by Emilia Finn
Soph steps toward the boxing ring with a clipboard in her hands, offers it through the ropes. But when I reach out to take it, she holds on tight, and shoots me a glare when I try to yank it away with a huff.
She’s so mad that I’m here and not at her studio.
I say nothing, because Mac stands right behind me, and he will never know what I’m giving up in order to be here for him. I snatch the clipboard and step away with nothing more than gritted teeth for Soph, then I move to Smalls and pass her the board. “Line them up, ask for names. Let’s move them through.”
She’s wearing her typical uniform when inside this gym – booty shorts and sports bra, but over that, to combat the cold, her gym sweater. “Four hundred and seven fighters?” She flips the paper to the last to double-check. “Jesus, that’s twice as many as last year.”
I nod. “All four hundred have medical and buy-in. We might lose one or two to the weigh-in, but this is the number we’re working with.”
She sighs, though we both know she was already aware of the number. She might have been living in denial leading into today, but she knew.
She lifts her megaphone and grabs her audience’s attention. “We have twice as many fighters this year compared to last. The numbers are awesome,” she adds when voices start to grow. “We have twelve million subscribers for the livestream, which is almost double our final’s night last year. We expect more subs for the final night this year.”
“What are we fighting for this year, Miss Kincaid?”
She glances up from her clipboard and meets the eyes of a man I remember from last year. Troopy, I think? “Hey, Troop.” Yep, there it is. “How’s your mom?”
He barks out a laugh, a distraction, I suspect, to hide the fact his cheeks pinken and warm. “She’s good, thanks. Has a lingering cold, but she’s got the livestream all set up and waiting.”
“Good. Tell her the Rollers wish her well.”
He inclines his head the way the cowboys might back in the wild west.
“We’re fighting for half a million dollars per division,” she finally says. “Same as last year. There will be six champions: men’s lightweight, middleweight, heavyweight. Same with the ladies. Next year, if our numbers continue to grow, we’ll look at plumping the purses for the winners. Unlike last year, where we needed two days to get through the fights, this year we’ve scheduled three days. Friday, Saturday, finals on Sunday. We’ll also start earlier in the day, so we’re not fighting at three in the damn morning this time.”
“That was rough,” someone in the front laughs. “Took me a week to recover from this tournament last year.”
“Sorry.” Smalls chuckles. “We live, we learn. Starting the day at dinnertime was my bad. This year, we start at noon. All three days. That gives us time to sleep in, recover, eat a big meal, then get to the venue in time for the first round. You do not have to be present for fights that aren’t yours, but if you miss your call, you forfeit, so manage your time well. If you want to leave and do your own thing to warm up, you may, but don’t lose track of time.”
She gives a single, firm nod. “We’re going to start weighing in now. I want you to make a line that doesn’t include shoving, give me your name, your division, and your home state, just because I like to collect data.” She laughs. “I had no clue I would ever say that, but here we are. Many of you know the drill, but some of you are new. Come to me, give me your stats. After that, you move to the guys, the Rollers.” She points toward our dads. “You weigh in with them. Make sure they write it down. Take ownership of yourselves, double-check that they wrote it down. Don’t bitch at me and say you thought they did it. After you’re done with them, head to the ladies.” She points at our moms. “Collect your lanyard. Wear that baby with pride. Once you have it, you’re set. You’re in. You’re free to leave after that. You won’t be needed again until Friday at noon. Though if you want to stay, you’re welcome. I’m fairly certain my family will cook something up for lunch for those who hang.” She looks to Uncle Jack. “Barbecue?”
He nods.
She looks back to the crowd. “Barbecue! Let’s get this done, then we’re over the first hurdle.” Placing the megaphone on the canvas, she climbs through the ropes while our crowd forms a line and pretends they’re not shoving each other. She pulls me through the ropes with her, since I’d planned to stay exactly where I was, away from the crowd, then she perches herself on the edge of the ring and smiles at the first guy in line. “Talk to me.”
“Tobias Smith, middleweight, Washington.”
