Chapter 49
The Fight
Mari
“Why are you here?” Davina says.
Clive nods at each of us in polite greeting and inches into the hospital room with a bouquet of bright flowers in his grip. He’s grown out his beard and his shiny, bald head looks perfectly polished.
“I quit.”
A choked noise sounds from Violet and my eyes bulge. T-minus three hours until the fight and Clive has quit?
“What the hell are you talking about?” Davina snaps. Clive drops his head momentarily and peers up at Davina with guilt in his eyes. “Quit what? The fight is in three hours.”
“Managing Fletcher. It was a choice between standing ringside for a fighter I no longer care to represent or standing bedside for a woman who’s pregnant with my brother’s child. The latter seems undeniably more fucking important,” Clive says.
Violet’s gasp reverberates against the maternity ward’s walls. We instinctively grab each other, grounding ourselves in the new information.
“What?” Violet whispers.
“Do not play with me,” I mumble through my fingers. I lean forward and rest my hands on the edge of Davina’s hospital bed. “ You are pregnant with his brother’s child?”
“Twin brother,” Clive corrects.
Davina scoffs. “You don’t need to compensate for your brother’s disinterest in his own child,” she snaps, ignoring my question as if the relation between her and Clive was a casual fact. “We’ve spoken about this.”
“And as I said, I’m not compensating. Is it so bad to support my niece and her mom?” he argues.
“It’s not bad, it’s unnecessary.”
Violet and I oscillate our heads in a synchronized manner as Clive and Davina go back and forth with their arguing.
“Fine,” Davina concedes after five minutes of bickering. “Stay.”
Clive unloads a paper bag with several of Davina’s favorite snacks, scrunching it up once everything is placed on her bedside table along with a bouquet of flowers and his key fob boasting a Lamborghini emblem.
With a round of goodbyes and a reluctance to leave the hospital room in light of the new info, Violet and I head to the parking lot. Every step to Bill’s van is another step closer to watching a fight in person—something I swore I would never watch again after the bare-knuckle one. The ball of nerves already tossing around inside of me bounces faster against the walls of my stomach. I almost threw up when Kas beat the hell out of Dash, so I’m very concerned about how I’ll react to this fight.
“Clive’s niece? How insane is that?” Violet exclaims, her voice echoing off the walls of the parking garage. I sigh, grateful for her distractions.
“You know what’s crazy? I thought Davina was pregnant with Clive’s kid based on the way he’d always flirt with her,” I say.
“No way.” Violet’s voice mixes with shock as she yanks open the van door covered in a patina of rust.
We continue chatting until we’re seated inside and buckled in. I turn the key in the ignition and the engine sputters like it always does, only this time the sputtering is followed by an unsettling silence.
“Ummm,” Violet hums.
I try the ignition again. It sputters and ... nothing.
I’m about to try for a third time when smoke pours out of the front of the van.
“I don’t know much about cars, but I don’t think it should be doing that,” I say with an uncomfortable laugh.
Violet juts her head forward and uselessly smacks the dash. It’s like the universe is telling me that I shouldn’t go to the fight. The Isaac thing, the initial team fallout, my own promise after Kas’s bare-knuckle fight to never attend a combat sport again. But I owe it to myself and Kas to show up. I want to be there for him. I have to be there for him; it’s what I’m living for at this point.
Violet jumps out of the van and rounds the front of it. I follow and we stare at the smoke billowing out of the hood.
“I should’ve probably paid attention to Devon when he showed me how to do stuff with the inner workings of vehicles,” she muses. “I was too busy staring at his arms and waiting for him to take off his shirt.”
“At least he taught us how to change a tire,” I mumble.
That knowledge is definitely not the solution here.
“I can call Devon? He could come and pick us up with his bike,” Violet offers, lifting the end of her braid to check for split ends.
“With what vehicle? He got in the car the SFL sent. They’re all prepping to be in Kas’s corner, all focused and stuff.”
