Fuck.
We’re both tired, our bodies are chewed up, and my vision sucks. Manning looks up at the clock and I follow his gaze. Ninety seconds until the round ends. Unless the TKO comes first.
Manning and I exchange looks. Both of us sense that the end of this fight is near. He tries to end it first by going for the takedown, only he ends up grappling with me in the clinch while I’m back against the wall.
Big mistake. There is where he didn’t want to find himself. And I’m not nearly as tired as he needs me to be for this to work.
Manning frees a hand and launches a few head shots in the direction of my bad eye. But he’s opened up now and I respond with a few hard knee shots to his inner legs before I get control of his hand.
Then I see it. Clear as day. As he tries to line up a shot, his right elbow drifts away from his rib cage. My leg shoots out and my shin connects, delivering a textbook liver shot.
“And Markovski delivers a huge switch kick to his right obliques!”
“Oh, I think he hit the liver, Toby. That’s a huge shot.”
“Manning’s in trouble! Big trouble!”
Given the choice between a solid well-placed kick to the balls and a liver shot, it’s a kick to the balls for me, no contest. Manning staggers back, trying to catch his breath, trying not to collapse, unable to protect himself.
I’ve got this and rush forward.
By the time I reach him, he’s down on one knee. I put him on his back and take him to school on ground and pound. He covers his face and head with his arms as my fists pummel him. He turns away from me and gives up his back, but his hands don’t move to protect the exposed side of his face. I feel the nitrile gloved hands of the referee push me off Manning and it’s over.
“Markovski takes it! Four minutes, thirty-eight seconds into the second round, and this fight is over by TKO.”
“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what makes this such a crazy sport. Anything can happen and fairly often it does.”
“Fuck, that hurts. I’d rather be punched.” I complain to the doctor, as the contents of the syringe he’s injecting into my eyebrow causes a burning sensation.
“This is the worst part. Once the lidocaine takes effect you won’t feel anything.”
“You’ve done this before, right?” Needles scare me.
He laughs. “Since back when you thought a ring was nothing but a piece of jewelry. Hold still.” Another stream of liquid flows into my body, much less painful than the first. When the syringe is empty, he pulls the needle out from the side of my head.
“How’s he doing, Doc?” Rodgers calls from the door of the improvised treatment room in the Paint Center.
“Pretty well.” The doctor, an African-American in his late fifties, leans over my eye and feels the cut with careful, practiced hands. “It’s not such a bad cut as it is in a bad place.” He smoothes my flesh and presses on it. “This is down to the muscle, not to the bone.”
“That’s good news, right?”
“Very good news.”
“How long will you need, Doctor?” Rodgers asks.
‘He’s needs four, maybe five sutures.” The doctor replies. “Twenty minutes, tops.”
“You want me to stay or come back later, Usalv?” It’s a loaded question and we both know it.
“Will it bother you if we talk while you’re working?” I ask the doctor. I’m less likely to go ballistic if someone else is around.
“Not at all. Just pretend I’m not here.”
Rodgers shuffles into the room and pulls a chair near the exam table I’m lying on.
“Great job today, Usalv. This was an important win for us. A lot of people were hoping for an upset, expecting Manning to beat you, like he has a lot of top heavyweights.”
I say nothing. Right now, I don’t give a damn about the fight or what it does or doesn’t do to my ranking.
“You’ll definitely be on the next big international card. And if things go well, they’ll have no choice but to give you a title fight.”
My response is to adjust the ACE bandage holding the ice packs on my chewed-up thighs. The only audible sound is the ice sloshing and the plastic bag crinkling.
“Congratulations on the win today.” Rodgers attempts to end the uncomfortable silence.
“You put this all on her, didn’t you?” The quiet explosive tone of my voice fills the room. “The fight, the title, even the bonuses. It was going to be your fault if I won and her fault if I lost, right?”
Rodgers shifts in his chair. “I did talk to her. About how you needed to keep focused.”
