by Fields, MJ
Omar grasps at the bottom rope, and his hand slips. He crawls, and the referee crouches down low to read his eyes. He counts.
We all count.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
Twenty-Two
Memphis
“It’s sappy, huh? Don’t lie.” They’ve been showing my post-fight interview on the news all damn day, and Miles can’t get enough of it. He’s commandeered my phone so he can play the video over and over.
“It’s not sappy, brother…it’s love,” he says, shaking his head slowly like he’s listening to some sweet jazz or something. He’s mocking me. I slap at his left arm, which is covered in one of my sweatshirts.
He hits play again. It quit being embarrassing, and to be honest, I like hearing it. I’m truly happy, and I can hear it in my own voice.
Reporter: Correct me if I’m wrong, Memphis Delaney, but did I hear that gentleman sitting over there in your corner shouting that he loved you? Are you telling the boxing world that all you need is love?
Memphis: I don’t know, man. It’s not magic or anything, I swear. And he was talking about a girl. God, baby…I did it! I’m crying, baby. Do you see this? I’m crying. Big, fat happy tears, I love you so much.
Reporter: You looked like you were down there in the fourth and the fifth. You were gassed. You think you came out too early?
Memphis: I don’t know. It wasn’t really the plan. We thought maybe it would work to surprise him, but then he was just so strong.
Reporter: But you saved something, didn’t you? Haha.
Memphis: Heart, dude. Right here, in this chest. That fight, Omar…he’s amazing. To be in this ring with him. It was all heart that did that, and it was her. It was you, baby. You’ve gotta come home. Come home now, baby, because this ain’t real. It ain’t real until you’re here. You know that. This…all of it. I’m no champion yet.
Reporter: Who’s baby?
Memphis: Come home, baby. I love you so much. Come home to me. Come home, come home, come home…
This is always the part where Miles is laughing so hard, no sound is coming out of him. It’s still a little embarrassing I guess.
“You look like a…what do they call that? A meme! You’re a meme!” A rush of air hums from his chest, and I yank my phone back from him.
“You don’t even know what a meme is, old man,” I say, checking the time on my phone and comparing it to the flight tracker on the screen in front of us. It hasn’t changed. She’s probably touching down on the runway right now.
“Oh I know what a meme is. It’s when grown men act like they’re in a boy band on national TV; that’s what a meme is,” he says, only breaking long enough to get the words out before he busts into laughter again.
“It wasn’t on national TV,” I mutter.
“Oh yeah? You don’t think this video’s been viewed in Arkansas?” he fires back.
I glower at him then roll my eyes.
He starts to brag about being right, but I don’t hear him. All I can focus on is the shift in the airport screen that says FLIGHT 4109 IS AT GATE C1. I can see it in front of me. Cosmic luck put the security gates right in line with the family area and this one particular gate—the gate her jet was pulling into.
It’s late as hell, and my body is exhausted, my fight barely twenty-four hours old. I never really slept. I spent the entire night with my head pressed against my phone in the hotel room just listening to her breathe.
Somehow, out of all of this—out of the pain and wrecked histories and coulda-beens—I got her. I got the good Valentine.
“You should have made her a sign,” Miles teases. Let him tease, I don’t care.
Her bright eyes begin scanning the moment her body clears the gate door. She’s the last flight in, no more flights out, and this place is practically a ghost town.
“Come home, baby!” I shout so loudly it alerts the TSA workers who are just counting down the minutes until their shift is over, nobody left in line.
“I love you, baby!”
Miles laughs loudly behind me, but he’s clapping, too. He’s proud, and he’s pushing me out there, making me give my heart away to this woman who took a chance and leapt. She fell for me—a fighter. The kind of man she swore she’d never be with. I idolized her father when I came to this place, but I idolize her now. I bow to her.
Fearless. She lost everything and went right into the fire. She led me out. She came home.
She clears the security point so I run at her full force, and she drops her bag along the way to me. She leaps at me and I catch her in the air, her arms and legs wrapping themselves where they belong, her soft voice humming under her teary eyes. Hair wild and heart thumping so hard I can feel it in her bones when I hold her close.
“I did it, Liv. I did it, and you’re the only reason. I love you so goddamned much, and you gave me this…”
My mouth stops talking long enough to taste her lips. It’s been days, and I’m starving for her. My hands push back her hair, fingers threading the tangled strands, her eyes tired from the late travel and the abuse of testifying. Both of our nightmares are over. She never has to see those lawyers again. We never have to see V’s again. We’re home; she came home. I meant it when I said it. Her home—it’s with me.
“You were a god, Memphis. A fighter—from somewhere else, some other time. I am so proud of you…you…inspire me. You amaze me. And I don’t know how I’m going to survive another fight, but there are going to be so many. You are the one they all want to defeat now. You’re the name being spoken out there, the guy they’re all looking to take down.”
