by Claire Adams
I want to see if she’ll finally explain what it is that she knew, as that’s not the sort of thing I guess about anymore, but a new person in scrubs comes into the room.
“Miss, I’m sorry, but—” he starts.
“Yeah, yeah,” Ash says, getting up from the bed a second time.
“Thank you,” the man says. At least he’s more polite this time around. “I’m Jack, your radiology technologist,” he says. “We’re going to get you in for a quick MRI to make sure everything looks good and then we should be able to get you out of here.”
He and a couple of nurses release the brakes on the wheels of my bed and they cart me out of the room, with Ash in tow, and down the hall.
Despite the flood of people in the ER, I get right in for the MRI and I’m back in my room before too long. The technician says the doctor will be in shortly and so we wait.
“I didn’t hate you in the objective sense,” Ash says. “It was more a situational thing.”
“What?” I ask.
“We got interrupted before,” she says. “I’m just telling you that I didn’t hate you for anything apart from the fact that you were telling me to let go of something I didn’t feel like I could. It was weird. It almost felt like some kind of accusation.”
“Accusation?” I ask.
“Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” she asks, putting the back of her hand against my forehead.
“You don’t have to take my temperature every time you’re speaking above me,” I tell her, snickering as I pat her on the back, my arm around her. “I just don’t know what you meant by accusation there.”
“Oh,” she says. “I don’t know. I guess it was more like the feeling of being caught doing something you know you shouldn’t be doing. What I was doing was silly and I was mad at you because you called me on it.”
There’s a knock on the doorjamb and my doctor comes in a moment later.
He sighs. “Miss—” he starts.
Ash dutifully gets up from my bed and sits in one of the chairs next to it.
“Your scans look good,” the doctor says. “There’s a little swelling on the side of your head, but it looks like your brain’s all right. Let me get your discharge papers and you can get out of here, but I’d take it easy for at least a couple of days. When’s your next fight?” he asks.
“Two weeks,” I answer.
“Two weeks?” he asks, laughing through his nose. “No, really, how long until you’re supposed to back in the ring?”
“Two weeks,” I answer again.
“No,” the doctor says. “Two weeks is ludicrous. I think it’d be best if you cancel your next fight. Just give yourself a month to let your body fully recover before you try to put it through that kind of strain again.”
“Thank you for your opinion,” I tell the doctor. Judging by the way he’s shaking his head, it looks like he gets what I’m trying to tell him.
“I strongly advise against it,” the doctor says, “but hey, if you want to go out there and get your head knocked off, that’s your business.”
With that, he unceremoniously exits the room, closing, for the first time, the sliding door on his way out.
As soon as he’s out of the room, I’m turned toward Ash, who’s already climbing back into the hospital bed with me telling her, “I’m going to do it—the fight. I’m too close to give it up now.”
This can’t be what she wants to hear, but I’m not going to lie to her. If this is something she’s not going to be able to handle, she deserves the opportunity to walk away.
“I know,” she says, smiling. “I couldn’t stop you if I tried.”
Okay, I wasn’t expecting that.
“Really?” I ask. “You’re okay with it?”
“It’s part of who you are,” she says. “The last few months have been both the worst and the best of my life. I’m not going to lie and tell you that I’m thrilled you’re going to do the fight, but I think I can finally understand why you are. I don’t know if you’ve figured it out yet or not, but what I realized that day at the lake is that, for better or for worse, I love you. If you need to do the fight, I’ll be there. I will go where you go.”
She cuddles up next to me and she doesn’t get up when the doctor comes back into the room with my discharge papers.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Two Weeks
Ash
“Don’t get up!” I command before Mason’s actually awake.
He opens his eyes to find my smiling face a few inches from his.
“Good morning,” I say. “How’d you sleep?”
“I thought I was sleeping,” he tells me, rolling over and closing his eyes again.
“Nope,” I tell him. “You said you wanted to get up at ten.”
He forces one eye open to look at the radio alarm clock next to his bed. The clock reads eight-thirty.
“You’re early,” he says.
“I was excited,” I answer. “Stay in bed.”
Without another word, I get up and leave the room. Today’s the day, and I want to make sure he has a good start to his day.
After his last fight, I’ve started going to the gym with Mason. I told him that I wanted to work on cardio, but he didn’t buy it. I was there to keep an eye on him and make sure I wasn’t making a huge mistake giving him my blessing to fight.
I meant what I told him in the hospital, but if there were any signs he wasn’t in the condition to go through with it, I would have said something. Fortunately for both of us, though, he’s strong.
When I woke up this morning, I wanted to let him sleep, but I couldn’t contain my enthusiasm. I tried to channel it into something useful by cooking up a nice breakfast for two, but it’s already done and I don’t want it to get cold.
I plate Mason’s breakfast consisting of three eggs, one scrambled, one hardboiled and one fried just the way he likes them, a stack of pancakes, and six strips of bacon. I take it in to him, carrying a glass of orange juice in the other hand.
His groan in response to the sound of me coming back into the room turns into a grin when he turns over and sees what I have for him.
“You are the best, you know that?” he asks.
