by Cate Cameron
“And if it doesn’t? If it goes the full twenty-five?”
“I’ll be ready,” she said.
And he believed her. They walked in silence for another block, then turned into the little park by the subway station and kept walking.
Finally, Zara said, “You’re not going to ask about the other? About my head?”
“Is anything new? Anything you want to tell me?”
“Yeah. There’s something new.”
He stopped walking and turned to look at her. Her chin was still up, but there was a trace of something different in her eyes. Not fear, exactly, but something close to it. “I made an appointment with a neurologist. One that’s not associated with the company. Day after tomorrow. I want to just . . . I don’t know. I want to have all available information. That’s good, right? Just to know what’s going on.”
He didn’t want to breathe in case he somehow broke the spell. But she was waiting for a response, so he said, “Yeah. I think that’s good. That’s important.”
She nodded and turned to start walking again. He reclaimed her hand and asked, “Can I come with you?”
Another nod. “Yeah. Thanks.”
And they walked on without saying any more, but with their hands gripped just a little tighter than before.
* * *
“SO what’s the point of being here?” Zara demanded. She’d gone through all the tests, forced herself to answer all the questions honestly, even with Cal sitting there listening, and now this so-called expert was giving her nothing? “You don’t know if it’s safe? You don’t know if my brain is still scrambled?”
“It’s impossible to say,” Dr. Thorne said. Zara had chosen her from the list of neurologists supplied by her GP because the name sounded fierce and strong, like someone who would understand Zara’s fighting instinct. But she was beginning to wish she’d made another choice. Still, Dr. Thorne didn’t seem like she was going to be pushed into making any declarations. “Nothing shows up on your MRI or CT scans, but that doesn’t mean too much. Your symptoms are mild, and could be attributed to the stress of training. So maybe your brain has recovered, at least as much as it ever will. But maybe it hasn’t.”
The doctor leaned over her desk. “And even if it has recovered this time, there’s still a lot we don’t know about the long-term effects of concussions. There’s reliable data showing a connection to symptoms that look a lot like Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s, even thirty or more years after the injury. We know that every concussion adds to the likelihood of this outcome. We know that every concussion is harder to recover from than the one before, and is more likely to cause permanent brain damage. That could take the form of cognitive difficulties, moodiness, depression—permanent changes to the brain.”
She leaned back now, and gave Zara a minute to absorb it all. Then she said, “If it were up to me, head protection would be mandatory for all boxing and MMA events. My understanding is that athletes wear this protection when they spar as part of their training and are still able to demonstrate their skills. But that’s not something I can influence. What I can say is that with two concussions in the past year, you are at much higher risk of permanent brain injury than other athletes in the sport. I would strongly recommend that you not fight.”
Zara had thought she was ready to hear this. She’d hoped that the doctor would give her good news, something to calm Cal down and maybe soothe her own jitters, but she’d thought she was prepared to hear the bad if it came. She’d been wrong. “But you’d have recommended against me fighting if I’d come to you before I got any concussions, right? That whole wearing-headgear-when-fighting thing?”
The doctor sighed. “I would have, yes. I understand competitiveness, but I don’t understand the need to risk serious injury.”
Zara nodded her chin toward the photo on the wall behind the doctor’s head, showing the woman on a racing bicycle, with a number strapped on her chest. “But it’s okay for you to ride bikes? They never wipe out, never get sideswiped by cars?”
“I wear protective gear. I minimize the risk.”
“But there still is a risk. If you wanted to get the health benefits, you could ride a stationary bike at home. But you want do something real, something that makes you feel alive. So you take the chance.”
“I do,” Dr. Thorne said slowly. “I take that chance, but I wouldn’t take the chance you’re thinking about taking. By my standards, it’s too risky. Absolutely.”
“But there’s nothing clear. No big warning signs, no flashing lights.” Zara glanced at Cal, then looked back at the doctor. “There’s nothing I could show to the fight officials that would tell them I’m unfit to fight. You’re just operating on general impressions and probabilities, not proof.”
“I could write a note saying I advise against it,” Dr. Thorne said. “I’d be pleased to do that. But, no, I can’t actually show any proof of your individual condition.”
Zara’s nod felt a little jerky. “Okay. Thanks anyway.”
“Should I write the letter?”
“Sure. I’ll put it in my scrapbook.”
“We can still use it,” Cal said. He’d been quiet all day, holding her hand whenever it was possible but otherwise staying out of things, and she’d appreciated it.
So she didn’t snap at him, just shrugged and said, “For what? They won’t let me out of the fight, not without something that proves I’m unhealthy. They’ll just say I’m scared of her.”
“Let them say it! Who cares?”
“I care!” She shook her head. “I can’t back down. They’ll take my title away, and everyone will think I’m a quitter. Andre’s already trying to switch from me to Anna, and I think the company might be thinking that way, too. They want her to be the new face of women’s MMA. So I’m supposed to give up and just let her take my spot? No way.”
