A Love Like Yours

by Robin Huber

  Sam steps back and throws a jab, followed by a left hook, a right hook, and another jab that knocks Russo to his knees.

  Yes!

  The referee stands between them and pushes Sam into his corner. He holds his hand up and counts to eight while Russo gets to his feet, gauging whether he can keep fighting. I don’t think I could watch if they just pummeled each other until one of them couldn’t get up, like they do in professional boxing. The ref calls the fight and the crowd roars with excitement. By the sound of it, there were a lot of bets on Sam. The ref takes Sam’s hand and raises it up in the air, and a smile stretches across my face when Sam winks at me, followed by a wave of relief that I always feel when a fight is over.

  My heart might literally beat through my chest. If it weren’t for the booming thuds reverberating through the arena speakers, I’d swear you could actually hear it. Everyone is on their feet, cheering and clapping as the music grows louder and the lights dim over the crowd.

  “These are seriously the best seats you’ve ever gotten us for an event,” Sebastian says to Paul. “Aren’t they fantastic?” he shouts to me over the music as we shimmy along the row to our seats, which are directly behind the rail that separates the ring from the stands.

  “Um, yeah, they’re great,” I say, keeping my eyes down to be sure my stilettos meet the floor and not someone’s toe, and also because I’m terrified to look up at the ring, which I can see in my peripheral vision and know is only a few yards away from where we’re sitting.

  “I love your dress,” a woman in our row says, touching my arm as I pass her. I thank her and smile graciously, but I feel nothing of the sort. Dresses that get compliments get attention, and that’s the last thing I want right now.

  When we reach our seats, I sit down, hoping to disappear behind the rail and the arena staff on the other side of it, but Sebastian grabs my elbow and pulls me back to my feet. “You can’t sit down! This is amazing!” he shouts, rocking his head back and forth to the blaring music with a huge smile on his face.

  I force a smile and try to move a little to the music, but my nerves have pushed me to the brink of paralysis. I curl my fingers into my palms and try to rub the sweat off them as I take in the well-lit ring before me.

  It’s so close. Too close.

  Whether Sam sees me or not, I’ll see him. I mean, really see him. Not through the filter of a screen, or even through a sea of people I assumed would be between us. But up close, in person. We’ll be breathing the same air. I swallow hard and take slow, deep breaths. It’s been years. You were a child when you were together, I think, trying to convince myself that what we had was nothing more than puppy love. It’s what everyone experiences…and then moves on from. It’s perfectly normal to feel like this, I tell myself, wanting so badly to believe it. But nothing about me and Sam was normal. Nothing about either of our lives was normal. Being orphaned by our drug-addicted parents as children wasn’t normal. Having lived in twelve different homes, collectively, by the time we were in high school wasn’t normal. Relying solely on each other until we were practically adults wasn’t normal. The way that we loved each other wasn’t normal. A shallow ache throbs inside my chest. We didn’t just love each other; we lived and breathed each other. He was my universe. And I was his.

  At the time, the universe seemed a lot smaller.

  Blue and white spotlights bounce around the arena as the giant scoreboard monitors over the ring flash images of Mario Sanchez. There’s a steady roar of applause from the crowd as the announcer highlights his career achievements. And then the showcase moves to Sam, and the roar of applause turns into rumbling thunder as the crowd cheers and screams and stomps their feet.

  I gaze up at Sam in high definition, and I’m overwhelmed with emotion. Being surrounded by nineteen thousand people who are screaming for your childhood love is definitely not normal. I beam with pride, as if I somehow had anything to do with his accomplishments. Just knowing what he came from and how hard he’s had to work to get here fills me with awe. He’s just a kid from Brighton Park. An orphan who came from nothing. And now he has all this. It’s everything he ever wanted.

  Everyone’s attention turns to the far corner of the arena where an entourage of people and flashing lights begin moving toward the center of the floor.

  My heart stutters and my breath catches. I can’t really see much through the crowd, but I feel light-headed. I look up and see Sanchez on the monitors over the ring and exhale the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I close my eyes and open them again.

