by Finn, Emilia
Evie has maintained her title of queen badass, but now it’s my baby’s turn.
“Sweetheart.” Daddy squeezes my hand – in comfort? Or restraint? “You need to breathe. He’s gonna be just fine.” He casts an arm toward Mac and his friends. “See that? They’re putting his head gear on. Benny’s there, telling him what he’s gotta know. And Kincaid is the best in the business. I swear, I never met a Kincaid who didn’t know how to fight and win before. The blood runs hot in that family, so you gotta relax and trust that Mac is in good hands.”
“He’s being set in front of a dude with fists and being told to take it.”
“He is not!” Daddy shakes his head. “Mac has fists too, honey. He has skill, a fast right, and light feet. This isn’t his first rodeo.”
“But his leg, Daddy! His ankle. His… everything! His skull is still compromised, and his judgment has always been bad. He’s taking extra meds because his leg is bothering him.”
Daddy throws an arm around my shoulder and pulls me in with a hug while Meg sits on my other side and snickers.
“How’d you raise such a wimp, Mr. Blair? Swear, I never met a chick with such small lady balls before.”
“Shut up!” I smack Meg’s thin arm and take satisfaction when she hisses in pain. “I have lady balls big enough to put Mac’s opponent and every other dude in this room down. Including Kincaid.”
Daddy scoffs.
“But I also have this totally reasonable fear that my son is going to end up in the ER tonight, and I’m not sure I can take another blow like that.”
“He will not,” Meg snaps. “When was the last time anyone ever got hurt at one of these?” She leans forward and catches my dad’s eye. “Really? Answer me that.”
“There was the kid who broke his shin,” he answers. “He kicked the other kid’s hip, which created the crack in the bone. Next kick, that leg just snapped like a dry twig. The sound was gross.”
“Well… there’s that,” Meg concedes.
“There’s the kid who tripped on a towel last time and gave himself a concussion,” Daddy adds. “Dumb little fucker.”
“See!” I meet Meg’s eyes. “Told you!”
“There was that kid who knocked the other kid’s tooth out.”
“Daddy, stop!” I whimper. “Please stop.”
“Her tooth was already loose,” Meg objects. “That one wasn’t Evie’s fault.”
“You asked for this, hon.” Daddy pulls me in and presses a noisy kiss to the top of my head. “You know, I used to be friends with Kincaid’s dad so long ago.”
“I know, Daddy.” I blow out a breath of boredom. “I know he was your housemate, drinking buddy, racing hooligan, Mac-inspired young idiot who didn’t know when to stop taking risks.” I swear, I sound just like Mac when I ask him to listen and he so clearly doesn’t want to. “You’ve told me a billion times.”
Chuckling, he sits back with a smile and folds his arms as they prep Mac to step up for his turn. Three generations of double dimples blink beneath our bottom lips. Three generations of not being able to be told anything. We Blairs insist on experiencing the falls and scraped knees, rather than listening to the cautionary tales.
“No, Bry wasn’t the idiot in our pack. That role was all mine.” He laughs. “Bry was our responsible one, because he was always providing for his family. Right outta high school, he had people to take care of, so he stepped up fast. Whereas I didn’t have to get serious for years, not until your mom came along, and by then, I’d had enough fun for everyone. You say you know, that I’ve talked about him.” He shakes his head. “But you don’t really know, honey. It was more than just friendship with Bry. It was a brotherhood. It was family.”
I twitch with nerves and grit my teeth when Bobby Kincaid slams his fists to my son’s chest in a get psyched! motion. “So what, Daddy? What’s your point? Because I’m not in the right headspace for philosophy right now.”
He casts an arm in the direction of the ring. “You don’t see that brotherhood? You don’t see Mac and Benny? Mac and Bobby? Benny and Bobby?” He points right at the boys as they stand forehead to forehead and Benny shouts their fight plan. To Bobby, who proudly stands over his students and nods in agreement with what Benny says. Then to the fighter girls, standing just outside the ring in their competition clothes: fight trunks, sports bras, braided hair, warrior faces. Evie just fought and won, but she’s not running off to celebrate, but standing by for the next battle. “Anybody who knows these people becomes family, honey, and there’s no way on God’s green earth Kincaid is putting Mac in if he thinks he can’t win it. Bad leg and all.”
