Undisputed

by A. S. Teague

  Mark comes to a halt in front of me, and I step up to the referee. After we have done the prefight inspections, I climb the steps and take a few laps around the octagon, my arms stretched in the air.

  The crowd’s going crazy, chanting my name, but it doesn’t give me the rush it once did. Stopping in front of my corner, Mark leans over the fence and starts his usual pep talk, reminding me to follow the game plan and not showboat too much.

  I tune him out, instead looking over at Rebecca in the front row. Beside her are three empty chairs, still marked reserved.

  My stomach sinks at the sight.

  Sidney, Abby, and Connor should be in those seats, cheering me on.

  A moment later, the announcer calls us to the center. Reluctantly, I tear my gaze away from the empty seats and meet Hawke. The ref instructs us to touch gloves, but Hawke refuses and backs away, a smug smile on his face.

  “Fuck you,” I spit at him as I walk backward to my corner. Plastering a fake smile on my face, I wink at him right as the bell rings.

  Hawke comes flying out of his corner, and I go on autopilot, ducking and dodging his punches. I land a few good shots, but none of them have any power behind them. We continue to dance around the mat, each doing a good job at avoiding the other’s blows, until the bell rings again, ending the first round.

  As I jog back to my corner, Mark screams, “What the fuck was that? You asshole, you didn’t follow the plan at all!”

  I sit on the stool, ignoring him while Tripp massages my shoulders with an ice pack.

  “You’re dropping your arms,” Tripp says calmly. “You’re gonna let him knock you out.”

  I make eye contact with him in silent question, and he shakes his head. Still nothing from Sidney. The knot that’s been in the pit of my stomach grows, but I ignore it and try to focus on Mark’s instructions.

  He’s still bitching about not following his plan, so I jump to my feet and shove him out of my way. Bouncing on my toes, I await the start of the second round.

  The bell sounds, and I rush Hawke. He’s caught off guard, and I’m able to land a shot that buckles his knees. Jumping on the opportunity, I follow him down and continue delivering punishing blows.

  I glance up at the clock. I only have another minute before the round is over. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the ref take a step forward to intervene, and I smile. I may not need to make it that long.

  Momentarily distracted, Hawke manages to catch me with an elbow that snaps my head to the left.

  I’m dazed, and I’m shaking my head to clear it when I see Rebecca in the front row.

  I can see her mouth moving, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. All I can focus on are those fucking empty seats. My mind fills with concern about Sidney.

  Why the fuck can’t anyone reach her?

  My resolve fractures.

  The bell sounds, and I leap to my feet and rush over to where Mark and Tripp are waiting.

  Ignoring Mark completely, I growl, “Have you heard from her?”

  The color drains from Tripp’s face, but he shakes his head and shoves me down onto the stool. He begins massaging my shoulders, but I slap his hands away.

  “What is it, Tripp?”

  He leans forward and whispers in my ear, “Just finish this.”

  Leaping to my feet, I get in his face and growl, “Tell me!”

  He tries to take a step back, but I have him caged in.

  He shakes his head once and murmurs, “I can’t. You just need to end this fight. Now.”

  My stomach lurches at his urgency, but I refuse to back down. “I’m not letting you out of here until you tell me what the fuck is going on.”

  Mark throws an arm between us and pushes against my chest, but I don’t budge.

  Cocking my head to the left, I whisper menacingly, “Stay out of this.” I turn my attention back to Tripp, whose face is still pale, and bark, “Tell me. Now!”

  The ref comes over, warning us that it’s time for round three, and while my attention is diverted, Tripp takes the opportunity to slip out, sprinting down the stairs.

  I’m seething, waiting for the bell to ring, when suddenly it hits me. The weight of seven years of fighting all culminate in one moment before disappearing from my shoulders.

  I have nothing left to prove.

  All the years I spent training.

  All the time I lost working my ass off.

  All the wins.

  I’ve been champion for years—years that, looking back, I now know were a waste.

