathing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has he used drugs or alcohol in the last—”

  Anticipating the question, she said, “No. Never.”

  “Is he on any medication, prescribed or otherwise?”

  “I—I don’t know. I’m not sure,” she fumbled, wishing she knew the answer to such an obvious question. “He was fine when we went to bed last night.”

  “How long has he been out?”

  “I don’t know. I just woke up.”

  “Ma’am, what’s your address?”

  Rashawn’s eyes flittered open.

  “Oh, my God!” Yasmin dropped the phone, tears of joy coursing down her cheeks. “Honey, what happened? I’m so glad you’re okay!”

  “I don’t know,” he croaked, propping himself up on his elbows. “I went for a run, took a shower and was on my way back to bed when I felt my legs slip out from underneath me. The next thing I know you’re standing over me, calling my name.”

  “How do you feel now?”

  “Like I went eight rounds with Lipenski,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “Don’t worry, the paramedics are on the way.”

  “No!”

  “But this could be—”

  “I said no.” His voice was firm, hard, as strong as steel. “It was nothing. I’ll take it easy for the next few—” He broke off when he heard a tinny woman’s voice. Spotting the phone in Yasmin’s lap, he picked it up.

  The operator asked him a series of questions.

  “I’m sorry we disturbed you. It was a misunderstanding. Everything’s fine.” Rashawn clicked off the phone. A crippling pain shot through his ribs as he turned, but he didn’t react. Yasmin was watching and he didn’t want to scare her.

  He’d been on the floor so long his legs had fallen asleep. His fingers ached, but he rubbed the back of his leg to bring back feeling. Aware that she was watching him for the slightest sign of pain, he stood and climbed into bed with ease. “Told you I was fine,” he lied, supporting the back of his head with a pillow.

  “Let me get you some water.” Yasmin tore out of the room and returned seconds later with a glass of water and an ice pack.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked, pushing the drink into his hands.

  “Positive.”

  “Has anything like this ever happened before?”

  Rashawn opened his mouth, then closed it. Yasmin didn’t need to know his mom had found him unconscious a few months back.

  It had been over ninety degrees the morning he had gone running. His doctor had said dehydration was likely to blame for the collapse. “Yeah, but it was a long time ago.”

  “Did you get a second opinion?”

  “What for? I trust Dr. Gutierrez with my life. He’s been taking care of me since I was seventeen. I wouldn’t feel comfortable with anyone else.”

  “I know, but it’s possible he missed something. Doctors make mistakes all the time. What if you have an undiagnosed illness or—”

  “Drop it, Yasmin.” He slammed the glass on the side table. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Let it go.”

  “I’m only trying to help. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “Just because your fiancé died unexpectedly doesn’t mean I’m going to.” Reassuring her and himself there was no cause for concern, he said, “Doc, I’m in kick-ass shape. If something was wrong, I’d know.”

  Tears threatened to come, but Yasmin pushed them away. “I care about you and I’d never forgive myself if something happened, Rashawn. Promise me you’ll see your doctor first thing Monday morning.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “You’ll try?” she repeated, incredulously. The soft, flattering glow of the sunlight masked the anger in her eyes. “This is your health we’re talking about. It could be a matter of life and death!”

  “You’re overreacting again. It’s not that serious.”

  “It could be. How do you know until you see your doctor and he checks you out?”

  “All right, all right, Dr. Phil. Quit badgering me. I’m going.” Chuckling, he pulled her down on top of him, momentarily calming her fears. Rashawn slipped a hand under her nightgown, caressing between her legs. “I know what’ll help me feel better…”

  Yasmin returned his kiss, but it didn’t squelch the heaviness in her heart.

  Chapter 20

  Rashawn smacked the heavy bag. He threw a straight jab, then a combination of uppercuts and right hooks. A million thoughts raced through his mind. The most important of them being his relationship with Yasmin. She had been treating him like a seven-year-old ever since he had collapsed. Finding him unconscious had changed her from a supportive girlfriend to a smothering, on-edge, motherly type. What had made him fall for her was her independence, her confidence, her love. She had always been a dependable source of guidance and understanding. But these days Rashawn felt like he was on around-the-clock surveillance. He’d had no intention of seeing Dr. Gutierrez, but he grew tired of her pestering. Despite the midday appointment, she had accompanied him to the plush downtown clinic and when Dr. Gutierrez asked about the circumstances behind his collapse, she recounted a startling account of what had happened two weeks earlier.

  Afterward, he went to the gym. “Champ, get in here!” Brody roared, projecting his voice through the gym.