My eyes snap to his as soon as middleweight passes his lips, because that’s Mac’s division, and I’ll be damned if he loses this year.
I watch as he nervously wrings his hands and waits for Smalls to find his name, and in my study, I jump when Mac drops out of the boxing ring to stand beside me. “You need to chill out.”
I frown. “I’m chill. I’m always chill.”
He chuckles. “Dude says ‘middleweight,’ and you’re about to burn him with your laser retinas. We need fighters signing up, otherwise, how am I supposed to beat them?”
“I’m allowed to check them out.” I scowl and watch the guy peek at us for a moment before scurrying away. “He’s not gonna be a problem. He’s already lost.”
“Yes.” Mac throws his arm around my neck and pulls me in for a fast kiss on the forehead that makes Smalls grin.
She’s doing her job, but she’s paying attention to us too. She’s been watching the Mac and Bean show for years already. As if she’d turn the channel now that her waiting is finally paying off.
“He’s already lost,” Mac continues. “Because his head is fucking with him.”
“Is yours?” I turn to him, study his eyes. “Being here, looking at all of these fighters… how do you feel?”
“I feel… invincible.” He flashes a wide grin. A genuine grin that makes my heart sigh. “Truly. I’ve been trained exclusively by a champion. I’ve gained the weight you wanted me to gain. Everything is working as it should. And I got laid, so…”
Smalls chokes on her laughter, confusing the fighter who stands before her, trying to tell her he’s from somewhere in the middle of nowhere. “Sorry.” She clears her throat and studies her clipboard. “I got you here. Welcome to Stacked Deck.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
As soon as he walks away, she turns to us with laughing eyes. “I hate that there is sooo much to gossip about, but we’re busy.” She points in my face, so close that I could bite the tip of her finger clean off. “Dinner tonight, our place. I wanna know everything.”
“Everything?” Mac questions with wide eyes.
“I think I have to have dinner with Daddy.” I smile for the next in line. “Daddy has dibs, but maybe I’ll sit with you over lunch.”
“If we get any.” She turns back to the waiting fighter, and smiles. “Four hundred people to check in. We’re gonna be here for hours.” She readies her pen. “Name?”
Time passes. Fighters introduce themselves. Many of them ask to shake our hands, but though Ben, Smalls, and I oblige, I watch as Mac exchanges fist bumps after the second offer. No matter how strong he is, no matter how fit and healthy he appears, he’s still, and will forever be, a heart transplant recipient. It means compromised immunity. It means staying out of crowds much like this one. It means Lysol and not shaking hands with four hundred of his closest friends.
But he does it all with a smile, and beyond the first guy who was surprised, everyone catches on pretty fast. Eventually, Ben, Smalls and I offer fists too, which then normalizes it and saves us all from catching a cold a week out from the tournament.
I recognize several faces from last year, even the guys who lost. Many say thank you for hosting again, and many others wax on about their plans for victory. The scent of burgers on the barbecue moves in the air, and though my stomach grumbles, I don’t move away from my place at the front of the line.
We’re the faces of Stacked Deck.
>
This is the equivalent to the press conference, if we’d gone the traditional route and fought the contracted fights we were offered before this all began. We have to do the PR, which means the four of us stay put and meet every single fighter that enters.
That also means we have to be here when the one fighter I was kind of dreading steps forward.
“Relax,” Mac murmurs by my ear when Miles “Iowa” Walker steps forward with his little girl clutching his hand.
Miles looks the same as last year, but his little girl has grown. Twenty-somethings tend to look the same when only a year has passed. But a four-year-old looks like a toddler, and a five-year-old looks like a little lady.
“Alyssa!” Smalls tosses her clipboard into my hands and crouches down so fast that her curls fly with the movement. “Hey, beautiful. You’re back.”
“Hi, Miss Kincaid.” I remember last year, the girl spoke with a slight lisp. This year, even her voice has matured. Her hair hangs long against her back, her whiskey-colored eyes are wide, overwhelmed from all of the people and noise. “We drove all day yesterday.”
“You slept here last night?”
