by Leslie North
Henry engaged. “Fuck you.”
Marvin braced himself in time to absorb the Lawless Left—one hundred ninety pounds of bone-crippling force. The trainer reared back, boxed Henry at the ears, and gripped his face down to Marvin’s five-five height. His eyes bugged.
“Man, you don’t get your head in the cage and off playing make-believe family with that woman and kid, that knockoff exhibition tomorrow night may be your last.” Marvin stalked away, a beefed-up Danny Devito who made up in intensity what he lacked in physical prowess. He pounded the framed still-photo of Jose Manuel Fernandez, a welterweight who had died from injuries sustained in a match in Portugal around the time Sol passed away, and crossed himself. Guy was staunchly Catholic but never failed to indulge in his sin buffet—cursing, womanizing, questionable deals. Always said it gave him something to talk about in confession each week.
“Jose trained here,” said Marvin, his voice rare, strained. “One month before he died. Brought his fucking emotions with him. Found out he was adopted, some shit. Never got past it. Wanted his family there for his home match—all of them. His mind stepped outta that octagon. Brain dead before he hit the mat.”
Henry didn’t know the fighter, but the reminder freaked him the fuck out for Roosevelt. It was one thing to feel invincible, to step in the cage with nothing to lose and everything to prove. It was something else to tempt the same fate as Jose when you were gifted with a brilliant mind and the support of someone who loved you.
Jesus. What the fuck was happening to him? He didn’t know who he was anymore. Henry sank onto a nearby bench, elbows on his knees, spine curled. Women did that, Sol told him once. Irma did it for him. The day he fell in love, he stepped out of the ring and never looked back. Said he had something to fight for that was worth all the purse in the sport. Bottom line? Henry needed goddamned money. One fucking fight, forty grand. And maybe a ticket back to feeling more like Lawless Lorenz. More like himself.
“I’m in,” said Henry. “No distractions.”
“And the kid?” asked Marvin.
Fuck it, Henry wanted to say no. Absolutely not. But once upon a time, Sol had entrusted him with the one thing he had yet to master at sixteen. Choice. Where was Roosevelt’s lesson in choice if choice wasn’t an option?
“Kid decides.”
Henry just hoped Roosevelt didn’t make a choice they would all regret.
Maggie had never been more excited to see women in her life.
After spending the last forty-eight hours in a penthouse filled with testosterone-charged men, she jumped at the chance to spend time with the wives of Henry’s childhood friends. Both couples had come to New York to support Henry. Marcus Kingston, an NFL quarterback with the Portland Rogues, and Chase Holbrook, a power forward with the Pittsburgh Alloys and someone she recognized as the tall guy on her way out of Henry’s office the first day, were geared up for the fight. Seeing the three childhood friends together, Maggie understood the bond. Sol must have been an amazing man to foster such a familial connection. They joked, they disagreed, but the love was apparent.
Claire Wynifred-Kingston and Willow Holbrook declared less-than-zero interest in the match and suggested a night out with Maggie to window shop, eat, and catch a Broadway show. Maggie found Claire’s intellect engaging and Willow’s outgoing nature infectious. She wasn’t absolutely sure Henry hadn’t put them up to distracting her from the fight happening across town, but however it came to pass, Maggie was grateful.
Roosevelt had begged to see Henry’s cage comeback. For two days, Roosevelt had shown poise and eloquence, nailing the judges’ interviews and preliminary rounds of the bridge competition. He promised he would finish his closing obligation, when finalists had one last chance to answer questions for a media appearance and capture the judges’ favor, then catch a cab with Marvin’s boys over to the arena. So long as one of Marvin’s bodyguards tagged along, Maggie didn’t protest.
She couldn’t quite say the same for her bodyguard.
Henry had insisted.
Maggie tried not to be difficult. It wasn’t as if she was alone, but Marcus and Chase liked the idea of keeping their high-profile wives safe, too. Claire had become an outspoken national advocate for the proper treatment of veterans and had appeared before Congressional committees regarding her combat-ready wearable tech, and Willow’s recent wedding to Chase splashed the society pages in Pittsburgh nearly every day of the summer—not for its lavishness, but for its unorthodox venue: a children’s hospital with a taco truck as caterer and the tallest line of groomsmen in recent memory.
