Page 97 of My Undead Heart
“Ricky, Ricky, you okay?” I shout above them as they clear the blood gushing freely from his nose. I’m sure that’s broken but I’m more concerned with a possible concussion.
It takes a moment but Ricky nods and raises his thumb, which I take as a good sign.
“We need to take him for observation,” one of the medics says. I nod in total agreement. I don’t see how he won’t need a hospital stay after that last round of hits. “Can you walk, kid?”
Ricky nods again, but I’m not positive he can hold his body weight, let alone remain conscious. Propping one of his arms around my shoulder and the other medic doing the same, we’re able to get him to stand. The crowd claps, a sign of relief and praise, but I won’t breathe easy until Ricky’s cleared by a doctor. We make our way out of the cage and it’s then I lift my gaze to see my entire team still on bended knee.
“Come on,” I say and they all stand, expressions somber as we make our way back to the locker room. Not the debut performance we were hoping for by any means, but I couldn’t be more proud of my men. They wait for us to pass, and without a word follow behind to show their solidarity. I only hope this loss doesn’t set the tone for the night ... or the kind of fights we’ll see. A shot to the head is inevitable, but repeated punches like that is shady if you ask me.
We get Ricky back to the first aid room and after another thirty minutes it’s clear he needs to go to the ER. There’s a gash under his eye they can’t keep closed with tape and he’s struggling to stay alert. Salvador’s fight is coming up soon, but Xavier’s isn’t until the end so there’s no way I can leave. Ricky’s got a girlfriend but she’s nowhere to be found, and from Xavier’s expression I’m not sure I’d trust her anyway. I enlist the help of one of the older guys, James, to take Ricky to the hospital with instructions to keep me informed before I get back inside to my team.
“Hey, Kyle!” I shout when I come back inside. He walks ahead of me, also on his way back toward the octagon, one of only a couple people in this outer room. A few other people mill around–some late arrivals grabbing tickets, smokers on their way out or back inside, and a few event employees. “What the fuck was that?”
He turns and winces when he sees me coming. “Tough opener. Let’s hope the rest of your team does better.” I realize he’s not emotionally invested in my fighters the way I am, but that’s no way to speak to me after what just happened.
“You said rookie. You wanted someone green. That match-up wasn’t close to fair.”
Kyle raises his hands, tilts his head, and his lips pull into a tight smile. “Hey, none of that. Best not make accusations to the man who signs your check.”
Fucking asshole. It takes everything I am to not strike out with words or my fists. This guy could use a thrashing, verbal or otherwise, but he’s right. It’s not my place. This is business. “You’re right, Kyle. Not your fault. I apologize.”
“He gonna be okay?” He has the decency to appear concerned.
“On his way to the hospital now. My guess is a concussion.”
“Hazard of the sport, but I don’t have to tell you that.” Back to asshole again.
“Yep,” I say through a tight grin. “I better get back. Salvador’s up soon.”
“Me, too. I’ll see you after the final fight.” He turns with an arrogant grin and struts inside.
Closing my eyes, I take a few deep breaths to calm my frustration. This event is not going the way I planned, but really, when does anything? I need to get my head in the game and focus. For myself, sure, but even more for my team. I can’t walk back into that room screaming profanities and expect Salvador and Xavier to perform well. They need me to be stronger than my own demons. The past is right there, fluttering at my subconscious.
“I need you to take the loss.” He’s waiting outside my room. By the looks of him, he’s been here a while. Since earning my UFC title, Pop always comes to the fights. Maybe he’s trying to make up for years lost, a lifetime of failure, or maybe he’s just a drunken gambling fool. Whatever the intent, he’s never asked me to throw a fight.
I walk toward him and shake my head. “What? No. No fucking way.”
“Son, I need this.” And it’s in the way he pleads that I just know ...
“You spent it all, didn’t you? You fucking wasted it all.”
His gaze falls to the floor, a momentary lapse in his usual front. As if he’s actually ashamed by his actions. As if he actually gave a fuck for my dying mother when he took out a life insurance policy the moment we found out she wasn’t gonna pull through.
“A few bets didn’t go my way. But if you could just throw this one fight ... do this one thing for me and I’ll leave you alone for good.” He has the nerve to lift his chin to meet my gaze.
“I’m not losing just so you can settle your gambling debt.” Disgust drips from my words as I meet my father’s glare. He did nothing for us. He hurt her for years, and once I was old enough, he beat me too. I’d never give up what I’ve worked so hard for just to help this bastard.
“Then I’m as good as dead.” His words catch me off guard. “I owe. If I don’t come through tonight they’re done with me.” I don’t exactly know who “they” are, but I do know he runs in illegal circles. Will they kill him if he doesn’t pay up tonight? I don’t know, but I’m also not sure I care. Maybe that makes me a monster like him.
“So, you bet against your own son?” A laugh escapes my lips but it holds no humor.
“You’re predicted to win. I need an underdog for the payout.”
“Bring back memories?” My father’s voice snaps me to the present and it’s the most unnerving thing to see him here in the flesh after everything that’s happened between us.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand with all the hatred I feel.
He shrugs, a little lift to his forced smile. “Free country, son.”
