Page 180 of Finding Hope

“Perfect timing by the Jackhammer. Wait! Westlin’s got a hook in!”

“Good position for him to use the fence. They’re getting to their feet, possibly setting up a guillotine...”

What the fuck is a guillotine?

All I see are two large, sweaty guys rolling around on the floor.

With shaking hands and my heart in my throat, I watch the guys climb to their feet. Westlin skips away and like they are playing a cat and mouse game, Jack follows.

Westlin is a big ol’ steak, and Jack’s starving.

“Head kick!”

I seize in fright when Westlin’s long leg swings wide. Arching back, Jack avoids the brunt of it, then spins, fast as a snake.

“Spinning back kick!”

This is too much. It’s too much! I want to scream in frustration. I want to sob. I want to scream at Jack for not ending it already.

Why is he making me suffer? Hemustknow I’m watching!

“Gotta get those hands up, Westlin!”

“He’s eatin’ those jabs, Greg.”

Diving forward, Jack throws his arms around Westlin’s waist and slams him to the floor.

“He’s got side control!”

My blood thrums through my veins, like itknowssomething exciting’s about to happen. The crowd grows louder, and the announcers’ voices bounce. Bobby and Aiden stand on the outside of the cage as they scream and jump.

I can feel it in the air, the excitement, like we all justknowit’s coming to an end.

Jack lies across Westlin and holds him down. Using his weight to pin him to the octagon floor, he works his left arm against Westlin’s right andtries to create a gap between it and his ribs. Lifting his backside, dropping his knee into Westlin’s ribs, then dropping down again, he meticulously works to create that gap.

“He’s gotta do something, Greg! He’s gotta get outta there.”

“The Jackhammer’s pounding on him. Fists. Knees. Fifty seconds left of this round. This might be the first time Reilly has ever taken it to the third round!”

Westlin moves slower and slower the longer Jack lies on him. He’s exhausted, and each time Jack slams his knee into his ribs, his face screws up with pain. On a final knee, Westlin’s body opens up and collapses to the floor.

Instantly jumping forward, Jack straddles Westlin the way I’ve straddled Jack a million times before.

Fist after fist after fist, Jack throws wide punches down over Westlin’s poorly protected face. One, two, three punches. Seven, eight, nine, Westlin’s head snaps side to side.

Jumping between them when Westlin’s leg falls limp, the referee pushes Jack off with surprising strength and the crowd roar to their feet until the speakers in my phone turn tinny.

“Jack the Jackhammer Reilly, your NEW world heavyweight champion!”

Standing on weak legs, dropping to his knees in the middle of the octagon, throwing his hands over his face, Jack’s broad shoulders shake as he breaks apart on live television.

The crowd’s noise is like thunder in the stands, butmyshouts, they echo in the dark cemetery as tears stream from my eyes; tears of happiness, tears of devastation, tears of exhaustion.

His brothers slam the gate open within a single heartbeat. All four men surge forward until, taking their youngest brother in their arms, they create a single group hug that has the women in the front row weeping.

The cameras pan the screaming crowd, then a dazed Westlin, then the Roller men until, finally stopping, we get a close up view of Bobby and Jack; father and son, brother to brother, a mentor and his student, with their foreheads pressed together and moving lips as Bobby shouts words – of love? Of encouragement? Of forgiveness?

Standing as one, the five fighters pull a weak Jack to his feet and turn as Westlin approaches them. Limping, bleeding, weak, the two fighters, men who’d been tearing each other apart just two minutes ago, now hug like all is forgiven.

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