I know this. It’s not like I didn’t grill the Kincaids and get these same reassurances years ago. But knowing and doing are two different things, and fear makes a mom irrational. “I’m just so scared, Daddy. It’s my job to protect him.”
“And it’s my job to protect you.”
I turn to argue, which he completely expected. “You demand independence; you say you’ve got everything under control. You’ve been saying this since you were sixteen years old and made me a grandpa. But no matter how hard it was for me to let go, I had to step back and trust you. Now you gotta do the same for him. Don’t be scared. Be excited. I had no clue my life would circle right back around here, to what Bry built, to this gym and those boys, and to this family unit Mac is so fortunate to be a part of. Buck up, honey. Find your balls and get ready to watch this shit. Personally, I have money on this fight.”
“What?” I turn and smack his shoulder. “Who did you bet? There are not bookies for this shit, right?”
“There are sharks everywhere, honey, you just gotta know where to look. They don’t hold up signs and advertise their presence, but I promise, you just gotta look into their eyes, and you know. I have this innate belief that my boy is gonna kick ass. I know it in my gut, so I put down a little cash to show my support. I guarantee I’ll be doubling my money ten minutes from now.”
The bell beside the ring dings and draws my eyes around. It was a warning ding, a notice for everyone but the fighters and referee to get the hell off the canvas. “Oh God,” I groan. “Oh God, oh God, oh God. How much did you bet on him, Daddy?”
“That’s between me and my bookie. None of your business, honey. You ready for this?”
Ding, ding.
“Oh God!” I grab Meg’s hand and squeeze until she cries out and smacks me. I watch from ten rows back as my baby steps forward with bucket loads of confidence, a smug grin that the other kid would no doubt love to wipe off, and no limp, because the guys have pounded the message into him a billion times during training: we don’t show our tell; we don’t show our weakness.
If Mac’s opponents find out his leg is injured, they’ll target it and end the fight. It’ll all be over the moment they figure it out. So from the second he woke today, his limp was gone, only to be replaced by gritted teeth and a determination not to show his weakness.
“Step forward, Mac!” Meg bounds to her feet, seemingly unaffected by the glue that holds me down. “Smash him, handsome!”
“Blair!” Even Daddy jumps to his feet with a loud boom. “Do it, Blair! Finish it!”
I cover my eyes, pretend I’m not suffering from a whole-body seizure, and find no reprieve when I peek through my fingers to see Ben and Bobby on the outside of the ring shouting their instructions. Mac wouldn’t hear Meg or Daddy. He probably doesn’t even hear Bobby or Ben. But he does blitz his competition, dodging fists, kicking out with lightning-fast snaps of his leg, and throwing jabs that, ten years from now with more muscle and more time in the gym, would knock a grown man out. Mac skips out of reach faster than the kid can move, then rushes forward and slams the kid to the ground despite the fact this is supposed to be stand up combat only.
The referee steps between the boys to allow the other time to get up, and in that time, my showboating son walks his side of the canvas and smiles at his fangirls. Oh God, he’s going to be the fighter everyone want
s to beat. Mac and that boy are the same size, the same height, the same weight, but as I watch through my fingers, I find myself thinking of it as an unfair fight.
Not unfair for Mac, but for the kid I was so sure measured the same, but now seems so much smaller than my arrogant son.
Through a red, white, and blue-striped mouthguard, Mac smiles. From beneath a red head guard, he winks to his harem of girls. And when the referee restarts the fight, with muscles in his thin arms that I had no clue existed, he pops that poor unsuspecting kid on the chin and sends him sprawling until my lunch surges up my throat.
“He won!” Meg jumps on heeled feet and fist pumps the air. “Yes, kid! You’re so fuckin’ badass, Mac Blair!”
“Meg!” I jump up and grab her hands. “Potty mouth! This is a kid’s event.”
