Against the Ropes

by Sarah Castille

toward the ring, using my first aid kit as a battering ram. When I reach

  the raised platform, I stagger back in relief. The warm-up fighters are

  just leaving the ring. I’m not too late after all.

  Max and the Pulverizer climb into their corners. The crowd cheers.

  Max’s tattoos gleam in the overhead light. A sweaty Pulverizer glows like

  a honey-glazed ham.

  Amanda comes up beside me, and her eyes widen. “Ohmigod,” she

  breathes. “He’s a mammoth. They must have just pulled him out of the

  ice. He’s three times the size of Max. Look at his hands. They’re like

  bricks.” She lifts an eyebrow. “You know what they say about the size

  of a man’s hands.”

  “Amanda! Do you ever think about anything except sex?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yes. I think about debt collectors chasing my

  best friend, the occasional legal brief, but that’s it.”

  “Max is a good fighter. He’ll use brains instead of brawn.”

  “Brains aren’t going to save him,” she hisses. “One hit from the

  Pulverizer and his head will split open like a melon.”

  “Amanda!”

  “Sorry. It just doesn’t seem like a fair fight.”

  The crowd hoots and hollers. I turn back to the ring; Pinkaluscious

  climbs through the ropes, clad in her trademark pink Lycra. Her horse-

  hair ponytail flaps in the nonexistent breeze. She trots over to Max and

  throws her arms around him. This time, however, she doesn’t stop at a

  hug. She presses her mouth to his lips and gives him a deep, long, wet

  kiss. The crowd heckles. My stomach heaves.

  “Maybe I made a mistake.”

  “No.” Amanda grabs my arm and holds me fast. “They aren’t

  together. He still wants you.”

  “How could you possibly know that?” My voice rises high enough

  to attract the attention of the people around us.

  “Because he’s looking at you,” she murmurs. “And his heart is in

  his eyes.”

  I glance up. Max is watching me. Like magic, his hard eyes heat

  and soften. A smile ghosts his lips. In that split second, I know I am

  forgiven. And I know something else.

  I love him.

  Obsidian clears out the front row with a low growl, and we take our

  seats behind the Pulverizer. I drum my fingers on the first aid kit until

  Amanda smacks my hand to make me stop.

  The bell rings. Max and the Pulverizer dance around, feeling each

  other out. The Pulverizer moves forward with a jab and front kick, and

  Max comes back with a one-two punch. The Pulverizer staggers back

  and Max hits him again, this time in the jaw. My stomach clenches but

  I refuse to take my eyes off the ring.

  The Pulverizer shakes his head and charges in with a few more right

  hooks. Max avoids them easily, but the Pulverizer is unstoppable. He

  tries to take Max down, but Max evades him and gives him another

  double punch. He moves in and out so fast it looks like he’s dancing.

  “Max…Torment seems to have the edge so far,” I whisper

  to Obsidian.

  “That’s because he’s dominant in boxing. As long as he stays on

  his feet he’ll be able to hold his own. But he’ll be in trouble on the

  mat. The Pulverizer is known for his grapple technique. He used to

  be a pro wrestler.”

  The Pulverizer attacks Max with kicks from his long legs. Max side-

  steps them and jabs him in the nose. Blood trickles over the Pulverizer’s

  lip. The round ends and Max retreats to his corner. Jake, Homicide, and

  Blade Saw give him water, pat him down, and talk him up.

  The bell rings and Max goes on the attack, thudding his knee into

  the Pulverizer’s solar plexus, and then taking him down to the mat.

  “That’s a double-leg takedown,” I say to Amanda. She snorts a laugh

  and shakes her head. “You’ve been hanging out here way too much. I

  never thought I’d hear you of all people describing fight moves to me.”

  “The Pulverizer is going for a guillotine,” Obsidian says.

  Sounds scary. I clutch the handle of the first aid kit so hard, my

  knuckles turn white.