  Rashawn gave the punching
bag a final blow. Yanking off his gloves, he tucked them under his arms and strode down the hall. He entered the office and was surprised to see Dr. Gutierrez, Mancinii and his newly acquired attorney, Morgan Duke.

  When he had told Yasmin he was looking for representation, she had recommended the lively entertainment lawyer he’d met briefly at the wine-tasting party. Now that he was in the big leagues, he needed someone to negotiate on his behalf. Someone who would protect him and advise him on the most efficient way to build his financial empire.

  They must have come in through Brody’s private door, because he hadn’t seen them in the gym. Or maybe they had arrived when he was in the weight room, talking on his cell phone with Yasmin. She said she had a romantic dinner waiting for him, but he was in the mood for something sweet. He had an itch only she could scratch and, once he was finished with Brody, he was going home to his woman.

  “What’s up, fellas?” He winked at Morgan. “And lady.”

  She acknowledged him with a smile. “Nice seeing you again, Rashawn.”

  “Take a seat, champ.” Brody nodded at the empty chair. “We need to talk.”

  Sitting down, he prepared himself for bad news. The fight was off. That’s the only reason why Mancinii would crawl out of his rat-infested hole. Wanting to know who he was doing business with, he had done some digging into the promoter’s background. Brody thought the man was a legend, the God of all boxing promoters, but Rashawn had read all about his shady business practices. He had a mile-long list of double-dealings and unpaid debts. Disgruntled boxers who’d been duped had posted their experiences on the Internet and Rashawn had printed them out. When he had showed the postings to Yasmin, she had warned him to be careful and to get everything in writing. Sound advice from a smart, educated woman.

  “There’s a glitch in our plans,” Brody began, scratching his stubbly chin. “December first isn’t gonna work out after all.”

  Rashawn couldn’t say he was disappointed. After the exhausting, eight-round match with Lipenski, his body needed sufficient time to heal. Dazzled by dollar signs and Brody’s steadfast support, he had agreed to a match he wasn’t physically ready for.

  Dr. Gutierrez was speaking when Rashawn broke free of his thoughts.

  “The results of your MRI are particularly concerning. You suffered a cerebral concussion either during the weeks leading up to the Lipenski fight or during the match itself. I can’t say for sure. That explains why you’ve had double vision, bouts of dizziness and sporadic headaches…”

  Rashawn blinked. He was staring at Dr. Gutierrez. He could see the physician’s mouth moving, but he couldn’t hear anything. The room was spinning, snatching up all his hopes and dreams and tossing them into a pool of despair. “What are you saying?” he demanded, his hands balling into tight, angry fists. “Are you saying I’m sick?”

  “You need to rest. If you don’t, you could do irreversible damage to your brain. Take a year off and—”

  His voice blasted across the room. “Are you crazy? I can’t take a year off!”

  Morgan patted Rashawn’s leg. “Calm down. You’re getting worked up over nothing. Let Dr. Gutierrez finish what he—”

  “Nothing? Nothing?” he raged, leaping from his chair. He stalked the length of the room, pacing, talking to no one in particular. “This is my career we’re talkin’ about. I can’t take time off! I’ll be over if I do.”

  “You’re right, you will. You’ll be another washed-up boxer who didn’t reach his full potential.” Mancinii nodded, a smug expression on his face. “I propose we bump up the fight. How does November third sound?”

  “Like suicide,” Brody said, resting back in his chair and clasping his hands on his stomach. “My boy can’t be ready by then. He still has a lot of work to do.”

  Mancinii leaned forward in his chair. “Hear me out, kid. Your last physical was a couple months ago and everything looked good, right?”

  Rashawn nodded absently.

  “We can submit that medical report to the boxing commission, showing a clean bill of health, and change the date of the fight to the third.”

  Dr. Gutierrez spoke up. “As your physician, I have to inform you of the risks involved with going through with the match. You could collapse in the ring, die from internal bleeding or slip into a coma.” He had a worried expression on his face and his fingers drummed restlessly on his thigh. “Rashawn, I’ve been your doctor for ten years. Your mind and body have suffered significant damage during your career. If you want to reverse the effects, you have to stop fighting. Maybe somewhere down the road you can return to the ring.”

  Mancinii locked eyes with Rashawn. “What if I guarantee you a million plus a cut of the pay-per-view profits? You’re looking at an extra seven hundred thousand. With that kind of money, you’d be set for life.”

