Fighting Hearts

by Annabeth Saryu

  Both our lives are big hot messes right now, but neither of us wants to discuss our problems or wallow alone. We just want some company and a little distraction. So we sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes and watch the Friday night crowd file into the bar.

  Last Sunday, Usalv packed up and headed to Pittsburgh for his Pay-Per-View fight. Leading into tonight, he needed to get through a week of sponsor promos, interviews, weigh-in, and fan events.

  I was both sad and glad to see him leave. Things had been tense after our disagreement the week before he left. Every time I’d tried talking to him, he was distant. Pleasant but distant. And whenever I tried to talk about…that, he’d shut down and find an excuse to leave the house.

  It’s nice to have a break from the tension, but somehow, it still sucks that he’s away.

  “Is Paul coming?” I ask.

  “He’s here.” She scopes around the bar and points him out. “Looks like he’s catching up with somebody.” Macy nods in approval. “Good.”

  “I’m glad he came. The more the merrier for me tonight.”

  Macy sighs. “Getting him out can be hard sometimes. Part of the healing process, I suppose. But right now, he wouldn’t come out for too many people. So in a bass-ackwards kind of way, it’s all good.”

  “Small steps,” I tell her.

  “Mmm. Hmm. Very small.”

  I’m not sure whether we’re talking about her and Paul or me and Usalv. Then it dawns on me that it doesn’t really matter.

  We turn our attention to the flat screen, where a man in a dark hoodie makes his way through the crowded arena up to the octagon. He stops at the prep point, hugs his corner men before stripping down to his shorts, then stands in front of his cutman and a referee.

  Macy gasps. “My God, Lou. Usalv is fighting…that?”

  “That is Chris Manning. The Raptor.”

  “Jesus, he looks bigger than Usalv.”

  “He is.” And suddenly I have a very bad feeling about this.

  Uneasiness makes me squirm and I shift my legs forward to focus on the screen. I watch the cutman reach up to spread a layer of petroleum jelly over the hard, jagged features of Manning’s face.

  His elbows and forearms are tattooed with feathers and talons, and when he bends them, he looks like an eagle attacking its prey. Manning turns to enter the octagon, providing the TV audience a glimpse of the enormous inked eagle’s wings spread out over his massive back. The image of a grotesque human spinal column holds the wings together, giving the illusion of lifting him into the ring.

  “Hey, did I miss anything?” Paul asks as he plants himself in the chair next to Macy and takes a drink of her beer.

  “No. He’s coming out now.” My eyes refuse to leave the screen.

  Soundgarden’s “Rusty Cage” blasts into the arena as Usalv begins his walk to the octagon. The camera follows his face while he moves toward the ring, escorted by a sea of corner men and security guards. He stares into the camera for a second, then looks away to focus on the path ahead.

  His gray and red T-shirt contain his name in wide white letters up the side seam, with the name of the gym, DeadFall MMA, in red across the front hem, and a few sponsor logos on the chest and sleeves. Usalv stops at the prep point and hugs each of his corner men before removing his shirt.

  He pauses a moment to scan the nearby crowd, then stands in front of his cutman. Wearing only compression shorts, Usalv closes his eyes while petroleum jelly is applied to the angles of his face. Moments later, the referee inspects his head, hands, and body before waving him into the octagon.

  “Usalv looks good,” Paul says.

  “He sure does,” says Macy.

  Usalv enters the cage and I watch him pace from side to side. There’s no swagger or playing to the crowd. His hands are on his hips as he focuses on the floor, occasionally looking up at his opponent, who’s waving at the crowd to get them to cheer louder for him.

  “I don’t know. He looks a little too lean.” You can see every ripple of every muscle in his body, but he’s very gaunt, like a patient who’s been ill and lost too much weight. But that was Rodgers’ plan, wasn’t it?

  Coach Rodgers… When this is over, I’m going to kill that SOB.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, live from Paints Arena in Pittsburgh is tonight’s Final Friday Night Fight. This is a three-round contest in the heavyweight division between two giants of the octagon. Now it’s time for the main match up on our card tonight!