  Sanchez climbs between the ropes and holds his gloves up in the air, bouncing from foot to foot, encouraging the excited crowd. I can literally see every detail of his face, the white birthmark on his olive-colored torso, the blue-and-white stripes on his shoelaces. Before I have time to think about seeing Sam that close, the cheers from the crowd turn into thunder again, and everyone’s attention shifts to the opposite corner of the arena. This time, I know that Sam is making his way toward the ring.

  My heart races and heat flashes across my skin. My breath catches again. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I can’t blink.

  “Hey, look up,” Sebastian says, pointing to the monitors that must be showing close-ups of Sam. But I can’t.

  My eyes are frozen on the moving bodies inching closer and closer to the ring.

  “Hey,” Sebastian says again, but his voice fades into white noise. I can barely hear him.

  I blink once, slowly, and everything is quiet. I no longer hear the thundering cheers or the blaring music. I don’t notice the flashing lights. I only see him.

  Sam is walking toward the ring, toward me.

  My heart pounds in my ears as the arena air swirls through my lungs and past my lips. I watch him climb between the ropes and stand in the center of the ring like a warrior, mighty and strong. I can see every line in his torso and every muscle that’s wrapped around his body like armor. I can see the details of his tattoos and read the ones that are spelled out.

  He raises his gloves and, to my utter shock, I see the word Lamb scrolled in cursive on his rib cage, small enough that his arm covers it when he puts it back down.

  My eyes flash to his face and fill with tears. I stare at him, trying to memorize the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles at the crowd, the way he licks his lips and nods with the cheers, the way the small muscles flex in his jaw when he talks to the referee. His confidence is a stark contrast to the anxiety I’m feeling.

  The noise rushes back into my ears like a tsunami, nearly knocking me over. I stumble, but catch myself on Sebastian’s arm.

  “You okay?” he shouts.

  “Yeah, sorry, it’s just the heels. They’re hard to balance in.”

  “This is crazy. They are so close.”

  “I know.”

  “Sam Cole is hot! Holy crap. He’s way too pretty to be a boxer. No one should be allowed to hit that face.”

  A feeling that I haven’t felt since I was seventeen suddenly washes over me. It’s the feeling I used to get when I watched Sam fight at Joe’s, knowing that he would be hit, knowing that he could be hurt. It’s different watching him fight through the filter of TV. On TV, it’s not real; he’s not real. But here, now. This is real. He’s real. He’s so very real.

  We take our seats as the fight begins, and the dance commences, leading the roar of the crowd.

  Sam Cole takes the first hit of the night, the commentator announces, and air hisses through my teeth.

  “Keep those hands up, Sam, keep ’em up.” We’re close enough to hear Joe shouting at Sam, and it takes me back in time. He looks exactly the same, except that his hair has a little more gray in it now.

  Sanchez hits Sam again.

  Cole takes another hit to the head.

  “Throw the jab, Sam, throw the jab,” Joe shouts.

  Sam returns two body slaps to Sanchez’s ribs and then throws an uppercut that knocks him into the ropes.

  Okay, okay.

  S
ebastian puts his hand on my bouncing knee. “Don’t worry, Luc. Sam’s got this.”

  I give him a tight-lipped smile and nod.

  The second round starts, and Sam takes the first hit again.

  Jesus. I don’t know how I’m going to watch this whole fight.

  Sam throws a jab at Sanchez’s face, and another, leaving him with a bloody nose.

  “Holy shit, did you see that?” Paul shouts, leaning over Sebastian. “Forget seeing them sweat, I just saw blood fly out of Sanchez’s face!”

  “Yeah, it was totally gross,” Sebastian says.

  I wrinkle my nose. “It was pretty gross.”

  By the tenth round, Sanchez isn’t the only one who’s bleeding. Sam took a punch to the eye in the seventh round that split his eyebrow. But it hasn’t slowed him down. He throws a right hook, followed by an uppercut that knocks Sanchez to the mat.

  The referee counts, One…two…three…four…

  The arena is going crazy.