“Focused? Focused on what?”
“The fight. This fight. Your career.”
Anger makes me shift and the doctor scolds me. “Easy, son. Hold still.”
“Sorry.” I mutter then take a long slow breath to get control of myself. “Just so you know, your back alley approach to fixing this has fucked my mood, motivation, appetite, and sleep cycle for the last two weeks. I won this damn fight in spite of you, not because of you, so thanks for fuck all.”
There’s pin drop silence in the room. Even the doctor’s hands stop working. Maybe he’s anticipating me moving again. I wish like hell that I could see Rodgers’ face.
“I’m sorry, Usalv.” Rodgers’ tone is brisk. “I underestimated your feelings for Louise and how important she is to you.”
I admit nothing. “You underestimated me. Fuck that.” The doctor’s hands haven’t started moving again, so I sit up and face Rodgers. “Get used to Louise Becker being around. If you can’t handle that, I’ll understand.” I shrug. “Take the rest of the trip to think about it.”
“The rest of the trip? And where are you going be?” Rodgers is stunned.
“As soon as the doctor finishes sewing me up, I’m getting the hell out of here.”
“But what about the parties, promos, and sponsor meet ups?”
“Handle it. That’s the one thing I do trust you with.” I lay back down on the table.
“Thanks, but it’s you they’ll want to talk to, get pics of.”
“Tell them my eye’s messed up and I need to see a specialist.” I turn on my side to glare at him. “I’ve got a lot of shit to sort out at home.”
27
Holy shit.
An uneasy feeling hits my stomach when the traffic jam outside Usalv’s house confronts me. Usalv’s not supposed to be here. Perhaps one of the neighbors is responsible for this party pandemonium? No chance. By the time my journey to the front door ends, it’s clear from the loud music and raised voices within that this is party central.
Christ, so much for ramen noodles, ibuprofen, and an early night.
I take a deep breath, push the door open and step inside. A pile of unfamiliar bags and shoes occupy the space where my Dansko clogs normally sit by the door. Cautiously, I step out of the foyer and peer into the living room.
Thirty or so reasonably well-dressed people mingle while drinking bottled beer and cocktails. The music is too loud to hear the conversations of the unfamiliar guests around me.
“Hey!” someone shouts from the lounger underneath the window. She’s wearing a tight sleeveless dress with unnatural looking cleavage spilling out a slit in the front.
“What?” I reply after realizing she’s speaking to me.
“I think you’ve got the wrong place.” Her gaze shifts to my mud splattered scrubs and a mixture of irritation overcomes me.
‘Um, no I don’t.” My tone is deliberately dismissive as I look for Usalv.
“It’s not Halloween,” she shouts, then laughs aloud. Too loud. It’s hard to tell if she’s drunk, naturally bitchy, or both. It never pays to argue with someone like her, but I’m a little too pissed off to stop myself.
“And some of us aren’t wearing a costume,” I reply, raising an eyebrow at her outfit before shaking my head.
“What did you say?” Instead of Queen Bee realizing that she shouldn’t mess with me right now, she hops off the
couch and gets all confrontational.
Oh, please. Go away.
“You’ve clearly had too much to drink.” I tower over her. “Maybe you should go outside and get some fresh air.” My nurse voice speaks, reasonable and calmly authoritative.
“Oh, hell no,” she stammers and her breath reeks of alcohol. “You don’t get to tell me what to do. You should go. Now.”
Damn it. Where is the man I love? I need to find him. Right now. He needs to know. I need to explain. And dealing with this drunk Barbie doll is not on my to-do list.
“See this?” I dangle my keychain in front of her bloodshot eyes. “This is my key. To this house. Where I live. So if anyone’s ass is going to be dodging the door knob on their way out, it’s yours. Now calm down, sober up, and go away.” My annoyance hits her full throttle.
The look of shock on her face is replaced quickly by distraction, then excitement. “Usalv!” she calls and pushes past me to the foyer entrance.