The girl nods, while Iowa peeks at me and Mac with something playing over his features. Not necessarily shame, and not apology. There’s no anger or animosity. He’s watching us, gauging our mood, and probably ready to jump if we swing first, but other than that, he’s doing his best to remain invisible.
Last year’s fight was… well, honestly, it was fucking brutal. It wasn’t a typical tap, and it wasn’t a knockout. It was machine-like coldness, it was the beatdown of the century, and I suppose in some circles, could be considered dirty fighting.
The world knows about Mac’s medical history, so Iowa’s cold attack of the very surgery site that changed all of our lives could be considered… uncouth. But it’s the way it is. He had a fight to win, and Mac has a bullseye painted on his chest.
“Mac Blair.” Iowa leaves his little girl with Smalls for a second, turns to us and, swallowing his nerves, he offers a hand, which, after a second of hesitation, Mac accepts, rather than counter with a fist bump. “You’re… uh…” He sighs. “This is awkward.”
Mac chuckles as they release hands. “It’s just a fight. You won, I lost.” He shrugs. “Let’s see if I can do better this year.”
“You’ve bulked up.” Iowa studies Mac’s chest. Nods. “Looks good on you.”
“My girl has been in charge of my diet and shit. Making sure I put on the right kind of weight.”
Iowa’s eyes flick to me, then his lips quirk up. “Having a smart woman by your side is worth her weight in gold.” He looks to Mac. “Makes you a wealthy man.”
“Guess it does.” Mac pulls me closer and smiles when I meet his eyes. “That’s pretty accurate. I’m very lucky to have her on my side. Feeling fit?” He asks Miles. “Any injuries I should know about and exploit?”
For the first time ever, I watch Iowa throw his head back and laugh. “There’s no way in hell I would tell you if I did. I consider you my biggest competition here, Blair. And I have rent to pay, so…”
“So game on?”
He nods and picks up his girl when she tugs on his coat. Long, brown hair flips around while he settles her and her teddy on his hip, then together, twin-whiskey-eyed, they study us. “Game on. We’ll both step up, but once it’s done, when it’s all over and only one of us gets the win, I’d still like to maybe get a meal with you guys. I don’t want to make enemies around here, especially not with the guy whose girlfriend belongs to the only family I fangirl for.”
I burst out laughing and snuggle into Mac’s side. “Stick around when it’s all done, I’m sure we could find time to get a meal.”
Iowa turns to Ben and Smalls. “All four of you?”
“Sure.” Smalls nods.
But Ben responds with a resounding, “Fuck no.” Because he’s a jealous fool.
He tries not to be, and has it under control most of the time, but Iowa asking her out for a meal – even asking him along too – presses his buttons in ways he can’t stop. It takes Smalls’ elbow jabbed into his side for him to roll his eyes and grudgingly nod.
Iowa steps away a moment later to collect his lanyard and weigh in, but he’s gone from my mind, completely up in smoke when Reid and Kyle Baker step up next.
The air changes. I swear, the temperature drops to fifty below zero, because though Reid has eyes for Ben and Evie, Kyle’s sneer is all for me. “Hey, Little Dancer.”
“What?” Mac’s body jolts like he’s been shocked by a power socket. His arm grows heavier on my shoulder when Kyle only grins. “What the fuck?”
“What?” Ben sidesteps Reid and moves toward us. “What’s the problem here?”
“Why’d you call her ‘Little Dancer’?”
Mac literally shoves me aside when I try to place myself between them.
“Mac!” I grab his arms. “Mac, stop.”
“Why’d you call her ‘Little Dancer’?”
“Mac! Please stop.” My heart races as those milling around turn away from their private conversations and pay attention to us. “Please stop.”
“What’s going on?” Smalls steps in front of Mac, in front of me, and stands up to the man I long ago considered a bully. “Kyle Baker, you’ve been here for two seconds, and are already causing trouble. If you don’t watch yourself, you’ll be banned.”
“Why ban me?” He arches a daring brow and looks at me over Mac’s shoulder. “I did nothing to deserve this kind of welcome. All I did was mention how she likes to dance.”