  The fighters break apart and grapple on the mat. Obsidian lets out

  a long, low whistle. “Didn’t slow Torment down. He’s looking for a

  kimura now.”

  “Watch,” I say to Amanda. “He’ll twist himself around the

  Pulverizer like a pretzel.”

  The pretzel never happens. Instead Max gets on top of the Pulverizer

  and hammers him with punches.”

  The second round ends and I take a deep breath. So far so good. I’m

  still here. My dinner is still in my stomach. Max isn’t seriously injured.

  The Pulverizer starts the third round with a slew of desperate

  punches. His long arms windmill around and Max gets caught. He reels

  back, and the Pulverizer moves in with one brutal punch after another.

  He drops to the mat, and the Pulverizer keeps on him. Punch after

  punch. Max’s face is covered in blood. He rolls toward the ropes, but

  he doesn’t tap out.

  My entire body seizes up. I scream at Obsidian to stop the fight. I

  yell for Jake. Homicide. Anybody. I run up to the ring. Amanda is right

  behind me.

  Shilla the Killa in her striped referee shirt calls a halt. She waves

  the Pulverizer to the corner nearest us and crouches down beside Max.

  Sweat drips off the Pulverizer’s back and splashes on the floor. Our

  noses wrinkle. The Pulverizer reaches behind him and digs into his

  shorts. Amanda and I share a glance and mouth to each other, “Gross.”

  What is not gross, however, is the set of brass knuckles he pulls out

  of God knows where. Only Amanda and I, standing directly behind

  him, see him slip them on seconds before Shilla says the fight can go on.

  Max struggles to a crouch. The Pulverizer strides across the mat

  toward him.

  “Max,” I scream. “He’s got a weapon.” But, I’m too late. The

  Pulverizer smashes his fist into Max’s skull. One hit is all it takes. Brass

  knuckles are illegal for a reason. Max sags to his knees, and I am up the

  stairs and in the ring, running, running across the mat. I throw myself

  between them. I hold up my hands and scream.

  “Enough. He’s down. Leave him alone.”

  No one steps into the ring. No one comes to help us. Jake leans over

  the ropes and shakes his head. Max is down, but he isn’t limp and he

  hasn’t tapped out. I’m breaking the rules.

  I don’t fucking care.

  Light streams into my eyes casting the Pulverizer in shadow.

  Darkness flickers at the corners of my mind. He grabs my wrists and

  lifts me up in the air and away from Max. I kick. I scream. My foot

  hits his sternum. He drops me and I crawl back to Max. The Pulverizer

  grabs me around the waist and tosses me through the air.

  My back smacks hard against the pole. Dazed, I slide to the mat.

  My vision wavers. I fumble behind me, trying to orient myself and then

  I feel the handle of the first aid kit slide into my hand. I look over my

  shoulder. Amanda.

  “He needs you,” she says quietly.

  I push myself to my feet. My missing memories come flooding

  back. Susie pushing
the bat into my hand. My father lunging at my

  mother. My first pathetic attempt to slow him down. My second swing,

  from up by my ear like Grandpa Joe showed me. The crack as the bat hit

  his head. Susie and I watching him crumple to the ground, moaning. I

  wasn’t a victim. I had fight. I didn’t give up then. I won’t give up now.

  I stalk across the mat. The Pulverizer is kicking Max in the ribs.

  Max is moaning, too far gone to tap out. I don’t hesitate. I break into a

  run and aim the end of the first aid kit at his diaphragm, exactly where

  Max hit Homicide. One hit had Homicide down on the mat. I don’t

  need to be strong. I need to be accurate. I never thought my EMT

  training would be so useful.

  The Pulverizer does not see me coming. My strike is dead on. He

  falls to the ground, gasping for air. He taps out and his handlers run in

  to help him.

  I drop to my knees beside Max. He isn’t moving. His face is gray

  and his skin is clammy. I check his pupils and sit back on my heels.