When dinner conversation at a fondue bar turned to overcoming secrets, Maggie found Claire and Willow refreshingly candid.
“Not all secrets are meant to deceive,” said Claire. “If the secret is rooted in protecting someone you care about, it’s possible to move past it, to find a future together. Marcus was angry that I hadn’t disclosed the reason the team owners wanted to use my tech, but he realized it came from a place of protection. The truth wasn’t meant to stay hidden forever, but it allowed him time to find his way. The same is true here. You just need time, Maggie.”
“I can’t stop myself from wondering about other secrets.” Maggie took a swig of white zinfandel and pushed a skewered square of pumpernickel around the three-cheese pot. “What else is he hiding?”
Willow sidled up beside Maggie and rested a caring arm around her shoulders. The comradery smoothed the jagged edge of hurt.
“I’ve known Henry since long before I met Chase.” Willow gave Maggie a comforting squeeze. “I used to work a mobile clinic on the same block as his gym. He’s a good man, always putting others first. If he kept a secret, it was for a selfless reason. If he’d wanted to preserve his own ass, he would have succeeded in pushing you away like he has all the other women who come around, looking to hang their lives on his fame. That you drive him mad and he keeps you close enough to spar is a good sign.”
Willow wiggled her eyebrows. Claire smiled. A conspiracy was afoot. Maggie’s belly warmed, nothing at all to do with the bubbling pot of comfort food before her. She allowed a smile to slip free. They toasted Sol.
“And to things falling apart,” said Claire.
Willow jumped in. “So they can come back together in the best possible way.”
Maggie took another long pull of wine and checked her phone. Nothing.
“Hold that phone much tighter and you’ll break the glass,” said Willow. “Henry is well taken care of.”
“It isn’t Henry that worries me. Roosevelt was supposed to let me know when he left the exhibition hall.”
“Relax. Marcus said he’s been at the venue for hours, meeting all the other fighters, getting outfitted.”
Maggie’s stomach tossed the wine that had just reached it. “Outfitted?”
Claire’s expression sobered. She glanced at Willow, who bit her bottom lip and took an inordinate interest in retrieving a slice of filet minion from the bottom of the broth pot.
Maggie sifted the information, unable to piece it together—Roosevelt couldn’t be at the venue yet because the bridge exhibition went on another half hour. And outfitted? Who needed an outfit to watch an MMA match? Maggie doubted that Marvin had a burst of spontaneous generosity with Roosevelt’s wardrobe. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m sorry, Maggie,” said Claire. “We thought you knew.”
Her stomach conspired with her brain. The wine, the confusion, made her dizzy. She leaned against the table’s edge, her skeleton struggling to keep a minimum posture. Her only coherent thought was more secrets…more secrets…more secrets. “Knew what?”
“Roosevelt is fighting in a junior exhibition match tonight.”
No. God, no. Maggie was out of the booth and on her feet before her next breath. She fumbled for her purse, barely registering the waits, and let us take yous from her dinner companions. At a nearby table, the thick-necked Russian bodyguard with the buzz cut stood and dropped a wad of bills on his t
able. Maggie went directly to him.
“Take me to the fight. Now.”
If there was one thing Henry hated surrounding a fight, it was all the goddamned people. The crowd was one thing. But in his room, the luxurious suite set aside for him to gather his thoughts, mentally prepare, hydrate, have discussions with trainers and drown himself in Sol’s favorite jazz tracks through his headphones, people swarmed like cockroaches. Promoters. Financers who wanted up close and personal. Sponsors. Sweepstakes fans. Marvin’s payroll physician.
Henry had already lost it once outside Roosevelt’s octagon. He didn’t want a fucking audience to hear Marvin’s lecture about how his jawing at the refs had almost cost the kid his first win. Marcus and Chase helped to clear the room and stepped out, themselves, leaving Marvin, Henry, and Marvin’s trusted doctor, Hiram, with a battered but hyped Roosevelt.