  Looking across the cage at my opponent, I’m struck by reality.

  This isn’t my fight anymore.

  I don’t belong inside this cage. At one time, the octagon was my home, but now, it’s keeping me from the one place I belong.

  With Sidney.

  Dropping my arms, I turn and mutter, “Fuck this,” before jogging out of the cage.

  The moment my feet hit the ground, I breathe a sigh of relief and sprint to the locker room.

  The crowd’s roar is deafening, and I can hear Mark calling to me, but I don’t stop.

  There’s somewhere else I’m supposed to be.

  I slam my dressing room door open and stalk toward my locker. I’m tearing at the tape on my hands when Mark comes in behind me.

  “What in the ever-loving fuck are you doing?” he shouts. “You just lost your belt.” His face is a shade of purple I’ve never seen before.

  I don’t even raise my voice when I tell him, “Fuck that belt.”

  Tripp and Rebecca come bustling in just in time to hear Mark roar, “Have you lost your goddamned mind?”

  I shrug at him and question Tripp. “What’s going on? Is she okay?”

  His mouth opens and closes a few times, but he doesn’t answer.

  Shouting, I ask “What is it, man?”

  He doesn’t say anything, just slowly shakes his head back and forth, and fear grows in the pit of my stomach.

  “You walked out on your fight for some girl?” Mark bellows.

  I round on him and growl, “Don’t you ever call her ‘some girl’ again.”

  Tripp weaves his way across the room, gets right beside me, and says, “Sidney’s fine, man.”

  Relief floods my veins, and my shoulders sag.

  He drops his gaze to the floor and rubs the back of his neck.

  The room’s gone silent, and I can see Mark’s body go taut out of the corner of my eye.

  Lifting his head, Tripp looks me straight in the eyes before saying, “Breccan. It’s Connor.”

  He doesn’t say anything more, and his silence enrages me off. My mind begins spinning in a hundred different directions, none of them good.

  Taking a step toward him, I grab his bicep and squeeze, “Spit it out, Tripp.”

  He takes a ragged breath and whispers, “Breccan, he passed away this morning.”

  The world comes screeching to a halt with those five words. I blink at him for several seconds, trying to wrap my mind around what he just said.

  Slowly shaking my head, I croak, “You’re lying.”

  Mark reaches over and puts a hand on my shoulder, but I spin out of his grasp.

  “You’re lying!”

  Tripp reaches for me, but I back away from him until I hit a wall.

  “Why the fuck would you even say that?”

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “God, I’m so sorry.”

  The television is blaring in the background, the announcers rambling about my unexpected departure from the cage, but all I can see is Connor’s crooked grin behind my lids with every blink.

  “Someone turn that shit off!” I scream, desperate for peace and quiet so I can think.

  Rebecca scrambles over to the TV, jabbing at buttons until one of them finally throws the room into complete silence. My breaths are short and ragged, and it sounds like an ocean in my ears as I stare at my best friend, who just told me the most devastating news of my life.

  Suddenly, the pain in m
y chest becomes too much to bear.

  With a roar, I grab the closest object to me—a chair—and hurl it against the wall. The door flies open and security rushes in, but Mark and Tripp hold them back while I continue my rampage.

  In my anguish, I upend a table full of snacks and drinks, the liquid spraying everywhere. Soda drenches me, but I don’t even feel it. The thundering in my ears grows louder as I began punching the wall, putting holes in the sheet rock and splitting my knuckles.

  Tripp grabs my arm, but I shove him away from me. He flies through the air, and someone rushes to his aid, shouting words I can’t make out.

  I can hear Mark calling my name over and over, but I ignore him and continue taking my pain out on innocent furniture.

  I’m destroying a bench when a member from security tackles me.

  Lying on my belly, with Goliath holding me down, I scream, “You’re fucking lying! Call her back! You’re a fucking liar! Call her! Call Sidney! He’s not dead!”

