TWENTY-TWO
HAYDEN
BOSTON
DECEMBER
“Hit me.”
Shock turns to confusion; the man’s red eyebrows furrow, and his blue eyes dart everywhere but at me. He’s tall, broad, thick-waisted, his balding dark red hair aging him beyond his likely mid-thirties. Panic rolls off him—strong, almost tangible.
As Emerald described, his voice is deep and raspy, and he stutters as he responds.
“W-What?”
“Hit. Me,” I grit out, emphasizing each word.
He shakes his head. “I don’t—”
“You didn’t have second thoughts when you hit my wife!”
My shout startles him. He leaps back, body trembling, fear only fueling my anger. Rage blinds me so suddenly I can’t rein it in.
“Hit me,” I say, pointing to where he hit Emerald. Where he stomped on her. My rage rises, and I growl, “Hit me. Show me what five grand feels like.”
He flinches. “I don’t—Haymaker, I was so fucked up that night, I barely remember—”
“You don’t remember?” I finish for him, and after a hesitant moment, he nods. I laugh, the sound hollow. “That’s good for you, because my wife can’t forget. ”
His eyes squeeze shut. His expression is genuinely regretful.
Not enough. Never enough.
“I watched the whole fucking thing,” I say, my voice way too even. The man’s eyes widen in fear at the tone. “I found her, where you dragged and dumped her. I found her fighting for her life.”
“Haymaker, I—”
“Don’t!” I thunder, making him flinch and take a step back. “There is nothing in this fucking world you could say to explain what you did. Did you deliberately target her? Were you hired by someone?”
“No! No, Haym—sir. I didn’t, I just—I was drunk, and I had lost the money for my kid’s Christmas gifts and child support and alimony and—I-I wasn’t thinking clearly, I don’t know what I was doing—I went to the arena to—God, I don’t even fucking know—and I just saw her and I-I-I snapped—I’m so fucking sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. ”
My gaze drops to his shaking, clenched fists. They’re big, strong—just like any blue-collar man here. I picture Emerald taking a hit from them, collapsing, her nose breaking.
My heart slams in my chest.
I look at his large, scuffed black work boots. Kicking her, breaking her ribs, puncturing her lung, stomping on her face. My back tenses, hands clench.
“So you saw her, and you thought you would use her as a punching bag. Why?”
He shakes his head, “I don't... I just... people online were saying that she was—well, you were off your game—and she didn’t like you playing—and she—”
“She was there,” I finish for him.
He swallows, breathing frantically as he searches for any opening, any exit, any way out.
Did Emerald do the same when she felt cornered?
The flash of fear in his eyes triggers something in me, burning away any remaining restraint.
He’s not going to hit me.
So I charge toward him.
It’s a small bathroom, so I’m in front of him in two long strides.
I don’t raise my hands to defend myself, and I just let him swing.
He connects hard, right under my left eye.
It’s a solid hit. My head snaps to the right, molars cutting a bit into my gums. Blood fills my mouth, and my face has a flash of numbness before the pain hits.
And it actually feels good .
I’m used to being punched. Emerald isn’t.
The footage replays in my mind. I look back at him, his surprised face that he actually landed a punch on me. He’s not used to throwing punches. He flexes his fist, winces, and takes his eyes off me.
That’s the thing—I’m used to getting punched in the face.
Is he?
When he looks back at me, I’m already swinging. One good hit, cracking right in the center of the face. I feel his nose break under my fist, and it brings him to his knees.
Just like Emerald.
The footage has been branded into my brain. I remember every move he made. Every move Emerald made. Every single second of the assault.
Like I was preparing myself for this.
“How does it feel?” I snarl, throwing another punch that sends him to the ground.
I don’t let up, I go to the ground on top of him, grabbing the collar of his jacket—and I wonder what he did with the jersey.
My jersey. My number. My name.
He wore my name while he beat my wife.
I swing.
Again and again.
“Are you scared?!”
Right punch.
“Do you feel small?!”
Left punch.
“How does it feel, you cowardly fuck?!”