“Kyle!” I screech. “Stop it.”
“What?” He throws his hands up. “Why is everyone freaking out? So you like to dance for men; this is the era of women’s rights and all that shit, ain’t it? There’s no need for you to be ashamed of your activities to make a little side money.”
“The fuck is going on here?”
I can’t swallow the loud wail that bursts from my chest when Daddy wades through the crowd.
He stops in front of Smalls, places himself between her and Kyle, and steps up to the guy half his age. “This is the second year you’ve been here, boy. And both years, you’ve caused a ripple. What the fuck is your problem?”
“Why do you assume I have a problem?” He throws his hands up in a show of exasperation. But that’s all it is, a show, because he’s smiling. His eyes cruelly taunt me. And his lips make me think of Batman’s Joker. “I just step up to check in, and the bullshit begins. I say hey to the dancer, and they close ranks. How is this my fault?”
Mac lunges forward with pure rage in his eyes. “Why are you calling her a dancer? Why do you know anything about her?”
“Mac. Stop.” I don’t cry. Never ever. But my daddy and my boyfriend stand here, rippling muscles and flexing hands, to defend my honor against a bully. “Please stop.”
My eyes scour the room, to the hundreds of watching fighters, to Iowa, who watches on with concern in his eyes. But he has his little girl on his hip. He can’t leave her alone and step forward to help, and he can’t bring her into the fray.
“Leave.” Daddy grabs Kyle’s arm and tries to spin him. “This is an inclusive event, but you’re pure asshole, and we don’t have room for you.”
“She still owes me money. Hey, H-H-Holly?”
My breath comes out on a cry.
“It was Kyle?” Mac spins so fast that his elbow slams against my chest. “You bet Kyle? Lucy! What the fuck?”
“It was just a bet,” I cry. “I make them all the time.”
“Against a Baker? Are you insane?”
“I told you not to do that.” Smalls steps through the bodies to stop beside me, pulling me back so she can step up to Kyle. “She made a bet, she paid you back. Whatever she didn’t pay, I’ll pay. But you need to leave.” She looks to Reid, her ex-boyfriend and sort-of-friend. “You need to get him out of here. He’s no longer welcome.”
“Wasn’t such a sure bet, was it?” Kyle p
ushes. “Betting on a cripple with a bad heart, not exactly your finest moment.”
Mac dives for him with a loud roar. Fists fly, the sound of jabs landing on toned muscle echo in the rowdy gym, and though it takes my daddy, three of my uncles, and Ben to pull them apart, Mac and Kyle still swing at each other. Mac is easily thirty pounds lighter than Kyle, and yet, he’s fast, and makes it so blood covers Kyle’s face.
“She’s none of your business!” Mac fights against Uncle Bobby’s iron grip. “You mind your own fuckin’ business!”
“Does it hurt your feelings that she’s out ten grand and has to dance for men, all because you’re a fuckin’ gimp that cries when he fights?” Kyle taunts Mac, teases, jabs with his words.
He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a stack of Polaroids, and tosses them – not at Mac, but at Daddy – so they slap against his chest. “I’m not lying. I’m just the messenger.”
“What is…” Daddy catches some of the pictures, while others flitter to the floor. He brings one up, studies it with so much confusion playing over his face, I have a second to hope they’re not what I think they are. “I don’t…” He turns in search of… I don’t know. A savior? Me?
“Daddy?”
He looks straight over me, locks eyes with my mom as she shoves her way closer. “Bubs?”
“What’s going on?” She bullies her way into the packed group, studies Mac being held back by Uncle Bobby, then to Daddy, who stands mouth agape like a guppy fish, and Uncle Aiden standing nearby, ready to jump Daddy if he wants to take a shot.
Mom grabs the photos from my dad, studies them, then looks at me. “Bean?”
A strangled cry rolls through Daddy’s chest that makes tears spill onto my cheeks. “It’s her?” He tries to catch Mom’s eyes. “It’s her, right?”