  By five, Sanchez is back on his feet. He throws a jab at Sam, but misses. He’s tired. So is Sam. They lean against each other, hugging, until the referee pulls them apart. Then they explode like two volcanoes, taking turns throwing jabs and uppercuts at each other like they were both saving their last ounce of energy until right now.

  The crowd erupts and everyone is on their feet.

  Paul’s on his feet. Sebastian’s on his feet. I’m on my feet, screaming for Sam.

  He’s beating the hell out of Sanchez, and Sanchez is beating the hell right back out of him.

  Tears burn in my eyes. I can’t take this anymore. I just want it to be over.

  Sam takes one last hit to the head, and once again everything around me falls silent. I watch Sam fall to the mat in slow motion, his glazed eyes finding mine before they close, and the only sound I hear is my own voice screaming, “Sam!”

  Chapter 5

  Sam

  I open and close my unfocused eyes a few times, ignoring the sweat and blood stinging them.

  Lucy?

  “Get up, Sam. Get up!” Joe shouts from beside the ring.

  Four…five…six…

  “Get up!”

  I pull my knees under me and grab the rope.

  Eight…

  I’m on my feet.

  The referee grabs my gloves. “Come here, you good?”

  I nod and take my stance in front of Sanchez.

  Sanchez throws a punch at my face, but misses.

  “Ahhhhhhh!!!!!” I scream, feeling a roar inside me, louder than I’ve ever felt before. I throw everything that I’ve got at him. A left hook, a right hook, another right hook, and an uppercut that sends him flying backward.

  He lands on his back.

  One…two…three…four…five…six…seven…eight…nine…ten!

  The crowd erupts and my team climbs into the ring.

  “You did it, baby!” Joe screams.

  Sam Cole has done it once again. He has successfully defended his title as the undisputed light-heavyweight champion of the world!

  I feel hands on my back and arms. People are congratulating me from every direction.

  I spit out my bloody mouth guard and wrap my heavy arm around Joe’s neck. “Lucy,” I shout in his ear. “I saw Lucy.”

  Joe gives me a confused look.

  “She’s here. Have someone find her before she leaves.”

  “Yeah.” He nods. “Okay.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Yeah, yeah…okay. Hey, Miles,” he says, turning to my manager.

  I’m consumed by the people crowding in around me and blinded by the flashing lights. I hold my belt up for the pictures, faking a smile for the camera.

  Lucy was here. She came. I can’t keep up with the thoughts racing through my pounding head. Was she alone? My eyes could barely focus. All I saw was her creamy skin and blond hair, her pale blue eyes. When she shouted my name, I knew it was her. Her voice would stand out from a hundred thousand other voices. Why did she come? Did she want me to see her? Has she come before?

  My team leads me through the crowd to my dressing room, where I’m greeted by the physician. I take the seat across from him and wait impatiently for Miles to return while the doctor examines me.

  Miles walks in and reports, “I couldn’t find her, Sam. If she was here, she’s long gone.”

  “Well, fucking ask around. I’m telling you, she was here. She was ringside, for God’s sake. Find out who she was with.”

  “I’ll find out what I can.” He crosses his arms and stands over the doctor. “How’s he look, doc?”

  “Gonna need a couple of stitches over that eye, and an ice bath wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Stitches? Can’t you just put some glue on it?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I can put glue it, but it’ll leave a scar.”

  “It’s fine.”

  My phone buzzes, waking me from a deep sleep.

  Fuck. Everything hurts.

  I sit up slowly and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I reach for a bottle of ibuprofen on the nightstand, ignoring the ache in my shoulder, and shake a couple into my hand. I swallow them down and answer my phone. “Yeah.”

  “No signs of her being at the fight last night,” Miles says on the other end of the line. “We checked all the ringside tickets.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. She was there.”

  “You got hit hard. Maybe you just thought you saw her.”

  “She was there, Miles. Get the recording.”

  “Recording’s already been sent. A copy to the office and a copy to your place. It should be there when you get home.”