I kiss her again and replay her words in my head, my chest warm from hearing her be so proud of me. I’ve fought for so long for a name that I never really knew, for a ghost and a man who wasn’t strong enough to fight to keep me in his life. I’ll never fight for them again. I’ll fight for this woman—I’ll fight for us.
My arms hold on for a few steps, her body finally sliding down my legs, but remaining under my arm as we walk in stride with one another. I pause to run back to grab her bag, then start our trip toward Miles together again. She rushes him with a hug that surprises him, and I can tell it scratches at something inside—a feeling he lost a while ago.
“Thank you,” she says to him, stepping back and kissing his cheek before looking in his eyes. “I couldn’t be there, and it killed me. You made it okay, and nobody else could have done that—nobody else would have.”
“That’s ‘cause pretty boy over here doesn’t have any other friends,” he says, and I laugh hard and loud. Even now, when I know her words have touched him deeply, he takes a shot at me.
It’s how I know we’re family. The three of us. Lost souls find each other sometimes.
I take her hand in mine and I squeeze tight, not wanting her to let go for even a second. A few guys waiting near the exit to the parking lot reach out to shake my hand, and I give them my left because my right one belongs to her. They congratulate me—they recognize me. Fucking wild.
We make our way to the center of the empty lot, the only cars around those that are spending the night and waiting for their owners to return, and one, newly-running RV. Turns out Miles was a mechanic in the military. He knows a thing or two about engines, and making things work for cheap. Not that money will be a problem for at least a year.
Leo and Angela, and I suppose Archie, got the money they were due, and not a penny more. Charles brought me a few new options to the table, and they come with the Chicago market. Sportswear, pizza, and a Chevy dealership—as well as a Corvette of my choice—are all in negotiations. The only thing I didn’t look over the details on was Charles. I didn’t need to. He said he likes to keep it simple.
One handshake and a promise was all he asked of me, and it’s all he offered in return. It feels right, and it feels like everything that I went through led me to this.
“I can’t believe you drove that around the airport,” Liv says, biti
ng her knuckle as she surveys the beat-up exterior of our home.
“Not gonna lie, we were tailed on the way in,” I say, and she looks to Miles who nods in agreement.
“Motorcycle cops can be real pricks,” he adds.
I roll my eyes, because I don’t want them tailing me on the way out, but he’s right. Sometimes they can. So can fighters, though, I guess.
Liv steps inside, most things just as she left them, only a few modifications made to make sure Miles has a place to sit and sleep on our way to Chicago. Liv turns in a slow circle and raises one side of her mouth when she sees the open passenger seat.
“Where…ever will you do your laundry?” She chuckles, then drops her bag in the floor space between the two cab seats and nestles in, pulling on her buckle.
“I boxed a few things up and took them to UPS. We’ll get them from the gym in Chicago, then we can look for a place,” I say, stopping when I feel her eyes frozen on me.
“We,” she repeats.
I simply laugh and lean toward her before I sit in the driver’s seat.
“There is no Champion without you, and I kinda like being one, so I’m afraid you’re stuck,” I say, dropping a kiss on her lips then falling back into my seat. “You weren’t planning on going back to Leo’s, were you?”
She smacks my chest, and it actually hurts.
“I didn’t think so,” I grunt out, exaggerating, but only a little. I rub the spot where I have a broken rib, then adjust myself to get ready to drive.
“This beats the tree, huh?” she says over her shoulder. Behind her, Miles has slid into the bench seat that’s cushioned by blankets held on by tape. It isn’t ideal, but it’s warm and it’s with friends.
“Ya know, it would be all right if this dumbass driver would get his shit together and get on the road,” he says. I lift myself enough to glance at him in the mirror. He’s already laid back though and pulled his hat over his eyes. He looks good in my clothes. They swallow him, but I think maybe that’s just a matter of time.
Liv stares at me until I stare back, and we sit silently for a few seconds while I crank the motor and feel the rumble of the makeshift engine.
“You okay with this?” I whisper, lifting my brow and tilting my head toward the man behind us.
Her lips stretch into the surest smile I’ve ever seen.
“I can’t imagine life in Chicago without him,” she says.
I hold her gaze just a little longer, and before I guide everything the three of us own onto the highway for a new beginning, I let the moment matter. I feel it and I memorize it—the musty air from the vents, the dust on my windshield, the gurgling sound under the hood, the scent of lemon from the tiny freshener dangling from my rearview mirror. I soak it all in, and I save her for last.
For the rest of forever, I promise to put her first.
Epilogue
Two Years Later
Miles
Ghosts are funny things. I know they aren’t real—at least, not tangible. But they’re real in our minds. We can’t hold them, but that’s what makes them so important. We want to hold them. I lost my wife and my baby girl—the lights of my life—and I thought that if I laid there under the stars long enough, eventually they’d see me from heaven and know I came home for them. I wanted them to know I’d never be the same without them.
They can’t hear me, and I never hear them talk. But I feel them. They’re in my heart and their lessons have made me the man I am now.
