by A. S. Teague
Mark’s jacked body would have you guess that he’s in his mid-thirties, but he’s actually forty-eight. He was a boxer, and a damn good one at that, but at the height of his career, he fucked around and ruined it all. It’s not often that he talks about his failed career and past, but when he does, you make sure to stop and listen to what he has to say.
“I’m twenty-six years old, Mark. I’m a single, damn-good-looking, popular guy. I just want to have a good time.” I shrug at him. “I can’t help it that there are people out there dumb enough to get drunk and suddenly think they can take on a fighter,” I offer as an explanation.
Mark doesn’t buy it. His fists balled on the table, he says through clenched teeth, “Bullshit. Try again.”
Caught off guard by his restraint, I tell him the truth. “I’m not happy with my last fight, okay?” I can’t bring myself to look him in the eyes, so I keep my head down. “I’m trying to forget about what a shitty job I did.”
The other guys sparring in the cage don’t seem to be paying attention, and I say a silent thank-you that they didn’t hear my admission.
Relaxing back in to his chair, Mark says, “Now, we’re getting somewhere, son.”
The tender way he said “son” makes me uncomfortable. Calling me son is nothing new from him, and if I’m honest, he’s become a father to me. But it’s the concern in his voice that has me scrambling for a witty comeback. When I realize I’m not going to come up with one quickly, I try to brush it off.
Lifting a shoulder, I say, “Yeah, well, I was probably just having an off night. You know, I woke up that morning feeling like maybe I had a cold or something.” Then I nod. “That’s what it was. I was coming down with something that affected my performance. So, really, can we just drop it? I’m sorry I had a few bad nights out. Won’t happen again. Let me go get changed so we can work on my ground game.” Hoping to get away from Mark and his all-knowing stare, I shove away from the table.
Shaking his head, he orders, “Sit your ass down. Don’t try to blow me off now that you’ve finally told me the truth. Your fight was not good. You’re right. But, instead of spending weeks drinking away your shortcomings, you should have come to me. Or at least tried to do something a little more productive.” He sorts through the papers on the table. “We’ll get back to training soon, but first, we need to do some damage control about this bad press. Have you ever heard of Make-A-Wish?”
I’d almost forgotten about those fucking papers, but now that he’s waving them at me, I start to freak again. “Make-A-Wish? Like, when you’re dying, they send you to Disney or some shit?” I’ve heard of it but never really paid much attention to it.
Charity isn’t really my thing, and I definitely don’t think about dying people, especially kids. I don’t really like kids, but even that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t want to think about them being sick or dying.
“Disney, yeah. Or whatever else the kid might be interested in. It’s an organization that helps fulfill wishes by children who have terminal illnesses,” he answers without looking up, continuing to sort through the papers.
“Terminal? That means dying, right? So, what does that have to do with me?” I snap. “Wait, I’m not dying, am I? My prefight physical was good, right?”
I’m starting to panic again. Maybe those are test results in his hands. Maybe that’s why he is so concerned. Did I sleep with someone who gave me some disease that’s going to kill me? I always use protection. I think. Shit, I can’t remember most of the girls I’ve been with. It’s possible one of them convinced me to go bareback for the evening just to give me some nasty disease. Or knock them up. Fuck, what if I got some chick pregnant and that kid is dying?
My mind is spinning, and it must be evident on my face, because Mark quickly reassures me.
“No, you dumb fuck. You aren’t dying. Geez, you’re acting like a sissy. Just shut up for a minute and read this letter.” He rolls his eyes, tossing a sheet of paper at me.
On it is sloppy but somewhat masculine handwriting.
Dear Mr. KO,
My name is Connor O’Neil. I have acute renal failure. Basically what that means is I’m going to die. My aunt says I shouldn’t be so blunt, but I don’t see the point in sugarcoating it for everyone. I was born with one kidney, but it worked fine and I didn’t have any problems or stuff. Then one day during a football game I took a hard hit. I started feeling bad and pissing peeing blood. My aunt freaked out and took me to the doctor where they told her my kidney wasn’t working right and if I didn’t get a transplant I was gonna die. Well, it’s been a month and I haven’t gotten a new kidney and so now everyone is trying to do things for me to make me happy before I croak.
