Claiming The Prize

by Nadja Notariani

  “Drink,” the Friar ordered.

  Drago opened his mouth, swirled the liquid, then spit it out.

  “Let's go, let's go!”

  The second round, the Brazilian switched stance and faked a kick before lunging again for Drago's leg. The shot was deep, forcing Drago backward until the metal cage halted his retreat. Drago heavily pushed down on his opponent's head while hipping out, fighting off the takedown. Forcing his arm under Souva's shoulder to break his control, Drago drove his shoulder into the man's jaw, but as he turned, Souva abandoned the takedown, transitioning to a lateral drop that sent Drago careening toward the canvas. He gained his bearings in time to clutch Souva's arms, preventing damage from punches as the Brazilian assumed side control. But Elian immediately began slamming his knee into Drago's ribcage. The force of the blow knocked the breath from his body, and Drago knew he had to escape this perilous position. He maneuvered out to the side as Souva followed with the punishing knees.

  Either get out or you are finished, he told himself as another knee landed. He felt the shock in his ribcage.

  With every ounce of strength he could muster, still clutching Souva's upper body in his vice-like grip, Drago rolled through, taking Souva with him, reversing their position so that he was now in side control.

  The stunned expression in Elian's eyes at the unexpected roll made each week with the eccentric Jean Luke inestimably valuable. Drago delivered brutal damage in return as the Friar's words raced through the edges of his mind.

  Survive the first takedown. Steal Souva's confidence by negating his ground dominance. Achieve mental victory, and physical victory will follow.

  I have done it, he thought as the round ended.

  He jumped up, eager to get to his corner. Searing pain ripped through his side as he straightened, forcing him back to his knees as his lungs sucked hungrily for air that refused to fill his chest. His mind registered what the adrenaline had masked in his body.

  His ribs were broken.

  Rising again, Drago wisely remained partially hunched, unwilling to chance discovery and the possibility that the fight would be stopped. Breathing in shallow pants, he reached his corner without drawing the doctor's attention.

  Acutely aware of the hovering camera men, the Friar spoke in a rapid, hushed whisper.

  “They're broken?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you breathe?”

  “Shallow.”

  “Slow it down. Now deeply.”

  The approach of cameras brought Guy close in front of Drago's face, and his father-in-law grabbed his attention away from the gnawing pain by speaking to him in his native tongue. Drago understood why he didn't want the content of their conversation to be understood, but he was still surprised to learn that Guy had taken the time to learn Slovakian.

  “Môzete pokracovat? Can you continue?”

  “Nebudem sa zastavi, I will not be stopped.”

  The quick nod of Guy's head showed that the man would support his decision.

  “Drago, listen to me carefully. Protect the side at all times. Elbows in, head tucked. Throw elbows. Your punches will not be as effective now. Force yourself to breathe deeply. You'll have to fight through the pain.”

  Guy directed him, the words tumbling into nothingness before he comprehended their form. Water poured into his mouth, and coolness covered his neck, both familiar routines that tethered him to the moment, keeping him from succumbing to the pain.

  Back in the center of the ring, it took him a moment to recall how he'd gotten there. But it didn't matter. Brutal instinct and sheer heart had him in their enthrallment now, and his muscles obeyed their keening call. Punish and defeat. Conjuring every ounce of determination housed in his soul, Drago worked into striking distance, slamming his elbows into a battered Souva tirelessly. He registered no feeling as Souva countered with a straight right, smashing into his own beaten face. Struggling to draw air, Drago willed his body to endure.

  Just a minute or two more! This fight is so close! Don't give up one second early! His mind screamed these encouragements and commands in his foggy thoughts.

  But even heart could not sustain his body as his lung was punctured by the broken ribs in his body. Driving forward, throwing devastating blows in effort to finish the fight, Drago crumpled to the mat. His body could not go on. Souva recovered his wits and pounced on him, but Drago never felt the blow that ended the fight, losing consciousness before Souva claimed the victory.