  My vision blurs, and I squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them again, Rebecca is crawling toward me in a mini dress and heels. Her eyes are red, and her makeup is streaked with tears. She pushes the bouncer off me and wraps her arms around me.

  Fighting against her, I attempt to stand, but my legs won’t hold me. She refuses to let go.

  “Stop, Brec!” she screams. “Just stop!”

  Her sobs echo in my ears, but I can’t control my fury. I escape her hold, and she shifts into Tripp’s outstretched arms.

  He holds her while she continues to plead with me. His face is already swelling from when I shoved him into the wall. He shakes his head at me, and the despair in his eyes tells me more than any words could.

  I bury my face in my bloodied hands, fighting tears back.

  On my knees, in a wrecked locker room, I cry for the first time in my adult life.

  How could he be gone?

  I think I am going to vomit.

  I probably would if there were anything in my stomach.

  It has been two days since I have eaten.

  Two days since I have slept.

  Two days since I have smiled.

  Two days since my nephew died.

  Septic shock, they said. An antibiotic-resistant infection that had somehow gotten into his blood stream and caused all of his organs to shut down.

  It has been two days since I watched the nurses and doctors work for over an hour to save him. Their efforts were in vain though; Connor’s heart never restarted.

  I am sitting in a funeral home, my sister clinging to my arm on one side, Breccan stoic on the other. The director is a middle-aged man with a soft midsection and an unfortunate bald spot on the top of his head. Every so often, he would reach up and rub it, and I would find myself wondering if Connor would have gone bald, given the chance to grow old. The man is sympathetic, but the way he kept deferring to Breccan is pissing me off.

  “So, you see, this casket is made to last,” he finishes, looking directly at Brec.

  Breccan nods once and faces Abby and me. “I think that’s the best choice. Connor would like the red interior too,” he says gently.

  Abby nods. Then she swipes a tissue under her eyes and blows out a breath.

  With every suggestion she agrees with, my anger grows. I know I shouldn’t be upset with her, but that doesn’t stop the frustration from continuing to bubble up. This was her son and she isn’t making any of the decisions. Instead, she’s leaving it all up a man who was a stranger a mere six months ago.

  Breccan rushed back the moment he had been notified. The look on his face when I opened the front door left me gasping for breath. I barely recognized him. His face was blank, and the mischievous twinkle he always has in his eyes was gone.

  He hasn’t left my side for a moment since he returned, even going so far as to sit in the bathroom with me while I showered this morning. The first night, he held me while I sobbed, knowing that nothing he could have said would ease the pain I was feeling and remaining silent.

  He answered all the phone calls, contacted our brother, and sent Rebecca out for anything we needed. I stood by his side and listened while he broke the news to Jeremy—a man he’d never met—that the only child in our family was gone when Abby and I weren’t able to do it.

  His presence should have been comforting. It should have been a relief to not have to worry about anything. Instead, everything he does grates on my nerves.

  I want to shout at him to stop doing everything, to let me make the arrangements. I want to remind him that Connor was my nephew, not his.

  But Abby seems almost relieved to have handed the reins over, and I can’t bring myself to cause her any more grief. The way she screamed when the doctors told us that Connor was gone will haunt me for the rest of my life.

  Turning back to the director, Breccan begins giving orders and asking about the service and burial that will follow.

  Resigning myself to the fact that he’s taken charge of yet another thing, I tune him out. Instead, I stare at the picture hanging in the funeral parlor. Something about it is familiar, but I can’t remember where I’ve seen that lone tree before.

  After another half an hour, the arrangements for my nephew’s final resting place have been made and Breccan leads us out of the funeral home. He insists we get a bite to eat before heading home, and I want to protest. But, when Abby nods, I clamp my mouth shut and stare out the car window in silence.

  I cut the engine and hop out, rushing around to open the door for Sidney and Abby. I picked DiPasso’s because both sisters love it but didn’t often come here with Connor.