  Dread winds its way up my spine and through my body to squeeze my

  heart. He’s going to die. I never got to tell him I love him.

  Amanda climbs into the ring and sits beside me. “Do something.

  Help him.”

  “I’m not a paramedic. I can’t help him. Call 911.”

  “Jake called them already, but right now, you’re all he’s got.” She

  opens my first aid kit. “Tell me what to do.”

  “Pray.”

  “No,” she shouts. “You can do this. You can save him.”

  Max’s eyes flicker open. He looks around and his eyes meet mine.

  He lifts his hand and strokes my cheek. “Baby,” he whispers, “I’m glad

  you’re here.” His eyes close and his body goes limp.

  I can’t see through the tears streaming down my cheeks. “Max!”

  I grab his shoulders. “Max. Don’t you dare leave me again. Once

  was enough.”

  Amanda fumbles in my first aid kit. “I guess I’ll have to treat him

  myself. Looks like he needs a bandage on his head.”

  She unrolls a tensor bandage, and I grab her wrist. “You can’t wrap

  that around his head. We need gauze.”

  “Gauze it is.” She hands me the sterile package, and I tear it open

  and press it to the bleeding wound on Max’s head.

  “I guess we should poke him with something next.” She pulls out

  an epinephrine injector. “This looks painful. Where should I stick it?”

  “No.” I grab the injector and throw it back. “That’s not what he

  needs right now.”

  “What does he need?”

  “Ice. Stabilization. I need to check his pulse and breathing. I need a

  blanket.” I glance over at her smiling face. “I know what you’re doing.”

  “Good. Now he has a chance.”

  Four hours later Max is wheeled into his room in the ICU. Colton

  and I jump up from our chairs. The attending physician informs us

  the tests are clear. No fractures or brain damage. He diagnoses brain

  swelling and a severe concussion. He can’t predict when Max will

  regain consciousness.

  “Mr. Huntington has a hard head,” Colton murmurs after the

  doctor leaves.

  “The hardest.”

  Colton snorts a laugh, and I manage a half smile.

  “Am I missing the party?” Pinkaluscious pulls back the curtain.

  Although she is almost unrecognizable in dress pants, pearls, and a silk

  blouse, I would recognize that fake, platinum blond hair anywhere.

  “Sandy.” Colton holds out his arms.

  “Oh, Colton.” Pinkaluscious evades his arms and air-kisses him.

  The urge to toss her out on her bony ass surges through me like a tidal

  wave, or maybe I should take a picture and post it on Twitter.

  “What’s she doing here?” Pinkaluscious asks, her eyes flicking

  to me.

  “You know why she’s here. She’s Max’s girl.”

  “I’m Max’s girl,” she snaps. “He told me he broke it off with her.

  He was coming home with me tonight.”

  I hold my breath hoping her mascara will run as she fake sobs beside

  Max’s bed. Or maybe one of her false eyelashes will come off. Better yet,

  she might trip over her four-inch stilettos and chip a tooth.

  “You were,” he says quietly. “You aren’t now.”

  “She’s the reason he’s lying in that bed.” Pinkaluscious glares at me.

  “She drove him to it. He couldn’t deal with the stress. Normal fights

  weren’t enough.” She looks over Colton’s shoulder and gives me a self-

  satisfied evil bitch grin. “She sent him back to me.”

  My hands clench into fists and my jaw twitches. I will not lower

  myself to her standards. I will not catfight. I will hold up my head and

  walk away.

  “I hope she suffers,” she continues as if I wasn’t standing in the

  room. “Look at Max. Look what she did to him. She should crawl back

  under her rock and leave Max with his own kind.”

  “What kind is that?” My seething and inquiring mind wants to know.

  “The better kind. Society.”

  Colton excuses himself and leaves the room, mumbling something

  about catfights. I should have told him Makayla Delaney does not do

  fights—catfights, fistfights, or otherwise.

