by Fields, MJ
“There you go. Now you can thump your leg all you want,” he says, chuckling at his wit. I laugh lightly, then immediately begin to wiggle my leg again.
“All right, lights are out.” Miles gives me the play-by-play about five seconds before I see it on my screen. The delay might kill me if he says the wrong thing and I can’t see it to confirm whether or not Memphis is okay.
I close my eyes and listen to the noise piping through the phone speaker, and I imagine waiting through this entire fight under layers of concrete in a sub-basement of the arena. These sounds are more than my mom got during those early years, when she wasn’t supposed to be seen with him and I was just some baby this woman brought in a carrier. If I try really hard, I wonder if I can remember those early sounds I heard, too.
My eyes remain shut while I hear them announce Omar Morales. There are boos and chants reverberating through my phone, so I open wide and lean forward to see if I can tune in the sound for the fight. It comes in decently, and from what I can sense most of the professional world is handing this to Omar without a lot of faith in what Memphis can bring to the table.
“Showtime,” Miles says. I tune down the sound from the video again and open my eyes waiting through the delay. I don’t need to hear what other people have to say about him. I know in my heart what he’s made of, and I know what he has that Omar doesn’t—heart. So much heart.
I can hear the doubters through the phone, though. They’re loud and loyal to the favorite. It’s easy to root for the favorite. I wish there was a way I could find out who the haters were so when Memphis becomes World Champion, they wouldn’t be allowed to be in his court. They’d regret it, because once they see him—when they know him—they will love him.
I’ve fallen in love with him. I’ve known for a while, and with every new obstacle thrust at us, trying to tear us down, I’ve held on hoping there would still somehow be a we at the end of it. I don’t know what happens from here—when I come home and he’s ready to make home somewhere else. That place—it isn’t my home either.
“He’s in the zone, Liv. Can you see it? It’s incredible!” I can barely make out Miles’s words over the buzz of the crowd nearly drowning him out, but I get his prompt and lean in close waiting for the camera to zero in on the greatest fighter I’ve ever seen.
In a blink, he fills the frame. Gary says something behind me, and I nod, not even knowing for sure what he said. I don’t have time to listen to anything but the bells and Miles’s reassurance.
His stare is lethal. He’s been trained by the best intimidator I know. Leo Valentine knew how to make an opponent feel threatened, and with the polish from Charles in a few days, Memphis paces around his corner with a stone-cold confidence in his eyes.
I smirk when he jogs, bouncing as Charles pulls his robe from his shoulders and tosses it over the ropes. I’m pretty sure I see Miles in the background, seated directly on the floor right behind our man.
“Nice gray suit,” I say through a grin. My phone sounds with his raspy chuckle.
“Why, thank you. First one I’ve ever had. Got married in uniform. Champ said I needed to show up classy, so he took me out shopping. That little shit was cranky as hell, though,” he says.
“He was hungry,” I laugh out.
“No reason to be an asshole about things. He said I was indecisive or some shit. I think we were in the store for seven minutes,” Miles says.
Gary’s found a spare chair from somewhere outside and he’s pulled it up next to me. He slides a soda in front of me on the table and pulls back the tab.
“Vending machine out there. You looked like you could use a snack.” I hear him open one for himself a second later, so I turn and smile.
“Thanks,” I say, pulling the can in my trembling hand. I can barely take a sip, but I force myself to because that was really sweet of him.
I listen in live from Miles, watching Memphis’s face for clues about how he’s going to handle this moment. They’ve rattled off stats and weights, and both men have come to the middle to be schooled by the referee. These are my favorite pictures my mother has of my father. If I were to lay one on top of this moment right now, every detail would match up perfectly. Two alpha men, bodies damp with sweat already, muscles primed to punish, jaws rigid and mouth guards being chewed away by rabid teeth. It’s so primal, boxing. So violent, yes—two men beating the shit out of one another for the right to say they’re king.
