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Claiming The Prize

Page 17

by Nadja Notariani


  “Vanessa?” Grace questioned.

  “Drago never told you about Vanessa? Well, I'm not surprised. He probably never wants to think of her again.”

  “Is that the girl he was engaged to? He told me he was engaged once, but that it didn't work out.”

  “Didn't work out! That is an understatement. Drago met Vanessa Kane when her family traveled here, to Slovakia, for her dad's work. Her family had some money, and she loved a good time. Back then, Drago was a lot wilder!” Ranelle laughed. “Anyway, she set her sights on Drago from day one. He was young and dumb, and he fell for her. She was very pretty. That didn't hurt, either.”

  “What happened?” Grace wondered aloud.

  “Well, Drago asked her to marry him, and she said yes. Sounds great, right? But he had a fight in Japan later that year, and he lost. She dropped him like that! What's worse is that she took up with the guy that Drago lost to – that night!”

  “That's awful!” Grace shuddered. “What did he do?”

  “What could he do? He came home and picked up his life. She got what was coming to her though. That woman had the nerve to come back after that guy dumped her, saying she had made a mistake and asking Drago to take her back. He didn't, of course. By that time, he realized that she had never been right for him.”

  “And you were worried that he'd be hurt again, weren't you?”

  “I was at first. But, Grace, Drago's happier than I've ever seen him. You've been good for him. I mean that. And I'm glad that we've gotten to know each other.

  “I am, too, Ranelle.”

  After a workout one evening, they sat together laughing over a particularly odd class dynamic. Anika, in the final days of her pregnancy, waddled in to meet Josip, who was upstairs in the locker.

  “Vitajte, Welcome,” Ranelle said offhandedly.

  “How are you?” Grace asked.

  “Miserable if you must know,” Anika snapped. Peering about the room, she complained, “Why isn't there a decent seat in here?”

  “I'll get you one,” Grace offered, rising from the mat.

  “What? And spoil your little circle time?”

  Grace ignored the remark and hauled a chair from the office, placing it on the edge of the mat. Anika managed to ease into the seat dramatically.

  “Could you have found a less comfortable chair? Unbelievable!”

  “Oh, Anika, shut up,” Ranelle said, rolling her eyes.

  She leaned toward Grace, laughing.

  “She's even more miserable than usual tonight!”

  This simple exchange altered Anika's behavior considerably, for Grace Zadrovec was no longer an outsider.

  * * *

  Sunshine reflected off the glittering, snow covered streets, and the wintry wonderland held Grace in awe. Curled in her favorite window seat, she gazed out the third story window. Heat from the radiator seeped through the cushioned bench beneath her, stealing away winter's sting and allowing her to enjoy the icy spectacle in comfort. The book in her lap long forgotten, she drank in the beautiful sight until its brightness forced her to look away.

  With only herself and Drago to care for and after being cooped up inside so much, their home sparkled. Grace had nothing to occupy her time. Her Mondays with Ilija had been canceled the last few weeks. Winter had ensured that. Long sessions on the phone with her father consumed much of her husband's free time. She knew they were planning his training and strategy – she itched to know the details – but, so far, Drago had been mute on the subject.

  Footsteps on the wooden stairs announced Drago's morning sessions were complete, and he broke through the door wearing a broad smile. Grateful for something to do, Grace busily arranged their simple meal on the table before beginning the tea.

  “Everything is settled, žena. We leave for America in a few days.”

  Twisting to face him, excitement and surprise showed in her eyes.

  “Really, Drago?”

  Amusement crossed his face.

  “Really, milovany. I thought you might be pleased,” he said against her ear. “And I am happy to see that I was correct.”

  “You've been secretly scheming with my father and keeping me in suspense for weeks, Drago Zadrovec! I ought to find some way to punish you!” She sighed and hugged him tightly. “But yes, I am pleased.”

  “You may punish me later, Grace,” he chuckled. “For now, let's eat.”

