Page 5 of Clinch'd

When I was eight years old, I got in my first fight. Some fucker who thought he could beat me got in the first swing, but it was his last.

You don’t grow up in my neighborhood without learning how to defend yourself. I guess I was scrawny enough to confuse the little shit, but he didn’t stay that way for long.

I never started a fight, but I always ended it, a lesson my father drilled into me at a young age.Don't be the bully son,he would say but after he would wag his finger in my face and continue,don’t beat women and children, and never let another man take what’s yours, neither.

At the time they were just words. I mean, I was a cocky little asshole, still flush from my fight. While I appreciated the sentiment, I also walked around like a puffed-up rooster for weeks until Mom slapped me upside the head and told me to get over it.

Only later, did the meaning resonate in my soul and circle in my brain on repeat. Never let a man take what’s yours. He wastrue to his word but at what cost? He died, taking a piece of our heart with him.

It’s this conviction that keeps me on my path. He may have died for money, but it was so much more than that. It was the food on our table, the roof over heads, the fucking basketball shoes I needed to play in my next game.

He died for us and there are times I can’t help but compare myself to him and wonder if he’d be proud of the man I am today. I may not be a bully, but I use my fists to make my living and I don’t know if it’s something he would have approved of.

This is only compounded by Mom who never actually speaks her disapproval but I see it just the same when she stares at my bruises with resignation in her eyes.

I know she wanted better for me but fuck, what was I supposed to do with so many hungry mouths to feed?

Now as I pass through the trees and approach the bench by the kiddie slide, I used to enjoy when I was a stupid kid, I consider why I’m here and lower my head into my hands.

What have I done?

The crisp air sends a shiver through me, but I ignore it as I glance around. I’m the first one here which means I have to wait, something I hate, no fucking surprise.

Mom always said I was the impatient one of her brood, even flying out of her womb five weeks before her due date. That story used to make me squirm. Now I wish she would tell the story again just so I could see her smile.

“Bro,” Hudson says, dropping into the seat beside me.

“Hey,” I mutter, shoving my phone in my pocket.

“How’s Mom?” he says, and I hunch my shoulders. The same as she always is I almost say but he doesn’t need me to voice the words.

“Coop?”

When I look up, he searches my expression before his brows drop over his eyes. “What? What happened?”

“I lost her,” I whisper, and he leans back, the bench creaking under our combined weight.

I may be the MMA fighter, but Hudson is no slouch himself. When we spar, which isn’t often anymore, he’s just as likely to kick my ass as the other way around.

“Who?” he says, and I drop my gaze to my hands.

Shame burns a trail up my sternum and I clear my throat, but it does nothing to quell the ache as I say, “Monroe.”

Silence follows and I cock my head, glancing at him sideways. I should be relieved that his eyes are clear of the accusation that I feared would be his reaction, but I know I fucked up even if he’ll never admit it.

“What the fuck do you mean, you lost her?” he says. Here it comes. I guess I won’t be spared after all.

“Shit, Hud,” I growl, standing to pace away.

Hudson glances around and I follow his gaze before plopping back on to the bench. I know it’s dangerous for him to be here, but I couldn’t admit shit over the phone.

“She ran off,” I finally say.

“Okay, where?”

“I don’t know…but the last person she was seen with was Billy Wyld,” I admit, and Hudson swears under his breath.

“Castinetti’s plaything?”

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