But Memphis is king. I can see it already in the way he swaggers back to his corner but never takes his eyes off the target. They are both the same height, yet somehow Memphis seems to tower over him, even as he moves away. He nods to Charles, weight shifting from one foot to the other while his eyes sear into the man staring back at him. He’s waged war, and my chest burns with excitement and fear.
His father died in a ring just like this.
“There’s the bell,” Miles says, briefly bringing me out of my trance. I go right back in, watching it happen on the delay.
Memphis is quick to the center, wasting no time showing Omar he isn’t afraid. Where Omar is thick, Memphis is lean and fast—his muscles rounded by discipline and passion. It’s the defensive strategy Leo deployed, but there’s an edge to it, and that’s strictly Charles. He’s not playing it safe, and that terrifies me.
The first swing comes, but I’m already okay, because Miles hasn’t told me to worry yet. I’ll have time to prepare myself…that’s the only benefit to being here instead of there. If I die inside, I’ll have a warning.
There’s reaction from the crowd on the phone and I start to ask Miles, but instinctively he knows and tells me everything’s fine.
I see it play out, hard right hook that Memphis dodges. He’s poetic on his feet, and it’s beautiful to watch.
Somehow shutting everything out, I focus on him—on the way his legs remain steadfast, his balance perfection and his movements unpredictable. There is no pattern to discern. He moves by heart, where instincts tell him to go, always just out of reach but close enough to tempt.
There are some taps—first Memphis at the side, then the face. Omar returns them. They’re testing each other—teasing, mostly. Nobody wants to go out in the first. That isn’t good for anyone, so when the clock starts to close in on zero, I exhale knowing things are fine.
“Jesus Christ!”
Miles jolts me back from calm, and for a brief moment, my heart stops beating.
Memphis dodges, his body weaving low, then right, then center, and in that same breath his left hand fires away, two jabs to the right side of Omar’s face. It wasn’t part of the old plan, but this new plan doesn’t follow rules. It plays to strengths. Memphis’s strengths.
He’s faster. And he isn’t afraid.
The bell sounds on my screen and they both back into their corners, only Omar’s dominant side is going to have a hard time seeing things coming at it now. His eye is swelling. Memphis is swaying in his seat, his feet itching to go in for more.
“He was not ready for that,” Gary says.
“Neither was I,” I say.
The break is never long enough, and I’ve barely caught my breath when it rings and both fighters come in for more.
“Ohhhh wow!” Miles is emphatic, and it plays out for me a second later.
Memphis isn’t wasting time. He’s making a statement, going in hard and early, taking Omar off balance. He throws him a combination that sends him to the ropes and brings his stumbling body back toward Memphis, where he holds on just to get a break.
Once separated, they both gain some distance again, each taking half of the ring, circling in their dance. Omar lunges, and Memphis doesn’t flinch. He’s fighting like Leo here—balance above all else. That bastard was right about one thing.
Omar lunges a few times, all idle threats, until the round is almost over and he comes in hard, landing a punch to Memphis’s side. He blocks some of it, but it isn’t enough. That one hurt.
It’s impossible to be in
this sport and not get hurt. At this level, there are so many wins by decision. That means ten rounds of trading fists and flesh, leaving bruises and breaking open skin. For two rounds, Memphis is doing okay. At least he can see.
“He’s all right. I can hear him,” Miles says. I watch him go to his corner on the delay, and his mouth is moving a lot.
“That one hurt,” I say.
“Yeah, it did. It hurt,” he yells. “But he’s all right. Champ is talking trash, just like I taught him to.”
“Oh, you taught him that, did you?” I laugh, and Miles adds in a “Mmmm hmmmm.”
I’m starting to sweat, so I pull my sweater over my head and toss it on the desk and catch a glimpse behind me. It’s no longer just Gary. This small crowd has grown to five—the three reception desk employees now invested in a boxing match being shown on a three-by-five phone screen.
“We’re rooting for that guy,” I say, touching my finger to his body on the screen.
“Hell yes, we are,” the woman says. I give Gary a sideways glance, and he laughs.
Round three kicks in and is over without much action. I can handle this if more rounds pan out like this. I know it isn’t likely, and I know the crowd doesn’t like defensive fights, but when your heart is invested, you wish every round were this boring.