  During the course of their meal, Drago relayed all their plans for departure and arrival while Grace pummeled him with questions. Knowing the exceptionally harsh weather had kept his wife rather isolated, Drago beamed inwardly at seeing her exuberance. Making her happy had become his most ambitious goal. Her chattering stopped, the wide smile replaced with a drawn brow.

  “Oh. What about baby Lana and Ilija? And my students?”

  She paused, realizing that the joy of spending six and a half months with her father would also cause her great sorrow. Soberly pondering this thought, a strange longing took root in the pit of her stomach.

  “Don't worry, moja žena. Gabriel has offered to assume the instruction of your classes until we return. And I have arranged for Dubravko, Ilija, and Svetlana to visit us in March. It will be only a short visit, but will ease the separation for you - and Ilija, too.”

  Eyes shining, she stared at him lovingly.

  Softly she said, “You've thought of everything. Thank you.”

  He moved from his seat and gathered her to himself.

  “Why do you think it took two weeks, milovany? Your father and I were of one mind within a few days.”

  His smile only endeared him to her more deeply. As he carried her to their bed, she raised her head, an idea materializing.

  “I'll ask Ranelle to assist Gabriel! I think she'll like that.”

  “Plan later, Gracie,” his sultry tone intimated before he captured her lips.

  * * *

  Even Grace's great excitement waned as one delay followed another. The noise and bustle of Hamburg's terminal was now replaced with eerie quiet as exhausted travelers vainly sought comfort in their cramped seats. Carry on bags, now employed as footrests, littered the aisles, and one small child slumbered atop her parent's generous duffel. Frigid temperatures accompanied by ice kept the passengers in an uncertain limbo.

  Twenty wearying hours after arriving in Germany, the Zadrovecs boarded their flight to Philadelphia International Airport, and upon settling in their seats, Grace found herself unable to remain awake. The great jet roared through the air, arcing upward to shed the thick, gray mist which lay heavy and menacing, cloaking the earth below and the heavens above, but the dark journey through the clouds unfolded without notice by the sleeping couple.

  Dim light filtered through the cabin, enough dispersing to reveal the silhouettes of fellow passengers. Wondering how long he'd been sleeping, Drago checked his watch.

  Not long enough.

  Grace was propped against his side, still asleep. She shivered. Reaching to wrap her more closely into his warmth, he discovered her clothes were damp with perspiration, and when he touched her forehead, found her skin hot under his hand. Bunched in his lap lay the blanket she had purchased during their layover, and he pulled it over her. She stirred, then stilled again.

  The trip has worn her down, he reasoned. She'll be fine once she gets warm and sleeps her fill.

  Tucking her head under his chin, he held her. But as the hours passed, Drago's confidence in his thoughts began to crumble. Flushed cheeks burned against his chest hotly, yet her body shook uncontrollably in spurts. With worry mounting, he roused her.

  “Gracie, wake up.”

  A whimper was all she managed.

  “Come awake, moja žena. Look at me.”

  She did, causing his concern to spike. Dull eyes looked through him, and her teeth chattered violently.

  “You need medicine for your fever.”

  He fumbled with his bag in search of ibuprofen tablets, and producing them, encouraged her to take them with
the water he offered.

  “I don't want anything. I'm not hungry,” she mumbled.

  “Gracie, you must take these,” he firmly insisted.

  Pushing the tablets into her mouth, Drago tipped the bottle at her lips.

  “Drink, žena.”

  An eternity seemed to pass before they landed. Drago could not get his wife off the plane fast enough. He had dosed her a second time with the fever reducer, but it only held her fever at bay, and he prayed he could get her to her father's home before it ravaged her again. Dark circles ringed her hollow eyes, and she teetered on delirium. Spotting Guy with the Friar beside him brought relief washing over Drago. They would have her home quickly. Easily managing their carry-on bags, he guided Grace toward her father.

  Guy's face registered the concern etched on his son-in-law's before he caught sight of his daughter. Advancing, Guy closed the distance in a moment. Drago rapidly explained what was wrong.

  “Grace is burning with fever. We need to get her home. I've given her something, but it isn't helping much.”

  The Friar had heard and seen enough.