He had his mouth open to respond, then looked at the doctor and bit his lip instead. The lecture wasn’t cancelled, just postponed.
And it stayed that way for several days. Zara tried to go back to the way they’d been before, but the doctor’s advice was always there, hanging between them. Every smile Cal gave her seemed forced, and when he kissed her, it felt like good-bye.
She put up with it for three days. Then she walked into his apartment after a day of training and saw a packed duffel bag by the door, and it seemed like the bottom had dropped out of her world. “Going somewhere?” she asked, trying to sound light.
He nodded. “I need to spend a couple days at home. There’s a problem at the furniture plant—nothing huge, just some new equipment that isn’t working right—and someone needs to take care of it.”
“Oh.” It would be easier, safer, to just let that go, but she couldn’t. “And then you’ll come back?”
It took him too long to answer. “I don’t know,” he finally said.
She made herself swallow through a throat suddenly gone tight and dry. “Because you need to be there for work?” she said desperately.
He shook his head, but didn’t say anything right away. Finally he spoke. “I don’t want you to fight.”
“I know.” What else was there to say?
“I’m asking you not to.”
She didn’t really know what that meant. Well, she understood the words, but he’d spoken them like they had extra weight, extra meaning, something she wasn’t quite getting. So she thought about it for a while. “Like . . . like what? What does that mean?”
“What does it mean that I’m asking you not to?” He sounded incredulous. Apparently everyone already knew this code in rich-kid-land.
“Are you calling in a favor? Like, I owe you one, and you want to collect?”
It was his turn to think for a while. “Not exactly. That would be a sort of transactional exchange, right? And I’m asking for a relationship-based—whatever. Favor.”
“You don’t know what it means to me,” she said desperately. “You don’t understand why it’s important.”
“You’re right, I don’t. I can’t for the life of me figure out why you’d risk your life on this.”
“Not my life.”
“Maybe your life. Fighters have died before, you know. In the ring. Boxers, martial artists. It happens. But even if it’s not your actual life, it could still be huge. Brain damage could change your whole personality. I like your personality. I like you the way you are. So you tell me, what’s so important that it’s worth risking that?”
Zara fought to put it into words. “Maybe you can’t understand it. Because you were brought up as part of something—part of everything, really. The whole town knew who you were, and they were all so proud of every damn step you took. Me?” She didn’t want to get too excited, didn’t want to sound pathetic or like she was looking for pity. So she took a few deep breaths before saying in a calmer voice, “Nobody ever claimed me, or wanted to know me, and they sure as hell were never proud of me. Nobody. Not until I got good at MMA. Now I have people who want to do business with me. Me. Sure, yeah, they’re using me, but at least I’m something worth using. You know? They pay attention to me. There’s a whole bar in Lake Sullivan I don’t want to go to because it would be too intense. Because they’re interested in me.” He was still listening, at least, so she gave it a little more. “And you want me to throw that respect away? Make myself look like a coward in front of people who care about guts more than they care about anything else? No. No way. I won’t do it.”
He was quiet then, staring at the packed bag as if it held the secrets of the universe. Then he whispered, “I love you.”
It should have been a moment to savor, but her mind skittered right over the words to what she was sure lay beneath them. “So that means you can’t be with me?” she demanded, trying to keep her voice from rising too high.
“I love you the way you are. I don’t want you to get hurt, and I don’t want you to change, because who you are right now is perfect, and I can’t stand the thought of you getting hit in the head and walking out of that ring being somebody else. If you’re even able to walk out at all.”
She fought for breath, for calm. He was saying this to her now. Telling her he loved her. Using the words as a tool to control her, a part of her brain said. But another part told her that he was being honest, in response to her own honesty.
But she couldn’t hear this, not two weeks before a huge fight, not when she was already fighting her own fear and doubts. “You love me as a fighter,” she spat. “That poster? Half fighter, half whore? You came up with that because you have some sort of a . . . a fetish or something! You only know me as a fighter, and that’s a huge part of who I am. So don’t pretend I won’t change. If I walk away from this bout, if I give up, that would change me. Absolutely. Being a fighter is who I am, and if I’m not that, then neither one of us knows who the hell I’ll be.”
He stared at her. “You really think you being a fighter is something that depends on you stepping into the ring?” He sounded amazed, almost scornful, but his voice softened as he said, “You were the toughest little kid I ever saw. You and Zane, staring down the world together, neither one of you giving a damn inch to anybody. You were a fighter when you broke that Albertson kid’s nose for picking on some other kid, and you were, what, seven? He was a couple years older and you took him down. No fear. Just fight.” He smiled at her now, sad but warm. “You were a fighter when you randomly declared egg war on my family. You kept that going for almost a damn year. I wouldn’t have stopped you except my dad was threatening to call out the big guns, the cops and the child welfare people and whatever, and I knew you’d fight them, too, and they might hurt you. You were a fighter when you went up to visit Zane after he got in trouble, travelling all that way on your own as a sixteen-year-old. Hell, you fight with me all the time.” He shook his head. His voice was low and intense as he added, “You’re a warrior. It’s in your blood, in your heart. It doesn’t have a damn thing to do with martial arts. It’s just you.”