His hand reaches up to defend himself, and I block them, his fingers bending back until a snapping sound reaches my ears. Broken. Just like hers.
“You mad at my playing? You want to hit someone?”
Right hit. Left hit.
My knuckles open, my blood mixing with his.
“You hit me! Not my wife! Not my wife!”
His face is a mess of red. I feel his nose break, but I keep hammering blows, as he flails to block them. I don’t let him, I keep hitting and hitting and hitting him. I’m pure rage, an animal devouring its prey.
Two words tear from my throat each time I hit him.
“My wife!”
The words scrape my throat. Emerald’s face in my mind—flickering between smiling sweetly at me, and then her battered, terrified face. Emerald, the sweetest woman in the world. My sunshine girl. My soulmate. The woman who showed me what love is. My entire world.
Emerald, Emerald, Emerald...
Every hit is for her .
“Hayden!”
Strong arms wrap around me, yanking me back and off the limp man underneath me. My body struggles, my eyes still on the bloodied man on the ground, but I’m pulled firmly back. I crash to the ground and land on top of something soft, the same something keeping a vice grip around me.
Fighting to get free, I turn to punch whoever has grabbed me when one name cracks through the red haze.
“Hayden, stop! He does not get to take you from Emerald!”
Emerald.
The rage inside me quiets instantly at the sound of her name, a calming spell. My muscles loosen as my mind grabs and holds onto her. I still see red. Blood. So much of it. On the dirty grey tile floor, splattered on the walls, on my fists, on that man’s face. It’s all red.
Adrenaline leaks from my body slowly, and I try to take deep breaths to get myself under control.
Tim’s voice is in my ear. “Calm, son. Calm.”
“That’s him, Dad! That’s him,” I grit my teeth and hiss. “That’s the piece of shit who hurt Emerald!”
Tim freezes until he just tightens his arms around me.
His voice is rough in my ear, “He does not get the rest of your life, Hayden!”
My body stops fighting; his words have sunken in deep.
“He almost took Emerald away from you,” Tim shakes me, making sure I’m listening. “He doesn’t get to take you away from her.”
My eyes and nose sting, and tears pool, blurring my vision. They fall down my heated cheek, already beginning to swell from his hit. I blink and more fall, each release accompanied by a strange, raw hiccuping sound in my throat.
A sob .
I’m crying.
Another sob. Emerald’s face flashes in my mind, bruised and bloody. Just like this man in front of me. He’s moving, groaning in pain, holding his bleeding nose.
I could have killed him. I could have let go, thrown all of my strength behind one punch, and knocked him out. Left him in the bathroom to die like he left Emerald to die in the snow.
But I didn’t.
Because I wanted him to feel my rage. The pain my wife felt. The fear of being at the mercy of someone bigger.
And yet...
There’s no relief. No release. No satisfaction.
But I can’t feel relief.
I feel... nothing.
No, actually, I feel defeated—selfish, even. As my anger cools, shame surfaces. I realiz e I lost something by letting rage take control. I thought I was avenging Emerald, but it was only my own demand for vengeance.
Emerald doesn’t want vengeance; she wants to heal.
This was for me, and me only.
Reality crashes down on me, and I sob into the only father I’ve ever known’s arms.
“It’s alright, son,” Tim murmurs in my ear, “It’s alright.”
He repeats it over and over, and my chest wracks with sobs. There’s a painful tearing right over my heart, and I desperately search for the satisfaction I thought this would bring.
It doesn’t come, and I know it never will.
Because Emerald is still in that hospital, broken even more than before. Hurting this man didn’t fix anything, and the sight of his bloody, broken face brings no pride—only an echo of the horror I found Emerald in .
I promised I wouldn’t become a vigilante, but the moment I saw him, I broke that promise and became a monster.
“What the fuck is going on?”
At the door is the bartender, taking in the scene in front of him. Blood splattered on the tile. Blood dripping from the moaning man’s face, blood covering my knuckles. I imagine it’s quite a sight.
“What the fuck?!” he shouts, before asking the man I just beat. “Doyle, should I call the cops?”