And by all focused, I mean that Bill and Kas—and myself—agreed that my existence will throw Kas off if I’m around for the prepping. Davina reiterated earlier today that at Kas’s fights, Bill takes the reins on the day of. She claims the team are completely different people because Bill only requires those in Kas’s corner to be present to avoid distractions. He orders them all to turn off their phones once they reach the venue and enacts a ritual to get Kas into his “fighting space.”
Kas also says it’s when Dash is on his best behavior, so it’s serious stuff.
I pull out my phone and search for an Uber. Isaac used to use my account, my user rating is a whopping 2.3—it’s why every driver cancels on me.
Violet puffs her cheeks and scans the lot with her hands propped on the bare skin of her waist. “If only Bill had that car.”
I follow her gaze to a bright red Lambo a couple of spaces away. It’s got a personalized plate with the name—
“Wait, is that Clive’s car?” I say, interrupting my own thoughts.
With a shared, unspoken gaze of understanding, Violet and I sprint back up to Davina’s room.
“We are never driving a sports car again!” Violet pants as we speedwalk around the back of the SFL venue. I nearly killed us—several times. I swear just breathing on the brake forced Clive’s car into a sudden stop and a tickle to the accelerator sent it zooming.
“Why was it so sensitive?” I complain. “I think I prefer Bill’s van.”
We flash a staff member our passes and follow the signs dotted around until we reach the hallway where Kas’s changing room resides. The rest of guys are loitering outside in complete silence.
“Hey—”
Dash slaps his hand across my mouth.
“Kas has a massive crush on you, and he started planning ways to take out Ward with the least amount of blood spilled because you don’t like watching fights. If he hears that you’re right here while he’s in there”—Dash points to the changing room door—“he might fuck up his fight. Sunshine, you are what kryptonite is to Superman ... Kinda.”
Dash ends his rant with a large exhale, and I take his little speech as a compliment.
“Crush? Sure,” Devon mutters, smiling at Bill and then down at Vi who has found herself under his arm.
“Oh, c’mon. I’m going to say good luck to him before his walk out and you can’t stop me,” I threaten.
Not seeing Kas before his fight? Is Dash insane?
“Mari, of course you can see him before his walk out. It’s gonna be a while because we need to wrap his hands, but I’ll come find you fifteen minutes before,” Bill cuts in.
“Thank you, Bill.”
I pin Dash with my meanest glare, and he does a gesture where he brings his middle finger and index finger to his eyes and flings them to point at me.
I stroll up to Bill, preparing myself to break the news of his beloved. “By the way, your van is dead,” I whisper.
“What?” Bill’s bellow echoes down the corridor along with Dash’s deafening laugh.
Kas
Fifteen minutes before I walk out, and for the last few hours, I’ve been fighting the urge to do something I’ve never struggled with before: turning on my phone.
Bill’s always taken the “no tech” approach to my pre-fight meditation, yet here I am, staring at the powered-off device sitting on the wooden dressing room bench. I’m desperate to call Mari and hear her gentle words of reassurance. Unfortunately, beating the shit out of Ward is impossible to do when I’m melted into a puddle at Mari’s feet.
I’ve seen the way she cringes at violence and how she hid a gag when I fought Dash at the SFL gym; Mari hates fighting. I look away from the phone and walk laps around the bench with controlled breathing. Is it better to limit my hits, or attempt to KO Ward as fast as I can so there’s less blood?
“Fuck,” I whisper.
I’m still thinking of ways I can make it tolerable for her to watch. Nothing seems to be placating my scattered mind. It’s like all the parts are there, ready for my fight, but they’re not working correctly—jittery, a little off-sync.
I huff three times and knock the sides of my face with my wrapped hands.
“Kacper? Do you have ten minutes?”
I stop my pacing and stare at the changing room door.
A head pokes in, dark skin and a beautiful mass of shiny, almost-black curls.
My entire body slumps at Mari’s presence, and her shoulders visibly loosen with each hurried step she takes to me. She slackens completely when I encase her in my arms; her overalls are rough, and the laminated pass dangling around her neck loses its coolness against my skin.
Every racing thought has dissolved, silenced completely when her soft hand grips my forearm and then moves up to cup my jaw.