“I think the secret is out,” Gary says, leaning into me. I glance over my shoulder again, and a few guys from the bar have stumbled into the tight office now, one of them sitting on the printer table so he can see.
“Hey, I got money on Morales. Think you can hold that up a little higher, sweetheart?” My eyes linger on his for about half a second before I turn around, glancing at Gary again along the way.
“Awe, don’t be like that. Come on,” he says, just as the fourth round is getting under way. My skin is tingling with nervous energy, and assholes have a tendency to make me do rash things, so I fight to keep myself calm.
“I don’t know what Charles said to him, but it looks like this is the round where things are gonna happen. Time to hold on, sister.”
I see what Miles is talking about just as he finishes his warning. Charles and Memphis are nose to nose, heads both nodding, Charles shouting to make sure Memphis can hear. This scene is familiar, too. I watched it on TV a lot, Leo shouting at my dad. He used his hands a lot when he talked, but he told me once that he was always careful to make sure his gestures never gave anything away. Charles’s hands are perfectly still.
Memphis doesn’t look fatigued, but neither does Omar. I can’t read the scores they’re throwing on the bottom of the screen, but the hater behind me must be getting them from some app he’s on.
“They’ve got them tied, right now,” he says. “Bullshit.”
I grit my teeth as the bell rings and Memphis moves in.
“Bullshit because Delaney’s up three rounds to one,” I say, no longer able to keep it in. Gary moves in his chair. I didn’t look, but I think maybe he scooted a few inches away from me.
“Fuck that. This wannabe is getting his ass knocked out in seven. You wait,” he says.
I keep my head forward, and I remind myself that this man isn’t Angela—I don’t engage. I also know that he’s going to lose that bet he made, and I’ll take satisfaction when it happens. I hope it was for a shitload of money.
This round is different. Miles was right; there’s a strategy happening. I can almost see it, but I don’t know Charles enough. My guess is that they expected Omar to be prepared for a slow start. They were working to let him take it easy, too. They’d both save, then fight it out in the late rounds. I guess the outcome is the same—they’re both still fresh enough to go the distance.
“He’s down!” Miles yells, and I stand with wide eyes, fists at my side and my stare fixed on the screen waiting for it to happen.
“What the fuck? Who’s down? Is that dude there?” I want to punch the hater myself, but I can’t because Memphis has lost his footing. He isn’t down completely. He’s stumbled, and he relied a lot on the ropes after Morales laid into him with his entire body.
I hover on my feet and wait for Memphis to find his center and right himself, and it feels like it takes forever. There’s always blood, and it’s there now. His beautiful face is red on the right side, his cheek bleeding where the thin skin barely covers the bone. Omar hammered it to nothing. Charles will need to fix it.
I slowly sit as Memphis begins to move more steadily. His hands are up. He’s defensive, and I don’t like it. He needs to have his gloves up, but he needs to swing first. He needs to hit him harder. He needs to win and get out of that ring.
He needs to come home.
Home. Where is home?
I have to close my eyes. Thoughts spin out of control and start to make me crazy.
“Ooooooh,” the room swells behind me. The crowd has grown again, and I can’t bring myself to look. Gary reaches over and squeezes my forearm, and I stutter out a breath.
“He’s out of that one. Thank God, because that was rough. He got another shot in right before the buzzer,” he says.
“Bell,” I correct, letting out a weak and pathetic laugh.
“Just make it to seven, baby. I’ve got you in seven, Omar!”
I sway in my seat, and the taunting behind me begins to blur together, like I’ve been drugged or like I’m the one getting punch drunk. My chest feels tight, and the eyes staring out on my phone screen are lost. That fire is dim, and I wonder if it’s because of everything that’s happened. He’s lost it because of me—because of my family. Leo’s woven himself in so deep that Memphis doesn’t believe he can do it without him now. He’s succumbing to doubt and intimidation. He’s falling victim to the game.