  “I'll get the vehicle. Meet me in front.”

  “I'll take Grace,” Guy said, taking her arm. “Can you manage the bags alone, Drago?”

  “Of course. Just worry about Grace. I'll be there as quickly as I can.”

  Fortunately, they traveled in the opposite direction of the morning traffic, and the SUV sped down the highway. There were no observations on this ride, no interesting histories given by his wife. Weak and ill, she slept, her head in Drago's lap until the familiar guest house welcomed them. Guy had seen to its readiness, and once Grace had been put in bed, Guy spoke with Drago.

  “I'll have a doctor here shortly. Do you need anything?”

  “No, sir. Thank you. Only the doctor.”

  “Relax, son,” the older man said. “She'll be all right.”

  But for days her fever raged. Doc Haviland declared it a flu-like viral infection, prescribing rest, fluids, and something for comfort. After his examination, he had drawn her blood and tests were run, proving that she had no infection that required antibiotics. None of this eased Drago's mind. Never leaving her side, he sponged her with cool water and spooned ice into her protesting lips. He prayed.

  On the evening of the fourth day, Dr. Haviland reasoned that if the fever did not break by morning, it would be time to admit Grace to the hospital.

  Guy stayed with them throughout the night, battling alongside Drago against this unseen adversary that threatened his daughter. Guy succumbed to worry and exhaustion after the witching hour passed, and Drago again took up his vigil. Completing his ritual of a cooling bath and medicating Grace, he wrapped his body around hers. He raged in defiance against the feeling of powerlessness that mocked him until his heart ached and his eyes burned with tears of frustration and worry.

  God! Help her! Help me.

  In his fear, he remembered the truth.

  Not my will, Father, but thy Will be done.

  The echo of the words poured through his heart and mind. He had never been in control. Ultimately, Grace was not his. She was in the hands of her Creator. Somehow, the thought brought him the peace that had eluded him for days. A peace he had denied himself by trusting in his own power and the power of other men.

  “Father, Your ways are above my ways. I trust in Your mercy and goodness. Thank you for blessing my life with Grace. I have loved and been loved. It is more than I deserved. Still, I ask for more – that you allow her to remain with me. But no matter what You decide, I will praise Your Name.”

  In prayer, Drago continued until sleep overtook him.

  Awaking with a start, Drago realized Grace was not in their bed, and he flipped back the quilt hurriedly to search her out. Before he could move, she shuffled out of the adjoining bathroom. Disheveled and pale, she sought the warmth of bed. When she looked at him, he knew the fever had broken. A weak smile touched her lips as she eased under the weight of the welcoming covers, and Drago's hands frantically pressed to her head in search of reassurance.

  “Thank God, moja žena!” he sighed with relief. “Co m?zem urobit pre vás, What can I do for you?”

  “A drink would be nice,” she murmured.

  Holding her head, he helped her. She was weak and fragile in his hands, but the worst had passed. He massaged her aching body tenderly, and when she again slept, he slipped from the bed to share the news with his father-in-law.

  Chapter 15

  Guy insisted that Drago begin training the day after Grace's fever broke and they had the assurance she was on the way to recovery. Strength training, sprinting, and sparring consumed Drago's days, blurring one into the next. He taped his feet and braced his legs, fighting against the pain in his body to forge a quicker, stronger self. The team at First Strike honed their protege as the days slipped into weeks.

  Sinking to the mat with a water bottle after an intense round of cardio training, Drago's eyes spied the impossible. Every nerve in his body went on alert when Carson walked into First Strike. After weeks of training, Drago hadn't given one thought to seeing the man. Especially here. Standing motionless, his anger transformed to shock as he saw the infant in Carson's arms. With unbelieving eyes, he watched St. Clair hurry to take the tiny girl, bouncing her in his hands to the baby's obvious delight.

  Returning to where Drago stood, St. Clair cooed, “Lookie what we got here, little Miss. You ready to rough this guy up with your Uncle St. Clair?”