“Good luck, I’m so, so proud of you,” she whispers, looking up at me through mascara-clad eyelashes. “I can’t believe we did seven weeks of camp for only fifteen minutes in the ring, probably less.”
There’s a barely audible huff at the end of her words. It incites a smile from me.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” I say, pressing a kiss to the corner of her lip, her cheek, and every other available spot on her skin that’s above her shoulder.
My nose tingles with each one. Why the fuck do I feel like I’m about to shed a tear? Mari grasps the side of my head, and I bend slightly so we can press our foreheads together.
“This is going to be so easy, you’re too advanced for this fight, seriously,” she says. “Knock Ward out ASAP so you can come hang with me with minimal injuries.” That’s all the motivation I need. Mari steps back and takes a thorough look at me. “The thought of you with cuts and bruises makes me feel every emotion that causes me to clench my butt cheeks,” she continues.
The seriousness in her voice when she says butt cheeks makes me laugh.
“I’ll keep it tame,” I promise, pulling her back into me.
My hand cradles her nape, toying with the baby hairs there as I anchor her against my body and my lips. Her kisses are soft and welcoming, mine are vehement. I take everything she’s willing to give me and use every bit of passion as fuel for my fight.
Mari might be my new pre-fight ritual.
She exhales shakily between a kiss and whispers, “I’ll be in the pit, watching all proud and crying.”
My heart sings in response to the reassurance I desperately needed.
“Promise? Promise me you’ll watch, S?oneczko.”
I’m begging. I need Mari to watch me, otherwise the fight will feel pointless.
“I promise.”
Ward stares into my eyes, his upper lip bulging from the mouth guard.
“You know the rules, gentlemen. Protect yourselves at all times, listen to my instructions, touch gloves, and let’s go!”
The ref claps his hands and steps back.
We don’t touch gloves and take a few backward steps until we’re on opposite sides of the Octagon. With the ref’s call, we sidestep into the center of the ring and already, Ward jabs at me with uncontrolled, predictable hits. I block each one of them.
Bill, Dash, and Devon shout their support from outside of the Octagon, and my ears strain for Mari’s voice. Ward puts up a tough fight and I know that tiring him out is key. He puts his all into the first round, and all I have to do is dodge him until it ends so I can take him out with minimal blood.
Once the five minutes are up, we’re left with nothing more than bloody noses wiped clean by the cutmen. I know this fight is underwhelming, and I’m making sure it stays that way because if Mari can’t stomach being ringside, I don’t want her looking away from me.
Mari
One round down and the fight is the most boring thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I sigh from behind the lens of my camera.
“ This is what you said makes you stick to your stomach? A couple of bloody noses?” Violet asks.
“It is very ... tame,” I agree.
Violet’s familiar with the bare-knuckle events, and even though her stomach is stronger than mine, she’s not impressed with the fight either. She’s been spending most of her time watching Devon and counting the frequency of his appearances on the big screen attached to the second level of the crowd.
“There he is!” she exclaims.
Violet blushes when Devon waves at the camera again from just outside of the cage.
I shake my head. “I’m glad that there’s not much blood drawn, but Kas will be scored less for lack of cage control,” I explain.
It’s obvious that Kas is holding back, and it’s infuriating because I know it’s because of me. The turbulence in my stomach is equal parts nerves and exhilaration as Kas rests his back against the caged perimeter. He glances once at me from over his shoulder, a second before the next round is set to begin.
I don’t want Kas to lose. I cup my hands around my mouth and shout a phrase I learned from Bill.
“Bash his fucking head in, Kacper!”
Kas
“Bash his fucking head in, Kacper!”
Mari’s shout carries over the crowd’s brief dip in volume at the start of the second round.
I wipe the sweat from my brow and smile around my mouth guard. My eyes are adhered to Ward when he lunges forward to feign a jab. I step back and swing my right leg in a roundhouse kick so my shin meets with his temple. He staggers and I expect the kick to knock him out, but he is only thrown off balance.
The lack of a knockout from my kick is annoying, and I want to blame Ward’s ego-inflated head for adding extra padding.