Anyway, you are AWESOME. I make my mom buy all of your fights so I can watch you defend your belt. If it weren’t for this stupid kidney thing, I would be studying Jiu-Jitsu too. I’ve always wanted to be a fighter. And not that fake wrestling shit stuff. Like the real fighters like you. My favorite fight of yours was when you beat Willis with a first-round flying-knee knockout. I probably rewound it and watched it like a hundred times.
So the Make-A-Wish Foundation asked me what I wanted. A trip to Disney? Tickets to see the Falcons play? A trip to NASA headquarters? That all sounds cool, but I told them hell no. I mean, heck no. I told them HECK NO! I wanted to meet my idol. I NEEDED to meet Breccan “KO” Carlisle before I kicked the bucket.
So, Mr. KO, what do you say? You want to meet me too? I’m not famous or rich or cool like you, but I know all about MMA so I could probably have a conversation with you.
Sincerely,
Connor O’Neil
PS. They told me I should tell you that I’m 12. I don’t know what that matters, but there you go. I’m 12.
I read the letter twice. As I read it, I’m struck by how funny this kid is. He doesn’t tell jokes in the letter or anything that’s actually funny, but I can tell that he wants to come across as cool and likeable to me. And I fucking love the fact that he keeps writing bad words and then crossing them out. I can picture his mom standing over his shoulder, fussing at him every time he writes something she thinks is inappropriate. I’m willing to bet she doesn’t know that, without the word fuck, most of my sentences wouldn’t make sense.
I quickly shake my head and say, “I don’t think so, Mark,” before tossing the letter back to him.
“What the hell do you mean you don’t think so?” he asks incredulously.
“I don’t want to meet some dying kid. I won’t have anything in common with him. And what the fuck do I say? ‘Sorry about your shitty luck, kid. Better luck next go-round’?” I ask sarcastically.
The truth of the matter is that death scares the shit out of me. I’ve never had any experience with it. Everyone I know is alive and well and shows no signs of dying any time soon. I wouldn’t know what to say to this poor kid or how to act around his family.
I can picture it now. Sitting in a formal living room somewhere while his mom dabs her eyes and his dad paces back and forth. I’ll sit there and stare at this boy looking for signs that he’s sick while trying not to be obvious about it. He’ll try to suck up to me by telling me how awesome my fights are because I’m his idol. Even that last shitty one.
Mark blows out an exasperated breath. “Brec, I think you misunderstood. I’m not asking you to do this. I’m telling you. You. Are. Doing. This. Your image is in the gutter right now. Think about how much positive publicity this will be for you. Not to mention it would do your selfish ass some good to do something for someone else for a change. Now, I’ve already got it set up. You’re going to meet him at his home in three weeks. We’ll make sure to take a bunch of merch you’ve signed for the kid.”
It seems like I don’t have a choice in the matter, but that doesn’t stop me from trying one last time to get out of it. “Three weeks? Man, I’ve got to get back to training. And where does this kid even live? Where will I stay? Seriously, this is going to be a giant fucking waste o
f time. The kid—what’s his name? Connor? He probably won’t even like me after he meets me. Really, Mark. I’ll donate some money to a charity. Whatever charity you want. Just get me out of this.” I plead with him, but it falls on deaf ears.
Lowering his voice, Mark tries to calm me. “Breccan, the kid lives twenty minutes away. Drive your fancy car over there. He’ll love it, and it’ll give you something to talk about. Bottom line is you need this and the kid needs you. It’s a win-win.” Putting both hands in the air toward me, he concludes, “And that’s all I’ve got left to say about it. Now, go get dressed. I’ve changed my mind. You need to start training. I hear they’re gonna be announcing your next fight in a few days. Better get started early, right?” Mark says, standing to walk away.
Groaning, I pull my phone out to let Tripp know that I’m going to have to request a rain check for that beer tonight.