Pangs of disbelief and rage rattle through me as she drapes both her hands around his muscular forearm. But his only acknowledgment comes when he pulls free of her grasp.
When I look up at his face, his eyes follow me with a predatory fixation.
“Louise.” His voice is a hypnotizing rasp.
“Hey, Usalv.” I’m nervous, relieved. And excited. He looks every inch the fit warrior that keeps me coming back. There’s so much we need to discuss. But will he even listen? And how does he feel about things between us?
“I thought you were working.” His voice is calm and certain, devoid of obvious emotion.
“I was.” I changed shifts to take last night off and watch his fight. “Home now.” I fold my arms. “Thought you were in Pittsburgh?”
“I was. Home now.”
“Good,” I reply.
“Yeah?” He steps toward me and extends his hand. “Come with me.”
“Where?” I ask.
“Your room.” His shoulder turns towards the hallway.
“Okay.”
He takes my hand and leads me down the hall to my bedroom, indifferent to the curious looks we receive.
“Nice party.” I tell him.
Usalv says nothing, just shuts the door and clicks the bolt into the locked position. Then he turns toward me, hands on his waist, his expression a strange mix of pain and fury. But before I can respond, he retreats behind a stoic mass and slowly starts to unfasten his belt.
“Congratulations. On the fight.” My voice fails to drown out the metal clinking of his belt buckle.
Usalv’s only reply is silence. Then with excruciating slowness, he untucks his shirt, pulls it over his head, then slides his pants and shorts off in a single motion before kicking them away.
“Oh my God,” I gasp.
He stands naked in front of me, silently commanding my undivided attention. His eyebrow is stitched where Manning punched him. His ribs are swollen where Manning kneed him. His thighs are purple and black where Manning kicked him.
And his protruding erection looks robust and eager as he approaches me across the long length of the narrow room and backs us toward the bed.
“I don’t want to talk, Lou.” His hoarse voice brims with urgency and need. “Just take off your clothes.”
“But…doesn’t it hurt?”
“Yes.” Usalv pushes my hand away as I reach for his bruised ribs. “But not any place that’s important right now.”
“But—”
“I’m going be a total dick here, Louise. I want one thing from you right now. Just one. You gonna give it to me, or not?”
“But—”
“Yes or no.” He shakes his head at my protest. “Yes… or no?”
“Yes.” Whatever else needs to be fixed, it’s been way too long for both of us.
“Good.” There’s an edgy, explosive quiet in his tone. “Now take your clothes off.”
I reach down and pull my shirt up, but before it’s off, Usalv’s impatient fingers tug urgently on my drawstring pants. When they’re loose, he bends me over my mission dresser and strips me naked from behind.
One of his hands grips the dresser next to my head, while the other reaches down between my legs and pushes them apart. His frenzied fingers fumble inside my folds as he guides his shaft toward my entrance. With a single jarring thrust, he fills me entirely.
“Oh, God.” He doesn’t ask if I’m okay. And there’s no point. I’d rather feel all the raw sensation being with him gives me than feel any less. He shut me down so hard after we argued about taking a break that I wasn’t sure we’d ever be together like this again.
As he strokes faster and deeper into me, I feel the tension leave his body. The arm bracing itself against the dresser wraps around my breasts, crushing the ribs underneath as he cradles his forehead in the arch between my shoulder blades.
The speed of his strokes slows and he brings his lips close to my ear. “Don’t…ever do that again,” he growls, then stills inside me.
“I won’t. I promise.” Although I’m not sure exactly what that is, it’s clear what he means.
He grunts in response and then starts again, his strokes a startling mixture of punishment and forgiveness. This isn’t about pleasure or passion or bliss. It’s about fear and need, regret and release.
For both of us.
Rodgers was able to convince me that my relationship with Usalv was damaging his career because I’d fallen in love without admitting it to myself. Because of that, it made sense to deal with things the way I usually do—prioritizing career over personal life. But that wasn’t my choice to make alone. It was Usalv’s, too.