There isn’t enough time to fix him. There’s never enough time. Charles can’t say enough to force the will back into his fists and legs. The bell rings and Memphis lumbers toward Morales. He dodges, but some light jabs land. More points—more rounds in his favor. He started so well, but this fight, it was too much.
I’m becoming her. I’m praying—a girl who has never set foot in a church is praying for a violent end, and for my man to stand victorious. It’s twisted, and it scares me. More than anything, though, I’m terrified that this fight will change him—that Memphis will never be the same. And I can’t lose him, all of him, because I love every piece. I love every bit of the man he is mentally. I love him inside. And his eyes, his face, his body—his good soul.
Robert Delaney made a beautiful man, and I fell in love with him…tragically. I can’t lose this. He can’t lose this. It’s his namesake, his promise—it’s everything to him, and it will be the foundation for us. I believe in him because he isn’t like Archie Valentine at all. He’s everything Archie isn’t, and that’s why this fight—it’s about to be over.
The bell rings, and another round goes to Omar. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. None of this matters. It will all be forgotten because Memphis is going to make them forget. They’ll only remember him tonight.
The hater behind me is rooting for seven, and he’s so confident he’s starting to count his money. This bitch goes down in six.
“You have to tell him I love him, Miles. I need him to know. Tell him…say it loud.” There’s a short pause, and eventually Miles chuckles along with his trademark cough.
“Olivia, he knows,” he says.
“He doesn’t. Not really. Nobody knows until they hear it. You have to tell him.” I bite at my nails and watch the clock count down, seconds left, water washing away the blood on his face, jelly closing wounds and slowing down the gush. His chest is heaving. His brain is fooling him that he’s tired. He isn’t. He has so much left inside; I know it.
“All right,” Miles says, and I wait, pulling my phone to my ear and pressing hard, ignoring the boos and hisses from the room full of people who weren’t invited to my party. This was just supposed to be me and Gary. They can all go to fucking hell.
“Olivia! The girl loves you! Come on, man. You do th
is for her! Olivia loves you!” I smile against my knuckles and blush even though nobody can hear this on my phone now. Miles yells my confession out to the world until I hear the bell.
“Did he hear you?” I ask, heart pounding at a sprint.
“Oh, he heard me. Him, that Omar fellow, his trainer, the woman on the other side of the ring. This makes us family now, you know. I don’t do this for just any woman,” he says.
“Best family ever,” I say, meaning it. My only family, really. I don’t want the real ones. I’m completely open to replacing them all—trading up.
I set my phone back down and take a deep breath as both men pace toward each other, then away. Memphis’s legs are stronger now, and that look is coming back. He’s been damaged, but he can work with this. He was trained to work with this, and his heart is pounding harder now. I know it is, because I know he loves me too. This shitty world put us both in the same place for a reason. We were meant to be—and maybe it was for this moment right now.
A calmness rushes through my body. I twist in my chair, pointing a finger at the drunk heckler who is about to lose his bet.
“Your man is going down in six,” I say, boldly. It induces laughter at first, then a shade of detest. The man’s heavy eyes sink lower and he nods for me to turn around, but I give it one more second just to show him that I’m serious.
I know things.
I have faith.
“Oh damn!” Miles announces the first blow before it comes. Memphis keeps his weight back and dodges Omar, coming up swinging on his own, catching him on the chin.
He does it again, and Miles warns us once more.
It’s like a broken record, Omar repeating the same failed attempt, and Memphis waiting calmly for the bait, punishing him four times in a row before Omar switches, dipping and working the other side.
It fails, and Memphis cuts in again, this time harder. With every step Omar falls backward, Memphis closes in, until Omar is clinging with limp, gloved hands to the ropes, steadying himself for the blow that’s about to come.
The hater predicts it before it happens, and my heart explodes the moment his fist connects. It happens fast on the screen, but my eyes somehow slow everything down. I see Omar’s eyes close, his chin jerk, and his cheek indent. Sweat drops fly from his body and drip from Memphis’s arm. His skin twists and his legs give. His first step fails and his body falls. Memphis circles, then moves to his corner, like a predator waiting for his pack to finish what he started so he can go in and feast.