I used to spend so much time worrying about the wrong people. I gave pieces of myself to people who weren’t worth the dirt on the bottoms of my shoes, and I had too many sleepless nights spent worrying about their opinions. I should have been spending that time with Anna and Felicity. Perhaps, if I knew how short our time was, I would have. But I didn’t know what I know now, and a person can’t look back.
People can learn.
People can grow.
We move forward.
When I found my new place, I held on.
Memphis reminds me a lot of myself, and I think if I had a son, our relationship would have been a lot like this. When I met him, there was something inside me that told me this one…this chance meeting…it’s meant for something more.
I think back to that day in the ER three years ago, and I truly think something bigger was giving us both what we were missing. But we weren’t whole. We weren’t even close until Olivia showed up.
Their electricity was serious right from the start. She razzed him just as much as I did, and a person only does that when they’re comfortable with someone—when two people are meant for each other.
To watch that woman pick herself up from the bottom, brush off having her name dragged through the mud and become one of toughest contract negotiators in the sporting world—yeah, I’m proud like a father.
No one else was meant to manage Memphis. And he wasn’t meant to fight for anyone else.
They live a few blocks away from me. They’re on the seventeenth floor and every room in their apartment looks out over that beautiful Lake Michigan water. My place is simple—one bedroom and a nice fire escape that I slip out on from time to time to indulge in a cigar and look up at those stars in search of Anna and our baby girl.
There was never really a question of whether or not those two would get married. It was always just a question of when. Seven fights later, and one World Championship belt, now seems just about perfect. And in less than one hour, I’ll be walking a beautiful girl down the aisle of this church to meet her future, to hand her over to her now and to forget about her past. Nothing has ever felt so right. And nothing has ever been more worth fighting for.
THE END
If you liked Memphis, you may also enjoy HOLD MY BREATH
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Fractions of seconds can do lots of damage. One decision can ruin lives. A blink can be tragic. And loving a Hollister…can hurt like hell.
I would know.
They say the average person can hold their breath under water for two full minutes when pushed to the extremes. Will Hollister has been holding his for years. The oldest of two elite swimming brothers, Will was always a dominant force in the water. But in life, he preferred to let his younger brother Evan be the one to shine.
Evan got the girl, and Will…he got to bury all of the secrets. A brother’s burden, the weight of it all nearly left him to drown.
The daughter of two Olympians, my path was set the day my fingertips first touched water. My future was as crystal clear as the lane I dominated in the pool—swim hard, win big, love a Hollister.
My life with Evan burned bright. He gave me arms to come home to, and a smile that fooled the world into believing everything was perfect. But it was Will who pushed me. Will…who really knew me.
And when all of the pieces fell, it was Will who started to pick them up.
In the end, the only thing that matters are those few precious seconds—and what we decide to do while we still have them in our grasp.
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Acknowledgments
Thank you all so much for spending time in the ring with my battered and bruised, with my strong and weak, my damned and beautiful, and precious darlings Memphis and Olivia. If you’ve read me before, you probably know I have quite the love affair with baseball. I find some sports to be hopelessly romantic, and I could probably teach a college course on all of my reasons why with some great examples—Bull Durham, anyone?
Boxing hits that same spot for
me, like an arrow through the heart. I have a few reasons, actually, the most prominent being 1976. That’s the year I was born, and the year one of the greatest films ever made and scripts written won the Oscar. Rocky is more than a story about boxing. It runs deeper than good guy versus bad guy. It’s a love story, it’s a family drama, it’s a tragedy, and sometimes it’s funny. That’s the kind of boxing book I wanted to write. I wanted to twist things inside, I wanted to turn conventions upside down, and I wanted you to have someone to root for.
I also wanted it to be a little bit sexy. It kinda was, wasn’t it? ;-)
I’m enormously proud of this story, and I have a lengthy list of people to thank for helping me get from that first chapter to these acknowledgements at the end. I think the first mention should be for that truly sexy man on the cover there. (I know a lot of you agree—you’ve been heard LOL.) That’s Trevor McCumby. He’s 23-0, with 18 KOs as of right this minute. That number is going to go up, and he is going to be something special. He’s the real deal, the kid who had the dream and fought his way up. I admire the hell out of his discipline and dedication. Trevor, go get it, sir! #Alpha, as you all say ;-)
With Trevor comes some of my peeps from way back when—the people behind the man, making him strong, booking his fights, telling his story to the world. Emily Pandelakis, you are the woman in so many ways! Thank you for kicking off this journey and connecting me to this world. Kiona and Daniel Arellanes, thank you both! Kiona for the wrangling and help at the shoot, and Danny for making Trevor such a bad-ass! And my sweet, amazingly talented friend Frank Rodriguez of DLRfoto—you take it up a notch every single time! This cover is going to be hard to top, my friend. Thank you for making the shiz in my head look so damn good.