“I won, Henry.” Roosevelt tried to meet Henry’s eyes, but his right eyelid was the size of a plum. Blood stained his toothy smile.
“You did good, kid,” said Henry.
“The fuck were you doing out there, Lawless?” Marvin’s face resembled a tomato. Squeeze him with bullshit, he was likely to explode.
At Hiram’s request, Henry helped Roosevelt onto the expansive counter in the bathroom, already littered with gauze rolls and an extensive kit of medical supplies. His focus was Roosevelt, not justifying himself to Vitalis.
But Marvin Vitalis was not a man accustomed to being ignored.
“Answer me—hah?”
“Who the hell hired these refs?” Henry’s words came out louder than he intended in the room’s recent hush. Three times on the trek from the cage back to the suite he had used his anti-anger methods. Three times he had failed. “They should have stopped it at least twice.”
“Emotion, Lawless. It was a clean fight, but you were too fucking worried about the kid to see it.” Marvin paced. “You can bet this’ll get back to the refs for your match faster than red panties drop after a win.”
Hiram shone his penlight at the kid’s eyes, told Roosevelt to track it. Kid’s dilation and reaction was slow.
Henry nearly lost his mind. He added space, scrubbed his taped hands against his buzzed hair just to feel pain at what he had allowed. He wondered how Sol withstood the worry. Then Henry remembered he had nothing else going for him at sixteen. Roosevelt? Kid had everything.
A commotion fired near the door, muffled at first then piercing as the barrier swung wide. The voice was unmistakable, especially in its current state of air-raid, unleashed.
Maggie.
His heart slipped out of beat. From her presence or getting busted, he couldn’t be sure.
Fuck.
Chase put up a Swiss-cheese defense in the doorway. Henry nodded for him to let her through. The door closed behind her.
Maggie went from shouting to mute faster than Roosevelt had taken his opponent to the mat in the first round. Her fancy heels pressed together, fingertips covering her slackened lips, eyes round and wet. She froze, her stare taking in nothing but the sight of Roosevelt after a bout.
Totally fucking normal. But to someone not used to MMA, probably horrifying.
Her purse dropped to the carpet.
13
“Maggie—”
“Don’t.” One word, as grave as any she had leveled against him. She held up a hand, absently pointing, rigid but trembling. “Just…” Don’t.
Henry got the message—back the fuck off before you make this worse.
She crossed the room to Roosevelt.
“I won, Miss Kavanaugh,” he said.
“I’d hate to see the other guy if this is winning.”
Henry knew she hadn’t meant it as a joke. Roosevelt laughed anyway.
“What happened to the bridge event?” Maggie said.
“I told them everything I had to say. Got tired of repeating myself. They said it was optional.”
“But the judges were there. A chance to get in front of them one more time. A chance to meet your competitors and show them you respect their thoughts and ideas.”
Her voice was husky, careful. Henry had never heard her like this, not even the day in Sol’s office when she discovered Henry was her uncle’s attacker. Her composure stirred chills at the base of his neck.
She extended her hand for Roosevelt to take. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“You need real medical treatment.” She glanced at Hiram. “No offense.”
Hiram put his hands up in surrender and left the room.
“I’m not leaving,” said Roosevelt.
Maggie fetched her purse from the floor and pinned it beneath her arm. She futzed with one of Roosevelt’s shirts, trying to put his arm through the first sleeve like a child. “We can call the contest coordinator from the hospital. Try to explain.”
He shrugged off the fabric. “I’m not leaving.”
“Roosevelt, please.”
Maggie’s fractured whisper, painfully close to a beg, was a blow, square to Henry’s sternum.
“No.” Roosevelt bolted off the counter and distanced himself from Maggie. “I don’t care about the stupid bridge or the stupid competition. I never did. That was what you wanted, not me. I only came here because Henry said I could meet his manager—the guy who made him great.”
Henry was waiting for that. Roosevelt had tossed him under the bus, like any kid would. He took the stinging blow of Maggie’s censured stare.