  The man disappeared, returning to hang a seat attached to stretchy springs on a vacant hook in the empty heavy-bag area. Struggling to get the little girl's kicking legs into the cloth seat, St. Clair looked exasperatedly at Drago.

  “Don't just stand there like that, get on over here and help me, man!”

  Drago moved, not knowing exactly why.

  “Put her little legs through the holes. Lord have mercy! You act like you ain't never seen no baby before!”

  Correction. He had never seen Carson's baby before. Carson and his baby in First Strike. St. Clair cooing as if he welcomed a baby every day into a mixed martial arts facility. Oh God! A baby in the gym. How would Gracie take this?

  A full ten months had passed since the night she had cried in his arms. She hadn't broached the subject again, but Drago knew she was reminded of it each time proof showed that they had not yet conceived.

  Why this? Why now?

  He knew he must tell her before she stumbled upon it, and his heart worried she would find it a stinging slap to the face.

  * * *

  Guy Antolini paused the DVD player and addressed the Friar.

  “Drago can beat Souva. Without a doubt. But he's got to handle him in the first round.”

  “The key to this fight is controlling Souva's movement. Drago's stand-up is better, his hands quicker. But Souva will be effective at neutralizing Drago's ability to use the legs. He's going to pursue a ground game strategy, Anto, and he's damned good at it. Drago's strength, if it goes to the ground early, should cool Elian's heels for wanting to go there again, but he's got to survive the initial assault.”

  “Can Drago keep Souva in full guard if the takedown scenario plays out, Yves?”

  “When, Anto, not if. And, yes, he can. We're working takedown defense hard, but a fresh Elian is a danger.”

  “What about a submission by our boy?”

  The Friar took a moment to think.

  “If an opportunity presents itself, Drago will submit him, but I don't think he should get caught up in looking for it until Elian shows signs of tiring. Maybe after Drago softens him up. Souva is ground and pound all the way, so he'll look for the full mount. I want Drago's focus on stopping that first.”

  “Work up your plan. It's time for phase two,” Guy finished.

  “One more thing,” the Friar added with a grin. “Do you remember Jean Luke?”

  Guy snorted his affirmation, mirth crinkling the corners of his eyes.

  “As
if anyone could forget Jean Luke.”

  “I'd like Drago to work with him.”

  When Guy remained silent, Yves continued.

  “He's not the most savory character, I know. But his unorthodox style will be a great benefit to our Slovak. Souva will be expecting pure Antolini jujitsu. It's the best, but Souva trains in the Brazilian method, which is also very good, and Zadrovec hasn't encountered that yet. Jean Luke's techniques will add a nice surprise to our fighter's ground game.”

  When the older man leaned back in his chair, Yves knew he had chosen his moment well.

  Leaving the office, Yves said, “Think about it, Anto.”

  Guy already was.

  * * *

  Daylight waned under bleak, blanketing clouds eclipsing the heavens. The dank grayness cast its sickly pallor upon all it touched, infecting its subjects with a lethargic spell. Fighters and trainers strove to combat the gloomy atmosphere, pushing hard through the afternoon's workouts. Drago's fists slammed into the heavy-bag violently, venting his anger at Carson's presence and the worry for his wife, but the day dragged on unnaturally, keeping him from her.

  Brightness suddenly overtook the expansive First Strike floor when the Friar turned on the lighting, and relief from the oppressive dullness was tangible in the air. Moving to the next station in his workout, Drago began to heave the leaden medicine ball above his head, counting off as he worked toward his goal of thirty repetitions before returning to the bag for his final set, and he struggled to allow the illumination to brighten his own dark mood.

  The Friar's words in the distance sucked the breath from his lungs.

  “Gracie! Glad to see you out and about!”

  The ball dropped heavily to the mat as Drago made for his wife.

  “Thank you,” Grace said in wry cheerfulness. “I thought I'd come down to see that my husband is being tortured sufficiently. And I needed to get out of the house,” she added, grinning in conspiratorial laughter with the Friar.

  Drago stepped between them.

  “What are you doing out in this weather, milovany? It's too cold and damp for you. You should be at home, resting.”

 

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