She didn’t want to cry. Not about this, not about anything. And not in front of Cal. “I can’t . . .” she started. But she’d already said that. “I have to . . .” But she’d said that, too.
“You can do anything. And if someone’s telling you that you have to do something, that’s who you should be fighting against!”
It was so easy for him. So clear, so simple. But it wasn’t that way for her. “I have to fight,” she said.
He wasn’t looking at her anymore, just staring out the window toward the street below. Finally he whispered, “I’m not sure I can watch that.”
“You don’t have to watch it!”
“I’m not sure I can know about it. Or watch you train for it. I can’t stop talking to you about it. I did my best. I gave you space and you let me in, and now . . . I don’t know if I can stand to be in, not if being in means standing by when you insist on doing something we both know is stupid and dangerous.”
She felt cold, even though the apartment was well-heated. “What are you saying?”
“I don’t know exactly. I need some time to think about it.” He shook his head. “Like I said, I need to go back for business. I’ll use the time to think, I guess. You can—” He stopped short. “No, I guess not. You’ve already decided, so there’s no point in you thinking about it anymore. You’ll do what you want, and I’ll just have to figure out if I can deal with it.”
She wanted to rage at him. It would be so much easier to be angry. But she wasn’t. “Is this . . . are you breaking up with me? Is that what’s happening? If that’s what you’re doing, you should say the words, okay? You need to just spell it out. I’m not good at—”
“You’re good at whatever you try to be good at!” The anger faded out of his voice quickly. “But yes. I think if we call it something else, if we say we’re still together, just not in the same place, I think I’ll still go crazy.” He shook his head. “I think I’m going to go crazy regardless. But maybe not. Maybe less if we’re . . .”
“Fine.” She’d found a bit of anger now, enough to get her out of the apartment and maybe even partway home. “We’re done. We’re over. You can go running back to your safe little life, and I’ll stay out here where things aren’t so damn easy.”
“Don’t play it like that. You’re the one keeping it from being easy. Your pride, your competitiveness. Nobody’s making you fight, nobody but you.”
“Yeah, sorry I didn’t just give in and do what you thought was best. It must be really hard for you to feel so responsible for saving the Hales all the time. Noblesse oblige, that’s what it’s called, right? You’re the great master, forced to make decisions for your underlings because we can’t possibly take care of ourselves?”
“That argument would be a hell of a lot more compelling if you weren’t about to do something that everybody thinks is totally stupid.”
“Everybody? Maybe everybody in your little world. But not everybody in mine. In my world, we’re expected to tough it out, not go running home to our mommies.” He wasn’t fighting anymore, she didn’t think. But that killer instinct made her keep going. “Hey, you called the cops on Zane when he didn’t follow your rules. What are you going to do to me? Got any new ways to ruin people’s lives?”
It was too far. Way too far. She knew it as soon as she said it, but somehow she still wanted to say more. She wanted to burn everything to the ground so she could keep herself warm with the flames. She wanted to spew anger and hatred like lava, wanted to let it cool into the stone she needed to be for the next two weeks. And maybe longer, because she had a feeling she was going to need a lot more strength to get over Cal than she’d ever need to prep for a fight.
But she managed to control herself. “Thanks for the last couple months,” she said as she pushed the apartment door open. “They we
re fun.”
She headed for the door of the building then, refusing to look behind her, refusing to admit she was hoping to hear his voice calling out to her, stopping her. He didn’t make a sound. Zara got all the way to the street before the tears came. That was her only victory for the day.
Twenty-one
CAL WAS PRETTY sure the man who’d supplied the faulty equipment for the furniture factory was about to cry, and even so it was hard to stop berating him.
“We’re losing money every second that line isn’t working,” Cal said. “This close to Christmas, we’re not going to lay off fifteen workers until you can get your shit together!” Michael had thought the layoff was only good business, but Michael was an asshole. “So you’re costing me sales and I’m paying for fifteen men to sit around doing nothing, all because you couldn’t write down a few numbers properly?”
“We sent an order confirmation—” the man began.
“Written in your own code! We bought from you because you’re supposed to be experts in the field! Experts at making equipment, and supplying equipment. Instead, you’ve supplied crap!” Cal took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. It wasn’t like he gave a damn about furniture manufacturing, after all. “So now you need to make it better. I don’t want to hear any more excuses; I want this fixed. Do you understand?”
The man nodded.
“Well, then go get on it! I’m going to be here first thing tomorrow morning and I want to see your guys here installing the new equipment. Clear?”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, and scurried away.
Cal watched him leave, feeling vaguely disgusted. With himself, not the poor salesman. Since when was bullying okay? Why did he think it was acceptable to treat people that way? Was it just because he was a Montgomery? Zara would say—
But he caught himself, almost in time. It didn’t matter what Zara would say. Zara was gone. She’d rather get her brain slammed into jelly than live happily ever after with him.