“You asked me once about the bridges in my room?” said Roosevelt. “The day my mom died, I asked her why she collected them. She said ‘Some bridges you cross and others you burn. Life is figuring out the difference.’ She burned that bridge with my stepfather, stood up to him, and he took her from me. I didn’t want to do the same with you.”
Strong, silent tears charged down Roosevelt’s cheeks.
Henry’s throat stung, vice-grip tight. A sting swarmed behind his eyes.
Maggie crossed the room to Roosevelt. She swiped away his tears with her thumbs and kissed his cheek. “I love you, but I can’t be here. I can’t cross this bridge with you.”
She closed the distance to the door. With each stride, Henry’s pulse ratcheted faster until her hand on the knob nearly stopped it from beating altogether. She wasn’t only leaving the room; she was leaving the fight. All of it.
“Maggie…” he choked out.
Her last glance was Henry’s knockout blow, the disappointment nestled there worse than any he had ever absorbed. He didn’t understand until that breath the high cost of fighting. But he couldn’t reside inside her disappointment every time she looked at him with his gloves on, every time he stepped into the octagon, and have a shot at happiness. He couldn’t do that to himself; he refused to do that to the woman he loved.
Door swung wide, the chaos beyond swallowed her.
Marvin and Henry fell back into an easy rhythm, the earlier animosity ancient history by the time the first bell clanged. At times, Henry was aware of Marcus’s voice—loud enough to audible a play call in a stadium of rabid football fans. Chase acted as support, in Henry’s corner between rounds. Apart from Marvin’s staff and those who had always been there for him, the ones who brought him back to who he had been at the top of the sport, Henry successfully blocked everything else.
Henry was a machine. He dug deep and channeled Sol—heard every goddamned thing the man ever said to him about taking down an opponent: press, press, press, step ahead, Henry, legs under you, back to defense, head movement. He breathed, he feigned, he commanded his discipline. He finessed his transitions—mat to feet to mat, and he dominated nearly all of the two-minutes-and-thirty-one seconds round two and capitalized on an early slip by his challenger. It was Henry’s ninth submission win. He battled as if he had nothing left to lose.
For him, it was true.
He didn’t even realize until he stumbled back to his suite after the match, half-seeing, half-blinded by flash photography, that his mind had also blocked R
oosevelt.
Too painful. If he had allowed a replay of Maggie kissing the kid’s tear-and-blood streaked cheeks, Henry would have folded in the octagon like a cheap lawn chair.
He asked for privacy, which was a mistake. In the calming sibilance of the shower, Maggie returned to him, unbidden, sometimes naked, sometimes to kiss his battered skin and whisper, It’s okay, Henry. I love you, anyway. He pressed his broken face to the spray to wash away the moisture that threatened his eyes, content in the safe space to simply be, without pretense or unrealistic expectations, without the sting of guilt or self-deprecation. He was a champ.
So why didn’t he feel like one?
Marvin’s doc fixed up his most pressing injuries, taking extra care around his face and his winning hands. He dressed for his presser, more casual than usual. By this stage of the post-fight celebration, his suite was usually filled with flowing champagne and friends of trainers and fuck buddies. This time, he put a stop to all of it before it began. Locked the door after the physician, asked him to turn on some low jazz in honor of Sol while he got cleaned up.
“You’re a good doctor, Hiram.”
Hiram’s trim, white beard shifted on a smile. “Bullshit. If I was any good, I’d tell you to quit this life, go home.”
Henry smiled then winced. His tongue tracked out, found a Grand Canyon split on his lip.
“Send in Chase and Marcus, yeah?”
“Sure thing, champ.” Hiram gave Henry two gentle pats behind the shoulder, collected his black bag with all the meds, and left.
Henry rethought the wisdom of silence. A lone trumpet number snaked out from the room’s built-in sound system, a few somber notes from Sol to say Hey, kid, sorry I missed it. You made me proud.
His oldest friends entered on the tail end of a joke. Their laughter felt as close to a homecoming as was possible, back in the Pittsburgh gym a decade ago. Their merriment didn’t stop inside the maudlin room. They buoyed Henry’s mood, much as they always had, simply by being there.