  “Introducing first, fighting out of the blue corner, a Muay Thai fighter with a professional record of seven wins, two losses. He stands six foot eight inches tall and weighs in at two-hundred fifty-five pounds. Fighting out of Oakland, California the twelfth ranked contender in the world, Chris ‘the Raptor’ Manning!

  “And fighting out the red corner, an MMA fighter with a professional record of seventeen wins, three losses. Standing six foot five inches tall and weighing in at two hundred forty-two pounds, and fighting out of Chicago, Illinois, the former heavyweight champion and the third ranked contender in the world, Usalv ‘the Madman’ Markovski!”

  Macy and Paul’s conversations, along with the movements of people in the bar trickle into background noise as I watch the referee point at both men before bringing his hands together to start the fight.

  Manning rushes across the octagon to meet Usalv. It takes just a few moments to understand the style differences between these two men. Manning’s style consists of high energy movements that include bobbing, weaving, and test strikes. It’s a stark contrast to Usalv’s calm and calculating style.

  Grudgingly, I understand why Rodgers wanted Usalv lean for this fight. Manning can’t possibly keep this up for three rounds.

  Both fighters circle each other, looking for an opening. Manning stings Usalv with a low hard kick to the calf before barely missing his face with an overhand punch. Usalv rushes in and tries to take him down, but Manning’s a big guy who’s able to free his leg from Usalv’s grasp with a sharp elbow to the shoulder blades, followed by a vicious knee to Usalv’s ribcage.

  “That’s great take down defense by Manning, Miguel!”

  “Toby, Markovski just doesn’t miss too many opportunities like that.”

  “It’s very rare. Markovski is a tactical striker. When he makes a big move, he’s usually very effective.”

  “He’s too lean, damn it. And Manning’s not tired enough.” I slap my hand on the table, causing a puddle of beer to slosh out of my glass.

  Next to me, Macy shifts and places her hand on my arm. “Take it easy, hon. It’s not over yet. And this isn’t Usalv’s first fight. He knows what he’s doing.”

  “I know he does.” My index finger swirls around the puddle of beer. “And I know it’s part of his job. But it’s so hard to watch him be hurt.”

  “He’s lucky he’s got you to worry about him,” Paul says.

  I nod in silent thanks. It’s a sympathetic compliment, but right now it doesn’t make me feel better. I am worried. Watching Usalv fight is like watching a car wreck. I can’t bear to see him hurt, but turning away is next to impossible.

  The men circle each other a few more times before Manning tries another combination strike. This time, an upper cut tags Usalv’s chin before he can entirely move out of its way. He responds with a kick that Manning checks.

  “Nice one by Manning!”

  “Manning will rack up some points for that.”

  “Absolutely, Toby. Unless Markovski makes something major happen in the next forty-five seconds, this round is going to Manning.”

  “Don’t count him out yet, Miguel. We know from Markovski’s past fights that a lot of submission finishes we’ve seen from him are due to earlier leg kicks.”

  “Louise, is Usalv…okay?” Macy asks. “I thought he was the favorite to win.”

  “He’s been better. It’s true.” My eyes never leave the screen.

  I’ve watched him in person and on film, even sparred with him myself. He’s
one of the most deliberate, decisive, devastating fighters I’ve ever seen. Usalv tends to conserve his energy by not attempting high numbers of rapid strikes. But when he does strike, he rarely misses and usually does lots of damage.

  This round, his strikes and takedown attempts have been minimally effective. The man I’m watching is not Usalv at his best. It makes me start to wonder what toll these last few weeks have taken on him.

  Rodgers convinced me that Usalv needed a break he was unwilling to take to prepare for this fight. But what if it’s turned him into a hot mess like it’s done to me? I can’t sleep, my appetite is shot, and my normal daily routine has become overwhelming.

  “Ow! Shit!” Macy’s outburst focuses my attention back on the fight.

  Manning attempted a takedown and Usalv managed to keep on his feet. But now Usalv’s back is pinned against the cage and he’s taking lots of knee strikes to the inside legs as he grapples with Manning.