  Or maybe I do.

  “He told me he wanted no part of it,” I say. “Or you.”

  “That’s why we should have been together.” A tear trickles down

  her rosy cheek. “We were perfect for each other.”

  “So what happened?” Please tell me. Please tell me. Please tell me.

  “He said I wasn’t the one. I wanted more than he could give.”

  “What could you possibly want that he wouldn’t give?”

  She turns to face me, her eyes devoid of expression. “Pain.”

  “Pain?”

  She sighs. “Never mind. You couldn’t possibly understand. He

  just…couldn’t hurt me.”

  Gah. TMI. Where’s the bleach?

  “To be perfectly honest,” she continues, “I don’t know what he sees

  in you. You have nothing to offer him. You don’t have a pedigree or

  money or even connections. And I can tell by looking at you that you

  sure as heck can’t give him what he needs in the bedroom.”

  “I can give him love.”

  She rolls her eyes. “And how’s that working out for you?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  She searches through her insanely expensive Birkin handbag and

  pulls out her phone. A piece of paper falls out. She bends down to pick

  it up. Her bony ass waves in front of me. I whip my old phone out of

  my jacket pocket. The antiquated camera takes grainy pictures at best,

  but I don’t need twenty megapixels to get my point across.

  Don’t do it. Don’t do it. SNAP. I do it.

  She kisses Max lightly on the forehead. “Tell him I said good-bye. I

  found a way to break with the family. He knows how to find me.”

  “He wasn’t going home with you tonight, was he?” I say, on a hunch.

  Pinkaluscious shoves aside the curtain and then looks back over

  her shoulder and sighs. “He said there was no chance we would ever get

  back together,” she says quietly. “He said he loved you.”

  I wait until Pinkaluscious is gone before I tweet her ass.
I’ll bet it

  doesn’t trend.

  I sit beside Max and stroke his hand, careful not to touch the IV

  tube taped to his wrist. A warm orange glow from the hallway streams

  under the privacy curtain, and the fresh, sharp smell of disinfectant

  assails my nostrils. Machines beep. Nurses murmur. Crocs squeak on

  the tiled floor.

  Max stirs and I jerk my head in his direction. I have never watched

  him sleep before. His face is relaxed, peaceful, and more sensual in its

  softness. I brush my hand over his cheek and his head moves. My

  heart pounds wildly. I glance up, hoping to see him looking at me,

  but his eyes remain closed, and his heart monitor continues to beep

  in a steady rhythm.

  “I know you can hear me,” I tell him. “I’ve read about the uncon-

  scious mind. You might not process the information in the same way,

  but you understand.” I wait for a response, but when it doesn’t come,

  I continue talking. Words spill out of my mouth, tumbling over each

  other so quickly, they are almost unintelligible. I tell Max about my

  childhood and how the happiness of each day was dependent on how

  much my father drank. I tell him about hiding with Susie in the closet

  on the bad nights and listening to the sickening thud of fists hitting

  flesh, knowing the next day Mom wouldn’t be able to go out because

  of the bruises.

  My stories run together: Christmases good and bad; the happy days

  when my dad took us to the beach and played with us in the waves; and

  the few times Mom smiled. I tell him about the thrill of sneaking away

  into the night and the years of hardship that followed until Steve came

  into our lives. I tell him how Mom was so focused on supporting us

  financially that she forgot all the little things that hold a family together.

  I tell him how I tried to hold our family together with humor, and how

  Susie drifted away. I tell him how I always longed for a big family full of

  warmth and laughter. Sort of like Redemption.

  Finally, I tell him I remember what happened the day we ran away.

  I tell him I didn’t give up. I am a fighter, just like him.

  “I love you,” I whisper into the stillness.

  The monitor beeps and the green numbers rise slowly, indicating

  an increase in heart rate.

  I giggle. “I knew you were there.”

  I pretend he is really listening. I sing him a few songs. I tell a few