  Everything Rashawn had ever heard or read about Mancinii came back to mind, but he ignored his thoughts. Right now the boxing promoter was on his side, fighting to keep him in the ring, and that was the only place he wanted to be.

  Headlights shone through the kitchen window. Whipping off her apron, Yasmin flew down the darkened hallway. Seconds later, she heard keys jingle and Imani’s breezy voice. Her shoulders slumped. Where was he? Rashawn should have been here hours ago. Her repeated calls to his cell phone and home phone went unanswered. Concerned, she had phoned his mom. Johanna hadn’t heard from him, either, but told her not to worry.

  “Hijo probably lost track of the time. He’ll be there soon,” she assured.

  Trudging into the living room, she flopped down onto the couch. Where could he be? An image of Cheyenne and Rashawn at the charity fund-raiser popped into her head, but she shook off the thought. He had been his usual playful self when they spoke earlier in the day. Nothing was amiss. Besides, if he wanted another woman, he would tell her. Rashawn didn’t play games and he cared enough about her to be honest. Yasmin trusted him completely. There was no way he was romancing Cheyenne or anyone else. He made her feel safe, he catered to her and he was committed to her.

  Questions swirled around her head, deepening her fear. Something was wrong. Why else would he stand her up? Ever since she had found him unconscious, things had been tense between them. He thought she was overreacting; she thought he wasn’t taking it seriously enough. Deep down she knew the accident was more than just a case of fatigue, but she had suspended judgment until they had met with his doctor. After speaking to Dr. Gutierrez, her fears had finally been put to rest. “Athletes often faint as a result of fatigue, dehydration or exhaustion,” the genteel physician had explained. “But we’ll do an MRI just to make sure there’s nothing else going on.”

  Yasmin had left the clinic feeling twenty pounds lighter. And it felt good smiling and joking with Rashawn again. Since the doctor’s appointment, she had made a concerted effort not to hassle him and had been rewarded with sweet words, soft touches and tender kisses. Life had returned to normal and that’s how she wanted things to stay.

  Imani blew into the living room, chatting a mile a minute into her cell phone. Moving the phone away from her mouth, she said, “Yassie, what are you cooking? It smells great in here!”

  “Honey-glazed ribs, corn on the cob and garlic mashed potatoes.”

  Her forehead wrinkled. “When did you start eating meat?”

  “It’s not for me. It’s for Rashawn.”

  “Aren’t you sweet? I’m going to change. Mind if I stay for dinner?”

  Yasmin nodded. “Sure, the more the merrier.”

  “When are we eating?

  “As soon as Rashawn gets here.”

  Two hours later, Yamin cleared the table of the plates and cutlery. The ribs were cold, the salad soggy and the wine tepid. Her romantic, candlelit dinner for two turned out to be a quiet, uneventful meal for one. Imani had eaten but Yasmin wasn’t hungry. She was too worried to eat. Covering the leftovers with aluminum foil, she placed the containers in the bottom of the fridge and slammed the door shut.


  “Dinner was great, Sis. Keep making meals like that and I’ll be here every night,” Imani teased, putting her dishes in the sink. She hopped up onto the marble counter. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Imani eyed her sister. Yasmin was as far away from fine as a person could be. She wore a sad, worrisome expression and was stomping around the kitchen slamming cupboards and drawers. “Have you tried calling him again?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you want to know where he is?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want me to try?”

  Another one-word reply.

  “At least send him a text messa—”

  “Leave me alone, Imani. I’m fine.” Yasmin dropped plates into the dishwasher. “It’s Friday night. Why don’t you go to Dean’s house like you usually do?”

  Imani leapt off the counter like it was on fire. “I was only trying to help.” Mumbling under her breath, she snatched the bottle of Merlot off the table and stormed out of the room.

  Yasmin filled the sink with soapy water and scrubbed the Crock-Pot. The starless evening mirrored the darkness in her heart. Rashawn hadn’t returned her calls and worse, she didn’t know what she had done to warrant him treating her this way. She was a strong, spirited woman who deserved to be treated with the utmost respect. Isn’t that what he was always telling her? If he cared about her, why would he hurt her like this?

  The night was still young. She could call Katherine and meet up for drinks at their favorite bar. Yasmin swept away the thought. The only place she wanted to be was with Rashawn. She was desperate to hear his voice and was starving for one of his kisses. He was a ray of sunshine, a light, and seeing him always made the good even better. Unlike her relationship with Eric, she was able to love him without losing herself. She still hung out with her family, spent time at the community center and took regular women-only trips with her girlfriends.