  “Now they’ve taken it into the clinch. This is where Markovski is the most dangerous.”

  “But Manning took him there, which seemed to surprise Markovski a bit. Not the strategy anyone expected to see from Manning.”

  “Well, so far, Markovski’s holding his own and is refusing to give up his back.”

  “Yes, but he’s sure paying the price for it. Those knee jabs that Manning is delivering are brutal strikes that are chewing up the fleshy parts of Markovski’s legs.”

  Suddenly Manning manages to get free of Usalv’s grip and strikes him twice in the face with solid blows. I watch in horror as blood streams down Usalv’s face and splatters onto Manning’s back as Usalv struggles to defend himself.

  “Oh Christ!” I watch, horrified as Usalv tries to wipe the blood away from his eye to clear his vision in between blows from Manning. Thank God he manages to tear himself away just before the bell rings.

  The camera pans in on Usalv’s face as he returns to the red corner with a hand over his eye and a vacant expression on his face. I’ve lived with him long enough to recognize that look. He’s checked out. His mind isn’t on this fight.

  Good God, what have I done?

  “Fuck, that’s nasty.” Paul winces. “It’s a good thing he lives with a nurse.”

  “Shut up, Paul,” Macy hisses.

  “Just sayin’.”

  “Paul!” Macy smacks his shoulder.

  “Sorry, Louise.” He reaches across Macy and pats my arm.

  “It’s okay, Paul.” Hot tears stream down my face. “It’s not your fault. It’s just really hard to watch someone you love be hurt like that.”

  I love him.

  There’s pin-drop silence around the table as we all process what I just said. But there it is, the truth I refused to see for months. And it hurts down deep that anything I said or did is contributing to the beat down Usalv’s taking right now.

  “It sure does. It hurts like hell.” Macy replies. “Makes you want to strip those chicken feathers off the other guys back with your fingernails.”

  “Exactly.” I erupt with nervous laughter and wipe my tears away.

  “Well.” Paul clears his throat. “I think…we need another pitcher for the table. I’ll go get one.”

  “Thanks, hon,” Macy replies. “Looks like it’s gonna be a long night.”

  26

  Fuck, that hurt.

  The cut feels like it’s right below my eyebrow, although it’s hard to tell with all this blood running down my face.

  Bruce, my long time cutman, slams me onto a stool and begins to work his magic. Damn it, I don’t like sitting between rounds. It makes me stiff, but it can’t be helped right now.

  After wiping the blood off my face and mouth, he grabs the back of my head as he holds an ice cold enswell across the cut. I feel more than see two of my corner men slap freezer bags full of ice against my chest, back, and biceps.

  “Put an ice pack on my leg.” I point to a large throbbing welt on my thigh.

  “What happened to our plan?” “Rodgers’ voice is calm but frustrated. “You are much faster than this, and much faster than him. Watch his front leg, Madman. A heavy front leg means it’s coming from the hands. If his weight is back, get ready for a kick and take him to the ground. You’ve got good control of the octagon. You need to use it better.”

  I nod as Bruce takes the enswell away to look at my eye and finish his work. When he does, I turn my head to the crowd and scan the first few rows.

  No Sweet Lou anywhere. Damn.

  Well, things had sucked after Lou had told me that we should cool off for a while. It made me scared shitless to tell her how much it meant to me for her to be at this fight. Since I couldn’t stomach another big hell no from her, I’d told Rodgers to get her to come.

  Guess that hadn’t worked out.

  “What the fuck are you looking at?” Rodgers explodes.

  “She didn’t come?” My impaired gaze scans the crowd.

  “No, she didn’t come.” He’s impatient. Too bad.

  “What did she say?” I snap my head around to face him.

  “I didn’t ask her.”

  “You didn’t ask her?” I feel my anger rise to match his, and my corner man’s arm stiffens against my chest. “Why the hell not?”

  Rodgers glances at the ringside TV camera, then shifts his back, obstructing the televised view of our conversation. He leans in close and blows out a slow, controlled breath.