  Guy beat the medical team to Drago's body, face down on the canvas.

  As they rapidly tried to figure out why the fighter had collapsed, Guy informed them, “His ribs are broken.”

  The doctor ordered everyone about quickly.

  “Get the ambulance ready. His lung may be punctured.”

  The enormous crowd was eerily quiet as Drago's body was secured on the backboard and lifted out of the octagon. Guy and the Friar followed the stretcher to the waiting ambulance, helpless to do more. As Guy climbed behind the wheel of his rental, he turned to the Friar.

  “Go get Grace and tell her he's alright for chrissake!”

  Not sure he believed Guy's brave words, the Friar headed to Grace's hotel room, knowing he would lie to her if necessary to keep her calm.

  * * *

  Grace sat staring at the television in shocked disbelief. She had known Drago was hurt after the second round. Unable to tear her eyes away, she had watched as he battled for every point scored. Grace couldn't have been prouder of him. His final foray had been glorious to her eyes, for she knew it was all heart. Gasping in horror as his body slammed to the canvas, Grace fought the nauseating panic that flooded her stomach. Waiting for her father or the Friar was almost more than she could bear, and she paced the lonely floor of their hotel room, nervous energy humming through her with torturous intensity.

  What was taking so long?

  The Friar knocked at the door, breaking Grace's calm. She twisted the handle with shaking hands, studying Yves' benign expression for any betrayal of how serious the situation was before standing aside to let him enter, but he remained guarded as he reassured her.

  “Everything is going to be fine. Come on, Grace. Let's get you ready to go.”

  Duress had caused her to forget that she wore her nightgown and robe still.

  “Oh,” she said, surprised at herself. “I'll be ready in a minute.”

  Dressing quickly, she grabbed the closest items she could find, too anxious to care what she looked like. Yves followed behind her, grabbing her bag and a sweater.

  “Is your room key in here?” he asked, pausing at the door with the bag in hand.

  She nodded and they hurried down to the waiting car.

  “You need to say something right now, Yves Friarsson!”

  Her voice bordered hysteria and demand.

  “Grace, calm down. Drago is alright. He broke his ribs is all.”

  “Fighters don't drop unconscious from broken ribs, and you know I know it!” she snapped. “Stop acting as if I'm some fragile drama queen like Bennadito's wife. I'm not, and I'd appreciate some honesty right now.”

  Channeling her father's sternness had been the right move, and the Friar dropped his head.

  “I'm sorry, Grace. I just didn't want to upset you with the baby and all. Drago knew his ribs were broken after the second round, but he wanted to finish the fight. He hadn't really taken any other damage out of the ordinary for a slug-fest like he and Souva put on.”

  Even the worrisome circumstances couldn't suppress the smile of admiration lifting the corners of the Friar's mouth, and this show set Grace's mind more at ease.

  “Your Dad's best guess is that his lung is punctured. I guess the doctor agreed. That's all I know. Really.”

  The smile had faded, and Grace saw the worry of a friend in Yves' eyes.

  “A punctured lung is preferable to what I've been imagining, Friar.”

  The Friar concentrated on finding his way, leaving Grace precious
time to collect herself and process the information. Her mind told her that Drago would be fine. He was a strong man and would recover. Her heart, however, still feared the worst, and in the midst of her warring faculties, their child stirred within her strongly. Covering the sweet, fluttering sensation with her hand, she caged her emotions as clarity dawned. She must face whatever was to be with strength and peace.

  Yves' phone vibrated loudly against the gray console, returning her attention to the present.

  “Look at it, Grace,” the Friar said, his eyes searching the street signs.

  Grabbing the phone, Grace devoured the typed message, letting her breath out in a rush.

  “He's awake and stable. Punctured lung. No ventilator, breathing on own, and asking for Grace.”

  Having related the text's content, she replaced the phone and helped Yves locate a parking spot. Relief was palpable in her voice.

  “There's one,” Grace pointed to the empty slot.