Before Ward can gain his balance again, his eyes crinkle with a smile. The same smile he probably had when he decided to message Mari. Each rise of my chest stokes the fiery need to fuck him up. We grapple, toss each other around, and when I finally grip his head between my hands, I bash his fucking head in.
Mari
Kas takes Ward’s skull between each hand and yanks his face into his knee. I’m sure if I was closer, I would’ve heard the crunch and the subsequent thudding of Ward’s tatted body as he plummets to the canvas. I stop recording on the business phone when my hand goes slack.
My eyes stay locked to the Octagon and glance to the giant screen up on the second level of the crowd.
“Knockout,” I whisper. My stomach churns, and I keep the nausea at bay by grounding myself in Kas’s victory. “Knockout,” I say, louder this time.
The commentators are screaming and calls for The Unfriendly Ghost blare all around us. Even Violet bounces up and down, clapping her hands and matching the crowd’s chants.
I stand there unblinking at the ring when Dash and Devon launch themselves over the height of it to embrace Kas—Devon does it much more gracefully.
Violet hugs me and shakes my unmoving form.
“He did it,” I say quietly to myself.
I turn to Violet.
“You guys did it!” she shouts.
I sigh deeply before joining in with the celebration. “Yes ... Yes! Yes!”
I scream the word and inhale shakily before the next belt of yeses . I spin, I jump, I run on the spot, air kiss Violet’s cheek, and shout a final “Yes!” before launching myself out of the pit and onto the ledge where the team stood during the fight. My cheers turn to sobs and my stress turns to relief.
On the big screen, Simon Tweedy is center of the ring next to a very bloody, sweaty Kas.
“Kacper, what a phenomenal performance. You entered this SFL last minute, adapted to being in the spotlight, and even with a few bumps in the road, this KO is exactly what was needed.”
He holds the mic in front of Kas, and my heart aches as if it can’t beat hard enough for him.
“I knew I was gonna win, I just wasn’t sure if debuting is what I wanted. I pushed through thanks to Mari, Davina, Bill, Dash, Devon, Violet, and my mom.”
He touches his gloved fingers to his heart, kisses them, and then points them toward the sky.
A loud sniffle comes from me, and I blink away a couple of stray tears from my eyes.
“I mean, I’m sure this victory will stick with you for a very long time, but I want to ask a question that everybody wants to know. What is next for The Unfriendly Ghost?”
Kas laughs and rubs the side of his nose. I can tell that his tolerance for socializing is starting to dwindle after a very hectic few weeks.
“I want to shower, go home, and do some cooking. Just the usual.”
“Just the usual?” Simon laughs. “No more fights?”
Kas raises a brow and looks between the various cameras that are up in his face, including the one broadcasting on the big screen. “We’ll see. Where’s Mari?”
“I’m fighting to get into the ring,” I answer, even though he can’t hear me.
I mutter “excuse me” as I try to work myself around the buzzing people gathering around the ring. Who are all these people?
“I’m here!” I shout. “I’m right here!”
Kas
Mari barges through the small crowd surrounding me and looks up with her big brown eyes. “I’m so proud of—” I interrupt her with a kiss.
A long, overdue kiss that feels like the continuation of one cut too short from before the fight. The crowd oohs and ahhs as Dash whistles loudly with his fingers.
Mari’s camera presses against my bare front and I make sure not to break it by moving it out from between us.
“I’m so proud of you,” she says when our lips part. “That was amazing, you’re so amazing.”
“S?oneczko.”
She peers down at her sun-dotted T-shirt and overalls then back up at me with a wide smile. She knows what it means. I encircle my arms around Mari again, pressing my nose into her hair like I always do when I get the pleasure of being this close to her.
The outfit couldn’t be more apt because Mari is like the sun, not just in her warmth and the light she provides, but because basking in her embrace is good for me. It’s healthy, and it’s familiar. She emits something I want to bottle up and save for a day when I’m not doing too good. Days where I could do with a little more of her.
Days like today, and every day for the rest of my life.