“I do, actually,” I tell him. “Thank you.”
He sits up and takes the plate, and I set his orange juice on a coaster on his nightstand before going back to the kitchen to retrieve my own food.
After this, there’s nothing between him and the fight except a very long drive.
* * *
I never realized how many abandoned buildings there are in a given city until I met Mason.
Right now, we’re walking into an old high school gymnasium, surrounded by a slew of other forgotten, empty buildings.
Logan spots us and comes over to offer his advice and encouragement, although his words are heavy on the former and light on the latter. After that, person after person comes over, each one of them with some kind of inside scoop into Mason’s opponent, though nobody seems to know who he is.
This time, there’s not going to be any waiting. Everyone who’s here is here for this fight, Mason’s fight.
The way it was explained to me, all of the championship bouts in the tournament are going to happen more or less at the same time, each in a different location to cut down on the risk of discovery. Personally, I couldn’t possibly care less about the other fights going on around the state of Wisconsin tonight, but Mason seemed pretty happy about being able to find out who takes what.
I squeeze Mason’s hand and he turns to me, saying, “Yeah?”
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“I’m good,” he says.
“Good,” I tell him. “Do you need anything before—”
“Ladies—okay, there aren’t too many ladies here tonight—Gentlemen!” a man’s voice calls from toward the middle of the gym. “Tonight, we have the Wisconsin State Underground Make-up-a-Name-for-It-Because-Nobody-Else-Did tournament!”
Not
the most inspiring introduction to the evening.
“Do you need anything?” I ask Mason, having been so rudely interrupted so the guy in the center could hear himself talk.
“Kiss for good luck?” he asks.
I give him a peck on the cheek and one on the lips just to make sure I’ve got the bases of superstition and girlfriend duties fully covered.
“Tonight, we have the best of the best: two lightweight monsters of MMA. Let me hear it!” the man in the center shouts and the crowd of what I’m estimating to be about three hundred people erupts into ear-splitting applause.
“That’s my cue,” Mason says directly into my ear, but he doesn’t let go of my hand as he starts toward the front.
“Can we have the fighters to the ring, please?” the loudmouthed announcer calls.
When we get to the innermost edge of the circle, Mason stops, turns and kisses me deeply on the lips. When he pulls away, I try to think of something profound to say, but only manage, “Have fun,” before he’s releasing my hand and walking into the ring.
From where I’m standing, I can just hear the announcer asking Mason who he is. Mason answers and the announcer yells, “Mason Ellis! Do we have Ben Jones? Ben Jones get to the ring if you haven’t already pissed yourself looking at this guy!”
Okay, the announcer’s got one of the more annoying voices I’ve heard in my life, but damn it, now I kind of like him. I’m feeling really great about Mason’s chances right up until the moment I spot his competitor.
The man’s standing at the edge of the mob, and though he’s not making a move toward the ring, it’s easy enough to know he’s the guy for the fact that he’s the only one staring Mason down from the crowd.
He’s not moving. From where I’m standing, I can’t even tell if the guy’s breathing, but I know he hasn’t blinked since I caught sight of him.
The man, the announcer called him Ben Jones, takes two steps forward and the throng erupts again. The announcer turns to the man. This time I can’t hear the announcer’s question, but I do see the man nod.
“Ben Jones!” the announcer declares. “Mostly gentleman and a few girlfriends who are going to be looking for revenge later tonight: We! Have! A! Match!”
I have to plug my ears.
Mason is shifting his weight from one leg to the other, working his neck side to side, and I can’t see the front of him, but I can just feel that he’s ready.
A hand falls on my shoulder and I turn to see Logan standing behind me. He looks at me, nods with such seriousness I’m having a little trouble not snorting laughter about it, and he turns toward the ring, removing his hand from my shoulder.
To this day, I don’t think Logan and I have had a real conversation, though I’ve bumped into him enough times over the last couple of months.
“If both fighters can stay in it, we’ve got five rounds at three minutes per round for the featherweight championship! Let’s do it!” the announcer says and then disappears into the crowd.
A bald man with a Footlocker uniform on steps forward and speaks to both Mason and his competitor, though I don’t hear any of it.
After that, the two touch gloves and the fight begins.
At first, they’re just sizing each other up. Mason’s cut, but the other guy doesn’t seem to have a single ounce of fat on him. What’s more, I still haven’t seen the man blink.
Mason starts circling and his opponent throws a lazy punch. I’m not sure if he’s gauging his distance or just trying to get things started, but Mason doesn’t flinch when the punch comes within half an inch of his head.
The one thing I have found to be interesting about these fights is the primitive psychology involved. I’ll have to ask Mason, but it looks like the battle is just as much mental, through feints and false openings, as it is physical.
Out of nowhere, Mason lunges forward, his knee out, catching Jones in the abdomen. Mason’s right hand comes down hard, but glances off Jones’s chin as the latter ducks back out of the way.
Jones counters with a sweeping kick that lands just above Mason’s knee with a loud smack. Mason turns a little in the opposite direction, but recovers quickly, only he’s not quite quick enough as Jones connects with a left and then a right into Mason’s face, each blow landing with a sickening thwack.