  The long corridor stretched endlessly before her, its dull, white walls and floor surrounding Grace in stark bareness. Passing rows of closed doors, she shuddered, the pungent antiseptic smell in the air assaulting her nostrils. Around the next corner, glass doors rose from floor to ceiling bearing the letters ICU in bold block characters. Curiously, the area for intensive care patients appeared bright and comfortable in contrast to the dismal place she had traversed on her way.

  Her father waited just inside, and he hugged Grace tightly when she entered.

  “Are you alright? The baby?”

  The worry in his voice touched her.

  “I'm fine, Dad. But I want to see my husband.”

  “Of course, honey. This way. They've given him some medicine for pain, and he's resting now.”

  One of the nurses ushered the Friar into the family waiting area as Guy led Grace to Drago's cubicle. A single, solid wall rose up behind the bed, the remaining sides transparent panels with fabric drapes that could be drawn for privacy. The urge to rush to him and beg for his assurance that he was all right demanded she obey, but Grace reined in her emotions, easing herself into the chair beside him, careful of the equipment surrounding him.

  She longed to press her lips to his forehead, which remained unscathed above his bruised eye and swollen cheeks, but refrained so as not to disturb his rest. His closed eyes did not open as his hand reached for her.

  “You came,” he mumbled.

  “Som tu, Drago,” she assured him.

  The pain medication left him in a drugged haze, past and present mingling in his mind, spilling out in semi-lucid murmurings.

  “I lost, Gracie. I lost...”

  “Shh. We'll talk about that later. All that matters is that you're all right.”

  “She never came..., but you did.”

  Grace's heart melted at hearing his hidden fears, and she stroked his hand to ease his mind.

  “I knew you would,” he whispered, squeezing her hand in his.

  She stayed by his side throughout the night, drifting off to sleep in the recliner next to Drago, waking to assure him she was still there when he half awoke, calling for her.

  * * *

  By afternoon, Drago was fully awake and in much better shape. The chest tube had been removed, and the pulmonary specialist's prognosis was guarded but optimistic. Having this news, Drago insisted that his wife return to the hotel to rest.

  “I am much better today, moja žena. Go and rest. I will only worry if you stay and exhaust yourself.”

  “I can rest here,” she reasoned.

  “Sipková, allow me the upper hand in this, prosim, please.”

  Grace didn't have the heart to deny his request. Allowing her father to return her to the hotel, she fell into bed and surrendered to sleep's envelopment.

  * * *

  Four days later, Drago was discharged. It was recommended that he not fly so soon after a lung injury, so the party of four set off, driving across Pennsylvania's rolling landscape toward home. Under strict orders to observe six weeks of complete rest, Drago planned to enjoy his wife's company and to design his graduated workout schedule. Through Guy, he found out that Souva had requested a rematch immediately following the fight, and had called upon Derek Sloba to make it happen as soon as Drago was ready to return to the ring. Aware of how close he had been to a victory when he collapsed and after discovering the nature of Drago's injury, Sloba had made the announcement that a new fight would indeed take place between the contenders after he had spoken with Drago on the phone.

  The goal was to be back in top form by next April – nine months away – providing his recovery progressed without incident. The long flight to Bratislava out of the question for now, Drago accepted Guy's offer to complete his recovery and training with team Anto-Engage. In fact, the men discussed much bigger plans.

  Aligning their vision would require more serious talk on the matter, but Drago welcomed the opportunity to merge Spar-Slava with First Strike/Anto-Engage, well aware, as was his father-in-law, that the power play would catapult them to the status of the premier MMA training team not only in the AMMAO, which would lend credibility to Spar-Slava, but Drago's recent years and victories in the WOMA would bring his contacts from that organization into their fold.

  Drago chuckled to himself. Dynasty building, indeed. The thought prompted him to reach over and palm his wife's rounded abdomen.

  For you, dieta, little one.

  A vigorous kick beneath where his hand lay transcended this first tactile encounter with his child into a surreal instant of clarity. The strength of the event caused his wife to start under his hand, and Drago could only smile at her open-mouthed surprise.

