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“Anything.”
“You want my zodiac sign?” I joke.
“No, jerk,” she laughs. “You’re a fighter, right? MMA? Is that like the UFC?”
“The UFC is an MMA league,” I tell her. “But yeah, MMA fighting is what I do.”
“Are you any good?” she asks. She sure doesn’t hold back. I like it.
“I am. But I won’t be doing it much longer.”
“Really? Why’s that?”
It’s strange to talk to someone outside the industry about stuff like this. She clearly has no idea about the sport or who I am or any of it; how am I supposed to tell her about what I’m about to do?
“Let’s just say…I’m retiring.”
“Wow! Did you like win a bajillion fights and make tons of money?” she asks. Well, this night was going well. Now we’re on this topic…
I take a deep breath and lay it all on her—from Tiffy screwing me out of all my money, to my deal with Micky and how I’m going to throw the fight in four days at the Garden. When I’m done, she just looks at me for a while, and something in her eyes seems to burrow right into my chest. I can tell right away what she’s thinking; she doesn’t approve.
“Jackson,” she says slowly, choosing her words carefully. “I—I don’t think you should do that.”
I don’t think so either. But I don’t say that. “I don’t have a choice. I’m broke. My fighting spirit is broken too.”
“Because of your ex?” she asks.
“Mostly.” I nod. It hurts to admit it, but a man should never shy away from the truth, no matter how painful it may be. Merrell sits up and puts her hand on my shoulder and looks at me with kind, loving, maternal eyes. She has me. That’s all there is to it, and as I stare back at her, I want to be a better man for her. I just don’t know if I can. The damage has been done; there’s no repairing it.
“I don’t think you should do it,” she tells me. “I think you should fight and you should win.”
“It’s not that simple, Merrell—”
“Can you beat this guy?” she asks. I’m astonished. Where did this faith in me come from so quickly?
“I can.”
“Then do it,” she says. This time, she takes my hand and holds it tight. “Do it and I’ll stand by you from now on.”
Merrell
Four days later…
I’ve never been more nervous in my life as Jackson and I pull into the TD Garden. The place is packed. There are people everywhere, police and cameras. I ha
d no idea this was such a big deal, but if Jackson wins this fight, he gets to go on to Vegas for an even bigger match. But according to him, he’s not going to win this fight.
“I can’t do it, baby,” he told me this morning when I came over to his house. I still haven’t quite managed to tell my parents that I’m ready to move in with a man ten years older than me, but they at least know that I’m starting to see him, even if I haven’t given them all the details on him.
“You can,” I told him. “And when you win, I won’t even ask for access to your bank account.”
It was just a little joke, but Jackson didn’t smile. His mind was on the fight—on what he had to do.
I don’t know how to explain it but being with him has awoken a side of me that I wasn’t prepared for. I care for him and want to protect him—not in the way that he protected me from those two men outside the theater, but by being there for him, supporting him, and helping him handle those pesky things that men don’t always handle well: emotions.
“I wish it was that simple, baby girl,” he told me before he left me alone so he could get ready. “But it’s not.”
My eyes are on him as he parks and takes a deep breath. I’ve never been to a fight with him before, but I know there was no way he was ever this nervous. He has to do something today that he knows he shouldn’t do, and it’s killing him. It’s also killing me.