Mason jumps back and even deflects a third punch from Jones, but his eyes are whiter than normal as he circles back around, throwing his own combination of punches. The two trade fists for a few seconds, but an air horn blows.
Everyone stops and turns toward the source of the sound, and while a surprising number of people are calling the guy an idiot, that was, apparently, the “bell” to end the first round.
Mason finds me in the front of the crowd and comes over. The fight paramedic from Mason’s “pit”—such a stupid name—Tom, pushes his way to the front.
He shines his flashlight in Mason’s eyes, looking for signs of a concussion, but a few seconds later, he’s patting Mason on the shoulder, saying, “Get ‘im.”
“How are you doing?” I ask.
“He’s fast,” Mason says through a thick rush of air. “I’ll start dodging one blow and the other one’s already there waiting for me.”
“Control the pace,” Logan tells Mason. “Don’t let this guy make you run when you’d rather walk. See if you can sneak in a good casting punch or eight when he’s coming off and see if you can Fedor his ass out in round two.”
I consider myself an intelligent woman, but when Logan speaks, I have no idea what he’s saying.
The referee calls to Mason and then to his opponent and the air horn blows to signal the start of the second round. The man standing next to the announcer has already had enough of the device, and he takes it from the announcer’s hand, tossing it with a big, arcing throw over the crowd.
If there was going to be laughter, it’s short-circuited as Jones crosses the distance between himself and Mason in what seems like no time at all and begins to unleash punch after punch after kick after elbow.
Mason’s doing a fair job defending himself, but Jones just keeps coming.
“Fedor!” Logan shouts behind me. “Cast his ass into a cast!”
Again: no clue.
Mason throws a right, seemingly with his entire body going into the blow, and the back of his fist curls around to hit straight into Jones’s face, knocking the latter’s head back so fast he’s got to have whiplash. As soon as his head comes back into position, though, Jones counters before Mason’s second full-body punch can land.
My heart is pounding and for the first time in my life, I know what bloodlust feels like as I’m shouting, “Knock him out!” I’m shouting, “Take him down!”
Although the people around me are shouting much more explicit things, a few of them turn toward me, mouthing what looks like “holy shin” before forgetting there was ever anything but the fight.
I can feel the hot blood in my face, and I’m cheering Mason onward, only he’s not doing so well.
Mason is so quick to my eye that it barely computes how Jones is able to counter so quickly, landing three punches for every two of Mason’s. It looks like Mason’s punches move Jones further than the inverse, but Jones is getting more of his through.
At one point, Mason pulls Jones into a grapple, trying unsuccessfully to wrench his deceptively small opponent off his feet.
“End of round!” the announcer calls out, having not found his air horn in the space of the round.
It’s not clear whether Mason and Jones don’t hear the announcer or they don’t care, because both of them continue throwing blows until the ref separates them.
Mason comes back over, looking a lot like he did the night we met. “You know,” I tell him, “the whole bloodied look was a lot more attractive before I knew anything about MMA.”
He covers his mouth and nose with his hands as he laughs, and I try to pretend like I don’t know why.
“He’s out-striking you, man!” Logan shouts so cl
ose to my ear I nearly slap him on instinct. “What are you doing out there?”
“I’m tired,” Mason says. “Two weeks ain’t enough for a match like this, man.”
“Suck it up!” Logan says. “He’s had exactly as much time as you, now get out there and start controlling the pace or we’re going to be hauling you out of here in three separate bags!”
“Could you maybe be a little less graphic with the visuals?” I ask, but I’m glad enough when Logan doesn’t respond or even acknowledge the words.
“Everyone’s got a weakness, but you’re giving up too much time letting him exploit yours, man. Pick a spot and start wearing him down!” Logan says.
The gloved ref calls Mason’s name and a few seconds later, we’re into round three.
Mason’s hanging back a little more than before, but he’s still quick to strike when there’s an opening. Jones is just dodging and guarding. He’s watching for something, though I don’t know what it is until it happens.
Mason throws a high right hand and Jones ducks it, lunging forward and taking Mason down to the ground.
I’m screaming for Mason to get up, but Jones is already on top of him, raining down blows wherever Mason’s not guarding.
Behind me, Logan’s shouting, “Guillotine! Guillotine!”
Mason’s arm comes up a little, his elbow more pushing than striking Jones’s head. Jones is trying to pull his head back, but Mason’s arm closes around the other’s neck and he wraps his legs around the lower part of Jones’s upper body.
Jones’s flank is exposed and Mason slips his left hand from under his opponent and capitalizes on the moment with repeated punches to the ribs.
They’re in this position for more than a minute, and it’s not entirely clear who’s inflicting the most damage at any given moment. I’m sure I’ll never say this to Mason, but if I wasn’t so sure this had to be painful, it’d actually look pretty hot.
As it is, though, Jones finally manages to get out from Mason’s grip and it’s while he’s getting to his feet that I see it. Jones’s hand starts toward his right side, but he quickly redirects the motion.