  I am becoming a father in this moment. I am responsible for this life. And by my actions, I will shape this child, whether for better or for worse.

  Overwhelmed by the genesis of understanding, Drago prayed for guidance and wisdom to meet the awesome, wonderful task, asking his Father in heaven to forgive his shortcomings and heal them, that he not impart them to his child.

  * * *

  The slow, often painful process of his rehabilitation drove Drago Zadrovec onward, feeding his determination. Meeting his weekly goals, exceeding them occasionally, he pushed toward his goal.

  The title.

  Dr. Haviland monitored his health closely, and the pulmonary specialist that had been called in finally gave the release to resume full activity eight weeks after his discharge from the hospital. Drago would see him once or twice more for routine follow ups, but neither man foresaw any complications. Now the process of rebuilding began. He suffered from some shortness of breath, and increasing bouts of cardio exertion were alternated with periods of rest in the first weeks of his full time return to the gym.

  “Okay, Drago,” St. Clair called out. “Take ten.”

  For the first time since resuming his training, Drago ended the cardio burst session breathing through his nose, mouth closed. It was progress. Pacing the perimeter of the mats to ease his heart rate slowly, he noticed Carson chasing around the ring near the rear of the gym's floor.

  “Kady! Stop!”

  The tiny blond shrieked with laughter, rounding the corner. Toddling as fast as her little legs would carry her, it appeared to Drago that she would topple over with each precarious slap of her foot to the floor, but she continued in wild abandon, oblivious to the danger. Yellow pigtails bounced in time with her hurried steps as she raced toward Drago.

  “Kadence Annette Khaler...,” Carson warned, following after her to reclaim the paper she had pilfered from his clipboard.

  Drago could not help but laugh at the sight of Carson, completely undone by the miniature, mirror image of the man as she gleefully evaded his attempts to catch her. Darting to make a grab for the little girl, Drago snatched her from her flight, lifting her up into the air. Worried that he had frightened her, he lowered her to his chest, but her delighted squeals prompted him to toss her again.

  “Thanks,” Carson smiled, catching up to
them. “She's crazy about this new game of hers.”

  Removing the single sheet of paper from her clutches, Carson set it aside and held his arms out to his daughter.

  “Come here my naughty little Kady-did.”

  Kadence ignored his offer, grabbing Drago's cheek with one hand and pointing with the other.

  “Up!” she exclaimed.

  A weary smile spread across Carson's mouth.

  “I'm afraid you've made friends with an inexhaustible playmate. Here, I'll take her. But thanks again. At least this time she didn't rip up my trainee's schedule.”

  Drago chuckled. He tossed the barely there weight of her again, rewarded with her deep belly laugh of sheer joy.

  “I believe you have a daredevil in this one,” Drago noted wryly, relinquishing her to her father.

  “God help me! I think you're right,” Carson answered with a shake of his head.

  Silence threatened an awkward moment before Drago spoke again.

  “Grace would probably be happy to take her out for the afternoon.”

  He let the words linger in the air as he headed back to the mat to resume his training. From the balcony overhead, Grace watched in pleased silence. The men had found peace.

  Chapter 19

  Sparring was out of the question. It had been for some time, and Grace, unable to sit idly, had taken up yoga. Peeking through her legs as she held the downward facing dog position, she welcomed her husband cheerily.

  “Hey there, stranger! Are you finished for the day?”

  “Even if I were not, the sight of you in such a tempting fashion would make it so,” he commented in a deep, silky tone.

  Coming up behind her, he wrapped his arms around her waist.

  “Are you attempting to distract me?” she jested.

  “I am distracting you,” he replied honestly as his hands roved her bottom.

  Releasing the pose, she sank to the yoga mat. The peach t-shirt and leggings clung to her, outlining her trim body, the growing belly resembling a ball stuffed under her shirt.

  “You become sexier by the day, milovany,” he husked, continuing his wandering perusal.