The pinging of my e-mail jars me out of a sound sleep. Turning to my side, I slowly come to consciousness while blindly groping for the phone on my nightstand. “Shit!” I grumble when I knock the cup of water over. When my fingers finally find purchase on the offending item, I’m tempted to throw it across the room. “Fuck, what time is it? Six fifteen? Jesus, it’s so early.”
No wonder it’s so dark in here. The sun isn’t even up yet and someone’s e-mailing me already? I swear, if it’s someone from work, I’m going to march in there and quit my fucking job. Only not really. I already have entirely too much on my to-do list without adding clearing my desk out.
As my eyes adjust to the bright light from the screen in contrast to the dark room, I make out the sender. Marie Holmes—Make-A-Wish Foundation. Suddenly more alert than if it were noon, I scramble to sit up.
For a brief moment, I think I hear my bed groan in protest, asking me not to get up.
“Trust me, I don’t want to, either,” I mutter to no one. Opening the e-mail, I realize I’m holding my breath.
Please be good. Please say yes. Please don’t turn him down, I chant over and over, terrified at the thought of having to tell Connor that that rich asshole denied the one thing he hasn’t stopped talking about. Before I can bring myself to continue reading, I rationalize that, if it’s a no, Abby’s telling Connor. I’ll be busy tracking down this KO dude and making him change his mind. He might be the champion, but I’ll find a way to drag his ass back here one way or another.
Note to self: Research horse tranquilizers.
Blowing a breath out, I finally begin to read.
Dear Ms. O’Neil,
It is our immense pleasure to inform you that Mr. Connor O’Neil’s wish has been GRANTED!
We have spoken with Mr. Carlisle’s manager, Tripp Toler IV. He has informed us that Mr. Carlisle is thrilled at the chance to meet with Connor and has several surprises lined up for him. We have forwarded your information to him and he should be in touch soon to set up a meeting time and place, whatever is most convenient for you.
We look forward to seeing this wish become a reality with Connor. Thank you for your love and dedication to your nephew.
Sincerely,
Marie Holmes
Administrative Assistant
Make-A-Wish Foundation
I read the e-mail no less than half a dozen times, my heart pounding harder with each one. They said yes! With a loud squeal, I fly out of bed and rush to my closet. While Connor and I are close, I don’t think he would appreciate seeing me in a tank top and panties, no matter how exciting the news may be.
Blindly, I grab a shirt and yoga pants to throw on. As I finish tugging the faded, black pants up over my ass, my phone dings, this time indicating a text message. It’s a number I don’t recognize, so I decide to open it before I head downstairs to talk to Abby.
Unknown: Hello, Mrs. O’Neil. My name is Tripp Toler IV. I represent Breccan Carlisle, light Heavyweight champion of the world. We are thrilled that Connor wants to meet his hero and would like to get the meeting scheduled as soon as possible. Mr. Carlisle has free time on October fifteenth. Would this date be suitable to you?
Mrs. I snort. Yeah, okay. At this rate, I’ll never be a Mrs. I’m more likely to be addressed as “Sidney O’Neil, that crazy cat lady” than Mrs.
Except you don’t like cats, I remind myself.
I could learn to like cats, I counter before I realize I’m arguing with myself.
At that, I decide I’ll probably just be known as “that crazy lady” instead.
Glancing back at the text, I think, What kind of name is Tripp Toler IV? And, really, does he need to mention that Breccan is the light heavyweight champion? I’m still rolling my eyes at the formality as I open my calendar to check the date he’s suggested. October fifteenth is this weekend, and we don’t have any plans as far as I can tell. I quickly jump back to my e-mails to see if Abby has given me any travel information for that weekend.
When I told her that Connor was eligible for the Make-A-Wish program, she instructed me to handle it. This didn’t come as a surprise; she’s been instructing me to “handle things” for the last seven years. But I was perturbed that she didn’t even want to be the person to contact the foundation. She reasoned that her work schedule was so hectic that she didn’t want anything to interfere with Connor getting his wish. This made sense to me, and she seemed sincere when she explained herself. I wasn’t about to begrudge her that request. I was all too happy to be the one to handle it if it meant Connor got something he wanted.
