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My opponent tonight is from New Jersey, but to the crowd that might as well be New York. Just another reason why they all want me to win tonight, and why Micky betting against me is going to net him a fucking fortune.
I go through my normal warmup routine as I wait for them to start the match, feeling more nervous than I’ve ever felt before. Normally I’d be ice cold right now. I’d have my mind right and my fists ready. But that would be for a fight, and this isn’t that.
Merrell’s back there in the locker room. I can’t even imagine what she’s thinking right now. I don’t even know if she’ll be there when all this is over. I’d like to think she will—that she was just bluffing, but she’s a girl with some spunk and if she says she’s going to do something, she does it. At the end of the night, I might find myself half-a-million richer, but without the girl of my dreams.
“And now, the hometown favorite, the heavy-hitter, the Boston Blur!” the announcer calls. “Jackson Santino!”
The curtain in front of me parts and I jog through the door to the sound of thunderous applause. The whole arena’s going nuts as I make my way into the octagon where my opponent is already waiting for me.
George “Quick Hands” Silver. He’s a heavyweight like me, but slower. He’s a striker. If I get him on the ground, it’s over. He’s eyeing me like a wolf, staring me down, doing his best to intimidate me. I almost want to laugh.
He’s gonna win tonight and he’s gonna think it’s because he was the better fighter. He’s going to think I choked, didn’t research his style, didn’t bring my A-game, and he’ll spend the rest of his life thinking that, because there’s no way I’ll ever be able to tell him the truth.
I toss my robe aside and throw some practice punches, feeling empty inside.
He’ll think he’s the better fighter…I think as the ref calls us to the center of the ring. My eyes aren’t even on him. It’s like I can’t even see him right now.
He’ll think he’s the better man…
I glance up when it’s time to touch gloves and reach out, but the son of a bitch pulls a cheap move and just starts swinging. H
is fist connects with my cheek and I stagger back as he begins his onslaught, drawing jeers and boos from the crowd. Something inside me gives way, and I cover up as he comes at me, ready to do what I know I have to do.
Epilogue
Jackson
One year later…
The truck whines as I pull up the dirt driveway, the lush trees of Thailand surrounding me on all sides. The springs squeal as I go over the set of three bumps I’ve gotten used to. I keep meaning to come out with a shovel and flatten them, but I always end up getting distracted and putting it off until tomorrow.
I park in front of the cottage and get out. The weather’s gorgeous—just the right amount of humidity, and I gaze out at the view of the clear blue ocean. I did it, just like Micky said. I took the money from the fight and bought a place in Thailand. I didn’t go blowing it all of course; I had to save some. Money goes a long way over here but not if you spend it like it’s water.
I wonder what the weather is like back in Boston. Probably freezing. All those poor souls trudging through the slush-covered roads, slipping on ice, scraping their car windshields every morning before work.
“And here I am,” I say to nobody in particular. “Living like a king.”
And boy is that not the truest statement I’ve ever made. I did what I did and now I’m here. No regrets. You can’t live with regrets in this life; that’s what I’ve learned. They eat you up from inside and before you know it, you’re no longer the man you once were. A wise woman once taught me that.
Twirling my keys on my fingers, I take the stairs to the house and tug open the screen door. It used to squeal, but I oiled it yesterday and it’s sounding brand new. I did a bunch of work to the cottage when I first arrived. It’s mine now, and I’d rather do my own work than hire it out to someone else.
The mangos I bought at the market are right where I left them on the counter. Grabbing a knife from the drawer, I skin one, quickly dice it into a bowl and head out to the back porch for the even more impressive view. This screen door needs oil, and creaks as I open it and step outside. I slide a slice into my mouth and smile as the sweet, ripe juices run across my tongue.
Perfect.
“Any more of that for me, mister?”
I glance over and see my beautiful pregnant wife sitting in her usual chair, cradling our son in her arms.
“Are you sure mango is okay for a pregnant woman to eat?” I smile. She frowns and opens her mouth and sticks out her tongue. If she wasn’t holding Clarence, I’d give her something else to swallow; that’s for damn sure.
She takes the piece of fruit into her mouth and I lean down and kiss my son on his soft head. He’s asleep, probably after having a nice meal thanks to Momma. My heart rises in my chest as it always does when I see her. My angel. My miracle. The woman who saved me and succeeded in making me a better man.
I didn’t throw the fight. I couldn’t. I beat the snot out of George and got him to tap in the first round. Not quite a first-round-knockout, but close. Micky was beyond pissed and put a bounty on my head, but when the cops heard a few things I had to tell them about Southie’s most notorious gangster, they swooped right in and picked up him and his whole crew. Last I heard, he’s doing a twenty-year-sentence on racketeering and bribery.
It was Merrell’s faith in me that made me do it, and as if that wasn’t enough, it turns out she swiped some cash from her dad and placed a bet on me to win as well. The odds were already in my favor, but the winnings were enough to keep me afloat until my next bout in Vegas, which I won. Oh, and the purse for that fight? Two hundred thousand. Not enough to retire, but then again, I don’t want to retire. I want to fight…now that I have Merrell at my side, and my next match is only going to be bigger.
“Enjoy your run?” she asks. I’ve gotten into the habit of running every day around town. It’s ten times better than a treadmill.