  I rub my stiff neck. “Yeah, okay.”

  “Flight for Atlanta leaves at one. I’ll come by your room around eleven.”

  “All right.”

  “You need anything?”

  “No, I’m okay.”

  “Order room service. Get some food in your system.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “Bye, champ.”

  I get up and walk over to the mirror, holding my aching ribs. My eye looks like shit. It’s swollen and blue under the glob of hard glue that’s holding my eyebrow together. I lift my arm over my head and stretch my aching muscles. Fucking Sanchez. He used my ribs as a punching bag.

  I run my fingers over the word Lamb that’s camouflaged by bruises.

  I don’t think I can wait until I get home to see the recording. I have to find the fight; I have to see if Lucy was really there. It has to be on the internet somewhere. I sit back down on the bed, grab my phone, and search for the fight. I scroll through several video clips until I find one that’s close enough to see the people sitting next to the ring. I watch it for about thirty seconds before I see her, and my heart stops. I pause it. She was there.

  I take slow, deep breaths because just knowing that she was really there, that I didn’t imagine it, does all sorts of fucked-up things to my head. I squeeze my eyes shut and grip the phone. Why were you there, Lucy? What the hell are trying to do to me? I open my eyes and look at the screen again. I want to press play, but I know what seeing her is going to do me, and I’m not sure if I’m ready for it. I throw my phone across the bed and fall back against the pillows, grimacing at the ache in my chest, which now accompanies the pain in my ribs. But after a few seconds, I grab it again, and press play.

  When the camera focuses on Lucy, I pause the video and stare at her for a long minute, until my pulse stops thumping in my neck.

  She looks exactly the same, but different. Her hair is long and straight, and still the same shade of blond. And her face hasn’t changed at all, except that maybe she’s gotten prettier. She’s wearing makeup, but it’s not caked on like it is on the women I usually meet. I can still see the beauty mark under her eye and the one by her mouth. I can see her clear blue eyes. She looks worried. I unpause the video and watch her pull her hand to her mouth. She looks down and shakes her head. The camera cuts to the ring and zooms in on me. I just took a hit f
rom Sanchez. I rewind the video and watch her again. She’s sitting on the edge of her chair, leaning forward with one hand on the rail in front of her. I take the hit and she grips the rail tighter and pulls her other hand to her mouth. Her face screws up at the same time, and she shakes her head.

  She was worried about me.

  I watch it again.

  And again.

  I let the video keep playing this time, but it stays on me and Sanchez for the next several minutes. Finally, when the camera pans out again, I see Lucy standing up, cheering. I just knocked Sanchez on his back. She has the biggest smile on her face. I pause it and stare at her for a long time.

  God, it hurts just to look at her.

  I put my phone facedown on the nightstand and fall back on the bed. I fold my hands over my chest, close my eyes, and inhale a deep breath to try to clear my head. But the only thing I can think about is Lucy. I squeeze my eyes shut tight and pull my palms to my temples, pressing against my thoughts, trying to clear my mind. I listen to my breathing. I focus on my pulse. I try to think about anything except for Lucy. But it doesn’t work.

  Sam, Fourteen Years Old

  Something wakes me from a light sleep. I turn my head to listen for it again, but the only sound I hear is the whistling of a train in the distance, cutting through the cold, quiet night. It was probably just the heat kicking on. My mind is so messed up right now, I doubt it would take much to wake me. I’m getting placed in a new home tomorrow. It will be my fifth foster home, my fifth so-called family, and my fifth time starting over. It’s also the first time I wished like hell I could stay where I’m at.

  I got into a fight today. My fourth fight this year. So my social worker is putting me with a family that has better “core values” and can help put me on the “right path.” It’s not like I’m some kind of hothead that just goes around beating people up. I was defending Lucy. And I would do it again. She tends to stand out from the crowd, especially at our school. The guys give her a hard time because they think she’s pretty. And the girls give her a hard time because they know the guys think she’s pretty. She is pretty. She’s different-looking. She’s a year younger than me, but I’m constantly fending off the older boys who live on our street.