It also helps that I am a bit—okay, fine. A lot—of a control freak when it comes to these things anyway. What can I say? I like to know that everything is going to run smoothly. The thought of leaving it all up to anyone else, even my sister, gives me hives.
I think Abby recognized my micromanagerial tendencies when we were kids, and ever since, she’s left planning and decision making up to me. From the lemonade stands we used to have during the summers of our childhood, to the double dates we went on as teenagers, to the college we both attended (University of Georgia—go Dawgs), Abby has always let me take the lead. It didn’t necessarily make sense, seeing as I’m two years younger than she is, but as we got older, I realized she was too flighty to take the reins. Our mother used to say she was “free-spirited,” but I always described her as irresponsible.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
Abby pushes my door open wide. “Good morning, sleeping beauty.” She pauses briefly when she notices I’m already up and dressed, but then she offers a steaming mug my way.
I drop my phone and greedily reach out for the cup of liquid life. “Ahhhhh,” I say after I’ve taken a drink. “I swear—the first sip goes straight to your soul.” Sitting back down on the bed, I pat the spot next to me in invitation.
Judging by the artfully crafted coffee and the look on her face, I sense there’s something she wants to discuss with me. But I’m too excited about the e-mail and the text messages I’ve just received to wait for her to start a conversation.
“He said yes!” I blurt out.
She wrinkles her brow. “Who said yes?”
“Breccan Carlisle! He said yes!” I swing my arm that’s holding the cup of coffee and some of it sloshes onto my bed. “Well, shit! Whatever, I’ll get it later,” I grumble when Abby starts looking around for something to clean it with. I swat her outstretched hand away before I continue. “I got an e-mail from the Make-A-Wish foundation and then, a couple of minutes later, a text from his agent or manager or whoever he is. Here, read them.” I pick the phone up and make sure there’s no coffee on it before thrusting it in her face.
The confused look has been replaced by excitement, and I can’t help but think about how beautiful she is.
Over the years, we were often confused as twins, our mother having blessed us with the perfect button nose and flawless complexion and our father having passed along our high cheekbones and thick, red hair. While we may bear a striking resemblance, all the way down to measuring in at the same heigh
t of five foot five, the major difference between us is that Abby looks perfect without any effort.
She’s easily able to pull off any trend. Like now—her shoulder-length hair is in a messy bun on the top of her head. It’s as if she had a team of stylists perfect her look the minute she rolled out of bed.
My hair is longer than hers, hanging to the middle of my back, and if I attempted a messy bun, it would turn out more messy and less bun. Absentmindedly, I pat my hair. It’s knotted and matted together on the back of my head. Real glamorous. Sighing, I give up trying to fix it and turn my attention back to Abby.
“Well, this Tripp guy is awfully proper, isn’t he?” she comments, passing my phone back to me.
I roll my eyes and nod in agreement. “I thought the same damn thing when I read that. And he called me Mrs. Isn’t that a laugh?” I ignore her ain’t-that-the-truth expression and carry on. “Anyway, October fifteenth looks good on my end. And I don’t see that you’ll be out of town for that weekend, unless there’s something new that’s come up?”
A guilty look crosses her face, and she draws a deep breath in. “Yeah. That’s what I came in to talk to you about. I’ve got another assignment. I need to leave”—she glances at my clock—“in, like, half an hour.” Her faces flashes with guilt. “It was the only flight I could get today,” she rushes out before casting her eyes downward. “But it’s just for a few days this time. I should definitely be back before next Saturday.” Peeking up, she offers me a timid smile.
Irritation overwhelms me. She’s rushing off again with no notice.
But I can see by the way she’s worrying her necklace that she feels bad about leaving, so I don’t say anything. It wouldn’t make a difference if I did anyhow. We’ve had this argument plenty of times, and nothing’s changed. There’s no point in bringing it up again. Not when we have such exciting news for Connor.