“I don’t care.” She brushes my hands off and turns back. “My boy dominated. Wooo, Mac!” Placing two fingers between her lips, she wolf whistles and makes my sweaty baby laugh from the center of the ring as they pick the other boy up and stand them together. He’s unharmed, fully padded, and not crying or anything. These kids aren’t knocking each other out.
Just down.
And now my baby’s hand is being lifted into the air in victory.
If he gets his own way, I have a lifetime of this shit, and it will only get messier: bigger fights, bigger competitors, blood. So much blood. As if I didn’t search the Kincaids on the internet. They win; they were unbeatable, but the belts they were awarded and held for the promo pictures couldn’t hide the blood they were always covered in.
Minutes pass as the crowd celebrates my son, and I can’t find it in my jelly legs to stand and go to him. Bobby hugs his student, then Benny slams their chests together in celebration and knocks Mac back a step. The entourage is let out of the ring where Mac meets the Roller daughters and is engulfed in a loud hug from the curly-haired Evie Kincaid. She’s older than him, but younger than Ben. She’s ferocious in the ring and loud outside of it. She’s a whole lot of muscle for someone her age; she’s trim and fit and has absolutely no clue that Benny watches her practically climb and slobber all over his best friend.
Ben watches on with jealous eyes, but relief sets in when her daddy pulls her off my son and sets her on her feet with a lifted brow and a silent don’t! Mac is passed to Ben’s little sister, Livi. Then he accepts an unenthusiastic knuckle bump from Bean, Evie’s cousin.
“I’ll be back in a sec.” Daddy shuffles between the seats and makes his way to the aisle. Waiting for his turn, then snatching Mac up in a bone-crushing hug, they laugh together and chatter between themselves as Bobby meets up with his brothers and watches with a proud grin.
Finally, Daddy lets Mac go and steps up to the unenthusiastic teen. He holds his hand out, not for a knuckle bump, but cash, which she slaps into his palm with a disgusted grunt.
“Oh my God! Daddy? You bet a little girl!”
* * *
The best part about Checkmate Security being a listed company is the fact their cell numbers are publicly available. Something tells me they have “public” numbers, in addition to something a hell of a lot more private, but still, I scan the business card I found with Eric’s bill months ago, left on the saucer along with the cash for his meal and a hefty tip. He just left it out for anyone to find, and if I Google the company, the numbers come right up there too. So it’s okay, right? I bounce my knee and bite my little finger to help fight the nerves that wrack my body.
Do it!
Don’t do it.
I’m as wired now at two in the morning while I sit all alone on the corner of my bed as Mac was for hours after his victory. It’s just an amateur fight, a silly competition between kids, but the pride and confidence that comes with a “silly” competition has kept our family floating for hours.
Do it!
Don’t do it.
I’m so proud of my baby, but so unbelievably vulnerable as I think of him as a man who’ll leave me for greatness. And at the same time, I’m so scared he might get hurt in his pursuit of victory. And if he finds it, what of the people who will try to take advantage of it? Women looking for a little cash and spotlight. People who will call themselves friends when all they want is to party on someone else’s dollar. Even Zeke. His own father will be the first in line. All of these people will be looking for a hand up, and not one of them will care about my son’s wellbeing, his career, or his happiness. A shame-filled part of me hopes he never achieves his goals because I’m scared of the leeches that’ll suck him dry for everything he has, then they’ll move on with fat bellies and leave him to die.
As his mother, it’s my job to help him succeed. But what if his success is also his downfall?
For right now, the people in Mac’s life are solid. The guys at the gym are the perfect role models for him. The guys at the diner are like family. And then there’s me, and I’ll fight to the death to keep Mac’s life safe and in order.
But soon, after our thousand days are up and he’s a legal adult, I won’t get a say anymore. It’ll be out of my hands, which is why counting down until his eighteenth birthday breaks my heart. I can rush them away and celebrate when we’re free of Zeke. Or I can hoard each day and be happy that until he’s eighteen, none of the people who wish to suck him dry will be able to get their teeth in.
It’s my biggest challenge, not knowing how to feel about the time we’re in right now. I know I should cherish every minute with my son, but worry ruins every happy moment. Anxiety leeches into fight celebrations, when I should be cheering on my son, but all I can think about is how others could ruin this for him.