Tim opens his mouth, but the man—Doyle—on the ground beats him to it.
“No!” He gurgles, holding up a bloody hand and trying to get to his feet. He stumbles and falls once more, but desperately speaks to the bartender. He spits out a mouthful of blood before he slurs. “No, Fred, don’t—please, it’s...”
His words trail off, like he doesn’t even know what to say. Fred looks at the room, looks at me, and I pray he doesn’t know who I am. No recognition crosses his face, only resigned anger, like this happens a lot or something.
“You know what, I don’t even care. Doing this on Jesus’ goddamn birthday,” the man snarls, pointing at each of us. “All of you get the fuck out of here!”
He doesn’t say anything else; he just stomps off down the hallway. None of us move for a long moment. The only sounds in the room are our heavy breathing, Doyle’s pained moans, and Tim’s soft assurances in my ear.
“You done?”
After a deep breath, I nod. Tim releases me, and slowly, I start to get to my feet. Tim stands up first, reaching down to grab my hand and help pull me up.
Once he makes sure I’m steady, his concerned face shifts, sharpens, and he turns to look at the man still on the ground .
He walks over to him, crouches, and...
Holds out his hand.
Doyle looks at it, his eyes rapidly swelling. With a shaky, hesitant hand, he places it in Tim’s, and Tim pulls him to his feet. But he doesn’t let go of his hand. He squeezes until the man hisses in pain.
“I am the only goddamn reason you are still alive, you understand that?” Tim growls, Doyle’s eyes widening before he nods. “You have kids?”
“...yes.”
“A little girl?” Tim asks, his tone quiet.
Doyle’s face collapses for a moment. “Yes.”
Tim nods. “You beat my little girl.”
Doyle flinches harder than if Tim had struck him.
“Yeah. How do you think I feel looking at you right now? How would you feel if you were me? Like you’d want to kill the fuck who did that? How do you think he feels—that’s his wife. How would you feel?”
“I’m... I’m so sorry,” is the only thing Doyle says, his tone pleading.
Tim’s lip curls in disgust, and he releases him, shoving him back and causing him to stumble over his feet.
“If we call the cops on this fuck, you’re gonna go too,” Tim turns to me, shaking his head. “I don’t want that to happen, but you swung before you could think, Hayden.”
I nod, shame welling in my chest. Fuck. I get arrested, booked for assault—looking at Doyle’s broken face—maybe even worse. I get sent to prison. Emerald divorces me. Life over.
“But it’s in your best interest, if that doesn’t happen,” Tim snarls at Doyle, who cringes back. “So, we’re going to leave. And you are going to do one decent thing in your miserable life. Turn yourself in to the police. ”
Doyle looks at him, then he looks at me, and his eyes turn remorseful.
He nods. “I will.”
No more words are exchanged. No more words are needed.
Tim and I walk by the busted door hanging on its hinges. It’s splintered at the handle, like it was kicked in.
When I give Tim a confused look, he just shrugs.
“My kid was behind that door, and he was in trouble.”
That just sends me over the edge once more. Fresh tears spill, another sob tearing out of me. Tim’s arm around my shoulders tightens.
“It’s alright, Hayden. Let’s go home,” he murmurs.
I nod eagerly. Home. Emerald.
As we stumble out of the nearly empty bar, the music has cut off, and curious patrons glance over to us. Some hissed whispers reach my ears, but I ignore them.
The bartender sternly points to the door.
“Don’t even think about coming back here.”
“Don’t worry,” Tim soothes him. “You’ll never see us again.”
Tim keeps his arm wrapped around me as he guides us outside. The freezing air stings where it hits the wet tracks of my tears. It’s late, almost nine, and the streets are empty.
The snow is still falling softly, cold flakes landing on my swollen cheek. I know I’m going to bruise on that side. It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter. My body feels light, and I’m slightly dizzy as the adrenaline drains out of my system.
Tim keeps a firm hold on me, keeping me standing as we walk back toward the hospital.
I won that fight.
And I still feel like I lost.