Page 106 of Sacrifice
“Ready?” Crew asks. He takes my hand and pulls me to my feet.
“Yeah. Everything all right?”
“Just a few promo things to do. He doesn’t want to do them because he thinks they’re distracting. But the NAFL is pushing hard, so he ran it by me.”
“Okay. Let’s get out of here. But I need to say goodbye to Mrs. Ficht first.”
He guides me through the maze of people until we spot her. She’s twirling pink cotton candy out of a machine, a bright smile on her face as always. She sees me coming and wipes off her hands. “Hey, sweetie,” she says, pulling me in for a hug. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Yes. This was amazing. Thank you so much. We’re going to get back to the hospital, though. I’m just worried sick and hate not being with her.”
“Do not explain. I’m a mother, too.” She releases me and looks at Crew. “Nice to meet you.”
“Same here.” He grins.
“Well, you be careful. Call me if you need anything.”
“We will.”
“We’ve gotten more donations than I thought,” she says, a curious look on her face. “Do you happen to know anyone by the last name Alexander?”
I shake my head and look at Crew. He shrugs his shoulders.
“A man came over and gave me a check for five thousand dollars a few minutes ago. Cane Alexander, I think he said his name was. I’ve never seen him before.”
I gasp. “Did you say fivethousanddollars?”
She laughs in disbelief. “I don’t know if the check will cash, but we’ll put it in your account. Worth a try, anyway, right?”
“My God,” I whisper, wondering who he is. “Thank you so much for everything.” I hug her again. “I appreciate this so much.”
“Go on. You get back to your little girl.”
“Thank you again,” I say, my voice breaking. “Thank you so much.”
FORTY-THREE
CREW
The room on the other side of the wall goes quiet. My stomach twists, reminiscent of the way it feels before a fight. Except there’s no fight today. Not a physical one, anyway.
In just a few minutes, I’ll walk around a thick, black curtain and take a seat a few feet away from Hunter. There’ll be a mic in my face, a swarm of reporters staring at us, hoping to get some quotes they can spin. A few reporters asked to meet with me privately before the start of the conference, but I denied them.
I don’t want to be here.
This fight isn’t some ploy to get famous or gain endorsements. I’ve seen the reporters come and go from Hunter’s dressing room all afternoon and I know he’s using that to his advantage. He has a whole team around him designed to build press. I look around the room. Sal is leaning against the wall, drinking coffee from a thin paper cup. Will is flipping through his phone. This team was designed to win one fight. That’s all I need.
My stomach rumbles. I try to focus on what I’m doing and not on what I’m feeling. Because what I’m feeling is like a whore. Not because I’m fighting for money, fuck that. But because I’ve already been informed that the reasonwhyI’m fighting will come up. Apparently the NAFL decided that it was a good marketing ploy and reporters will undoubtedly ask me questions about Everleigh.
I don’t want my personal business out there like that. I don’t want her name in the mouths of those vultures. I don’t want what’s precious to me to be tainted with the filth that I know is this industry. I don’t want some asshole in a suit, some silver spoon-fed motherfucker with insurance no less, making money off of my niece’s sickness.
My blood singes my veins. I stand up, needing air.
Will looks up from his phone. “Keep your head together.”
“How in the fuck do I do that?” I kick my chair, sending it skidding across the room.
“Because,” Will says, standing, too, “if you don’t, those cocksuckers wintoday.”