He leans against the wall and tries to reposition himself before he stops. When I look back at him over my shoulder, his forearm is pulled up against the side of his badly bruised ribs.
“Stop this, you’re hurting yourself.” I try and pull away, but his free arm holds me in place.
“No! No. Wait, just give me a second.” He catches his breath. “My ribs will hurt for a while, and I’m not going to stay in park.” A few more seconds pass, and he hurries to push himself away from the wall.
“Hold on a minute,” I insist, then start sliding up and down, pushing my hips back into him.
Usalv’s whole body shudders in response. “Wait… Louise, what are you…doing?”
“You think because I said yes that you get to make all the decisions?” My back arches as I move up and down. “Think again.”
“Sweetheart, you don’t need to go so fast,” he replies, although it doesn’t sound much like a complaint.
“That’s what you think. You’re not the only one whose been tied up in knots for the last few weeks.”
He starts to speak but ends up stammering out an incomprehensible moan. I lose myself in the sensation of being in complete control, and the happiness of this single moment. Caught between the pain of the recent past and our uncertain path forward, this moment, the space between those two points, is one I’m determined to stretch out for as long for as possible.
“Oh, Christ…Louise,” he pants, a mix of pain and release. He leans his shoulder against the wall and presses his hand onto the small of my back.
I’m so focused on reveling in our moment together that my own climax surprises me. Usalv cradles my hips while he braces himself against the wall. When we’re done, he leans over me and kisses the nape of my neck.
The only audible noise is the sound of our rapid breathing in unison. Once we’ve both recovered a bit, Usalv ushers me gently toward my daybed, which lies parallel against the narrow back wall.
My exhausted body collapses onto the bed. Leaning against the wall, I draw my knees up to my chest and watch him stagger over, lowering himself gingerly onto the bed. But Usalv is too tall and physically damaged to sit up like me. After a moment, he lies down on his side. Drawing his knees together, he rests alongside me, with my shins brushing against the top of his thighs.
“This bed is ridiculous. How the hell do you get com
fortable on this?”
“Well, it does fold out.”
His large body looks extremely cramped. “If I’d time for that, we wouldn’t have done it standing up.”
“Sorry for not being sorry.” It’s the truth.
He snorts with laughter and scratches the beard along his jawline.
“I’m glad you’re back,” I tell him.
“Are you?” he asks. His voice sounds casual, even teasing, but his breathing stops while he waits for me to answer.
“Yeah. I am.”
“Good.” He nods. “Good. It’s nice to be back.” He rubs his hand along my shin.
We sit in silence, finding comfort in our closeness. After a moment, the strength and will to speak returns to me. “A little while ago you told me to never do that again. What that did you mean?”
Usalv’s hand stills on my leg. “You made me a promise, too. Remember?” He kisses my knee and then removes his hand. “What did you promise me, Sweet Lou?”
I twirl my fingers around a dark patch of curly hair on his thigh. “Did Rodgers talk to you?” I ask.
“He did.”
“Mmm. And what did he tell you?”
“That he didn’t get you a seat to the fight like I’d asked. Among other things.”
“That’s true. I had to switch shifts to be able to see the fight at the bar with Macy.”
“You saw?” He seems surprised.
“Of course. I couldn’t not watch.” I smile. He had wanted me to come.
“What’d you think?”
“It sucked. Watching you get beat up like that. It was awful.”
He rolls over on his back, forcing me to rest my legs on top of his and drape them over the bedside. He stares at the ceiling with an unreadable expression.
“Rodgers told me I was screwing up your training and your career. I didn’t want to do that,” I explain. “When I watched the first round and saw how badly you were getting your ass kicked, it made me feel responsible.”
“You weren’t responsible,” he replies. “You did what he asked.”
“It doesn’t matter.” I take a deep breath. “It sucks watching someone you love get hurt. Even when they do it for a living.” I hesitate then repeat myself for clarity. “I love you, Usalv.”
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