  I escort them in and settle Abby into the booth. Sidney slings her purse into it on the opposite side. When I quirk an eyebrow at her, she quickly diverts her gaze and picks a menu up.

  After sliding in beside her, I put my arm around her shoulders and feel her stiffen. Leaning over, I whisper, “You okay?”

  Her head jerks, but she doesn’t say anything.

  When the waitress comes over, I order for all of us. Abby nods and murmurs a thank-you when the waitress leaves to put our order in, but Sidney grumbles something I don’t quite catch.

  Squeezing her shoulders, I ask, “I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong?”

  She whips her head up and briefly shakes it before turning her attention back to the napkin she was shredding.

  After landing in Atlanta, I went straight to Sidney. When she opened the door, my heart split in two. The grief written all over her face gutted me.

  I’ve never faced anything as devastating as this, and I vowed to make sure she wouldn’t feel alone. To shield her from additional pain, I gladly began fielding calls and making arrangements so that she and Abby didn’t have to relive their loss again and again.

  I haven’t seen her eat anything since I got back, and I had to force her out of bed this morning. I expected to come back to chaos, but this quiet misery is far worse than anything I could have imagined.

  When the waitress finally brings our food over, we all just pick at it, not really eating.

  From time to time, I glance over at Sidney and find her frowning at me, but each time I catch her, she looks away or places a bite of food in her mouth.

  I clear my throat then ask Abby, “Do you need me to help you pick out the pictures for the slideshow?”

  Abby looks up from her plate, tears brimming in her eyes, and nods at the same time that Sidney’s fork clatters to her plate.

  “No!” Sidney shouts. “No, she does not need your help picking out pictures! That’s what I’m supposed to do!” She breaks off on a strangled cry before shoving me.

  Shocked by her outburst, I scramble out of the booth. Sidney stumbles when her feet hit the ground, but she quickly recovers and rushes out the front door.

  After signaling the waitress, I shove more than enough money in her hand to cover the bill. Then I chase after Sidney.

  I find her bent over beside my Rover, dry-heaving. “Sidney!” I shout, getting he
r attention. “What’s wrong?”

  When I get to her side, she straightens and I reach out to pull her in my arms.

  She takes a step back and slaps at my hand. “Just give me a fucking minute.” Gasping, she turns on her heel and strides away.

  I have no fucking clue what’s going on and take a step after her, but Abby places a hand on my arm.

  “Let her go, Breccan. Let her go.”

  For what seems like an eternity, I can’t catch my breath. I suck air in, but it never reaches my lungs. My heart is beating erratically, and I’m dizzy. I close my eyes and try to remember the breathing techniques I learned in therapy after my parents died, but my mind won’t focus on anything other than my desperate need for air.

  I sink to my knees then bend forward at the waist and count backward from ten, trying to take a breath with each number. After repeating the countdown three times my lungs finally inflate. I place both hands on the ground, palm down and feel the cold grass beneath them. Opening my eyes, I notice how brown each blade is.

  Dead, just like Connor.

  I lift my head in time to see Breccan’s arms wrap around me, and then he lifts me off the ground.

  Struggling, I cry out, “Put me down, dammit!” I writhe and squirm in his arms, but his grip never loosens. He carries me all the way back to the car without saying a word and gently places me in the passenger’s seat.

  We ride in silence back to the house, and before he’s even shifted the car in park, I throw the door open and then sprint inside. Tears stream down my face, and at the top of the stairs, I take a left toward Connor’s room.

  Slinging his door open, I’m overwhelmed by his scent, and I throw myself on his bed, sobbing loudly. When I hear footsteps in the room, I shout for whoever it is to go away, but my words are muffled by the pillow my face is buried in. As the mattress sinks beside me, I turn my head, relieved to find Abby.

  “I didn’t think I’d ever come back in here,” she murmurs, staring at the shelf that holds Connor’s prized possessions.

  I walk over to it and pick up the Indian horn Abby brought home for him right after his diagnosis. “I was so pissed at you,” I tell her bluntly.