Page 98 of Last Round

I’m alive, so it’s not that bad. Still, I might be high at the moment but I know what that look means. She used to give me those big eyes, which always had a sheen from all the held back tears, after they said I couldn't fight again. Based on the frown of the doctor, they are less than pleased about me being here today—directly disobeying their orders. He might not have been the one who patched me up back then. But they have my history on file.

I’m about to ask if I can go home already when I hear the last thing I want.

“Killian Murphy,” the familiar and unwanted voice calls in the distance and, unfortunately, sobers me up. Seconds later, my mom storms into the room, pushing past Anita and Molly as if they weren’t there. She starts fussing over me in Greek as she gasps in horror at the bandages on my head.

While some things have been reconciled since the fallout at Cassie’s wedding—surface-level wounds have healed, bridges rebuilt—I can only handle Ma in small doses, very tiny ones, and when she puts on her over the top motherly act, the scars from the past ache. I don’t hate her. She’s my mother and I love her. But that doesn’t mean we’re close or that I find any peace in her presence.

“Let the boy breathe,” my dad rescues me. It’s weird seeing them in the same room together.

My siblings and I might have let go of some of the hurt they caused, but these two never worked out their issues. Even when Cassie’s baby was born, they both showed up and immediately began arguing. Fortunately, my new brother-in-law told them if they couldn’t put their shit away for the sake of their daughter, they could get the fuck out. Ma silently pouted the rest of the day but obliged nonetheless. Da, on the other hand, had a proud twinkle in his eye. He never said it, but I think Robbie stepping up to protect Cassie lifted a weight off his shoulders.

“What happened? Is he okay? Will he need surgery again? How long does he have to stay here? When can I take him home?” Ma inundates the doctor with nonstop questions. Not giving him a chance to answer one before she asks the next.

The doc clears his throat. “I need to ask everyone to sit in the waiting room while I speak with Killian.”

“This is my son—” she starts.

“It’s fine, Ma.”

She looks to my dad, hoping that he’ll back her up on this. But he’s giving me the nod and opens the door for her. And, with a huff, she storms out.

Molly presses a kiss to my forehead and turns towards the door. “Wait.” I grab her wrist. “Stay.”

She looks at the doctor. He nods his approval. It appears his orders were more for his sanity than mine.

“I’ll make sure your parents don’t kill each other,” Anita says with a wink before leaving.

Once the room clears, the doctor puts the images back on the big screen. He starts his medical scolding, using a bunch of big terms I don’t understand while pointing at cracks on my skull. I interrupt. “None of what you’re saying makes any sense. Can you Just tell me what the damage is, Doc?”

Molly hits my chest.

“Simply put?” the doc questions.

I nod.

“You’re a very lucky man.”

“So I’ve been told.” I smile at Molly. She repeats the gesture, but it lacks her usual spark.

“But that luck is over. In all honesty, I’m surprised you aren’t dead. While your initial fracture healed, due to excessive alcohol consumption, the remodeling was weak. It’s a miracle that your skull didn’t shatter today, Mr. Murphy.”

“I’m all good then? Can I go home?” I look between him and Molly. They all had gloomy faces, but so far, I’m hearing nothing but good news.

“Killian, I know this was communicated before. But you’re forcing me to repeat myself: No. More. Fighting. Not professional, not for fun. The human body can only take so much, Mr. Murphy, and you’ve far exceeded the limits of whatthis onecan handle.”

Molly squeezes my hand as I remain silent. I’ve heard this before. But hearing it when I was thirty and thought I was invincible versus hearing it at thirty-seven when the thought of dying anytime soon would be very inconvenient for Molly and me—let’s just say it’s different.

“When can I get out of here?” I finally speak up.

“I’d like to keep you overnight for observation.” He tells me the last thing I want to hear. “Barring any complications, we can probably discharge you in the morning.” There is a page over the intercom. Based on the doc’s sudden change in demeanor, I assume it’s for him. “I’ll put the order in and get you transferred to a bed upstairs.”

“I want to go home,” I pout once the doctor leaves.

“Tomorrow,” Molly says, brushing my hair back.

“I hate these places.”

“I know, but it’s one night. It’s not going to kill you.”

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