  “This fight is already a disaster without her here,” he growls with quiet fury. “The whole training camp has been piss-poor. She’s a complication you don’t need right now.”

  “Stop treating me like some numb-nutted teenager,” I growl through gritted teeth.

  “Would look at yourself? Jesus fucking Christ. Get your fucking head back in this goddamned fight before this poser chicken hawk hands you your ass. We’ll talk about this later.”

  I stand up and tower over him, never breaking eye contact. “I’m going to visualize your head on that guy’s shoulders, right before I kick his ass into next week. And when this is over, we’re having words.” I rip the ice bag against my chest out of my corner man’s hand and thrust it into Rodgers midsection.

  “Hmm, there seems to be some tension over in the red corner, Toby.”

  “Well, Terence Rodgers, Markovski’s long-time coach, is the man with a plan. And things clearly aren’t going according to plan at the moment.”

  “Markovski’s a very tactical fighter and his tactics aren’t working well right now. Let’s see how this second round goes.”

  All I can see is red. All I can feel is rage. My hands are up, and my weight shifts from one leg to another as I nod to the ref my readiness to fight.

  Hurry, goddamn it. Hurry.

  Whatever Bruce did to my eye won’t last long, which puts me in one helluva bind. I can’t take this fight to the ground and risk being blinded by blood pouring into my eyes with that monster pounding away on me.

  I’m hell on wheels down on the mat, but not when I’m choking on my own blood or being blinded by it. Which means I need to keep this fight vertical, right where Manning wants it to be.

  The round starts and I hurry out to the center, vying for control of the octagon. Manning gets there late and he’s forced to circle me, instead of the other way around. Since the radius of his circle is longer, he has more steps to take, which will tire him out faster.

  “How’s the eye?” Manning wears a shit-eating grin.

  I smile and say nothing. He knows I’m hurt, so it’s no surprise that he tries to strike my damaged eye again.

  Only problem is, he’s kinda tired now. He got some good shots in the first round, but they came at full retail price. He’s breathing a little heavy so soon after the break.

  I recall Rodgers’ ringside advice and watch for Manning’s heavy front leg. When he shoots an overhanded right at my eye, I’m ready. As soon he opens up, I’m right there with hard punch to the side of his left ribs. From the brutal loud thud of my hand agai
nst his trunk, I know it’s a solid blow.

  “Wow! I could hear that all the way over here.”

  “Yeah, Manning’s hurt, Toby. Look at him. He can’t catch his breath.”

  I take a quick look at Manning’s face. It’s twisted up with pain, and his shit-eating grin is long gone. He’s hurt. Good, but he’s not where I need him yet.

  As Manning tries to catch his breath, he backs away. He’s got to be tired, and right now he’s not tired enough.

  “Don’t let him rest!” Rodgers shouts at me. “Go after him!”

  The cut across my eye starts to bleed again. The blood trickles down my face and I wipe it away to prevent it from blinding and choking me. As the wound swells, it’s getting hard to see.

  I charge at him fast, launching a barrage of strikes at his head. They land mostly on his forearms, which shield his face. My strikes aren’t doing too much damage, but I’m hoping to goad him into a tired, sloppy mistake.

  It works.

  Manning throws a spinning back kick, but it’s too high and his stance isn’t solid. I grab the kicking leg and upend him. He lands flat on his ass, stunned. But he’s too far from the wall for me to pin him against it.

  “A big move for Markovski... but what’s this? He’s not going after Manning on the ground?”

  “Looks like he wants to keep the fight standing. Not his usual style.”

  “Not at all. This fight just got a lot more interesting.”

  “And now look at this. Manning doesn’t want to get off the ground!”

  “I’m confused here. I thought Markovski was the wrestler and Manning was the striker?”

  “So did I, Toby.”

  “Get the fuck up.” I gesture toward him, then back away so he’s got to chase me down.

  Manning sits there a few moments, his legs facing me defensively. That son of a bitch is having a rest. I shrug at the ref to complain.

  “Get up,” the ref orders him. “Fight.”