Emotions batter my heart as the clock ticks away and morning hurtles forward at the speed of light. I have to be at work in just five hours. I have a double shift to make up for the tips I missed out on during Mac’s fight, so though I know I’m going to regret this when I’m schlepping coffee from table to table, I can’t wind down.
Do it!
Don’t do it.
I repeat the chant in my head, but in reality, I can’t do anything except bounce my frickin’ knee and study the ridged card with Eric’s name emblazoned across the front. The text is lifted from the card, so my thumb runs over his phone number as though stroking it would be a good replacement for what I really want to do.
But at the same time… I’m way too proud to call the guy at two in the damn morning. He’ll worry that there’s an emergency, and when he finds out there’s not, he’ll tease me for calling. He’ll be smug, and he’ll probably ask me to touch myself, because that’s what calls at two in the morning mean, right?
But even the threat of teasing isn’t enough to stop me from typing his number into my cell.
Slowly. One digit at a time with the screen going black between each entered number.
Do it!
Don’t do it.
I hit the green icon and hold my breath as the phone rings once, twice, three times–
“Are you okay?” His voice is rough and hints at a deep sleep. “Katrina? Are you okay?”
“Yes. Hey.” I scoot back on my bed, sit against the headboard, and tuck my bare feet beneath the covers. “I’m safe and okay, I promise.”
Guilt slides into my belly when he lets out a breath of relief. Not a dramatic, fake breath, but something much more real, something that makes me feel truly bad for the worry he just expelled on one gusty breath. “One word answers, okay?”
“Huh?”
“I gotta make sure you’re okay. How many cookies did you bring me after that first time together? Give me the real answer if you’re not okay. Give me the wrong number if you’re safe.”
“Um…” The real answer is three. “Four. I brought you four cookies.”
“And why weren’t you at work tonight? Real answer means someone is holding a gun to your head. Wrong answer means you’re okay and have the brain space to make something up.”
“Um…” The thought of a gun anywhere near my head screws with my creati
vity. It proves his theory that a real gun would ensure my inability to lie. “Uh… I was flower shopping. For my dream wedding. Meg and I chose tulips for a spring wedding, and we ate chocolate cake samples until we got fat.”
“Katrina…”
“Actually, that last bit was true.”
He chuckles. “Why the fuck are you calling me at two in the damn morning? You just stole a whole decade from my life.”
“I’m sorry.” I bite my bottom lip and slide the rest of the way under my covers. I wasn’t cold before, but now I feel the need to snuggle beneath the blankets and pretend I don’t see the outside world. I want to pretend I’m just a girl calling a boy. Everything outside this room is stress, and bills, and responsibility, but in here, while I’m on the phone in the dark, none of that exists. “I was wired up and couldn’t sleep. I don’t have anyone else I might consider calling at this hour. I’m sorry I woke you.”
“It’s okay.” He grunts, almost painting a picture of himself moving beneath his warm blankets. “Scared me to hell and back, but we’re okay now. Tell me more about that cake.”
I snicker, though I keep it quiet. Mac will stampede in here faster than a storm if he hears me talking on the phone. “My baby had a fight last night. A competition fight.”
“Really?” He sounds surprised. “He never mentioned it.”
“For such a cocky kid, he’s actually kinda quiet before big events. You’ll for sure hear all about it tomorrow. He’ll have made banners, no doubt.”
“Did he win?” His tone changes. “Did he get hurt? How did his leg take it?”
His concern warms my hardened heart and makes me wonder if I’ll regret this call. “He did win, and his leg was fine during the fight.”
“And now?”
He knows exactly how to dial in and get the answers he wants.
“He was icing it all night after the fight. He said it was precautionary, but I could tell it was bothering him a little. The gym AT kept an eye on him and helped him rotate the ice, and he took some pain meds before bed, so he’ll sleep it off. It’s bothering him a little, but I mean, technically he’s fine. There’s no more damage, and now he thinks he’s Rocky, so there’ll probably be balloons and streamers in the diner tomorrow.”
