Maverick
I feel poisoned just from looking at my dad in a casket. Just being near him and reliving all the years of waiting for him, waiting to prove myself to him.
I’ve run until my lungs are on fire, quads, calves, abs burning like firestones, my brain flaming with flashes of him in a coffin.
Flashes of Tate in the ring.
Flashes of me putting on my boxing gloves.
Flashes of Reese, saying, Love me hard.
Flashes of Oz, drinking.
Flashes of my mom, getting a check from me.
I hit the hotel and spend an hour under the shower spray, shutting my eyes. My phone has been buzzing, but I don’t pay attention to it.
Oz has been calling.
The final is in three days. I get back to New York tomorrow.
That’s all I know. I fight my fight in three days.
And I fight Tate—more father than I’ve ever had. It won’t feel good to beat him. It won’t feel good to lose, either.
While my real father died, I was training with Tate.
His greatest enemy. Who took me under his wing.
I got close to them. I got weak, thinking I was getting stronger. I’ve got more muscles but less walls around me. I can’t be weak, I can’t laugh with them, talk with them.
Fuck, I can’t believe I was so careless.
I dropped my guard. Like they’ll accept me? Fucking nobody does. They’re watching me, guarding what I learn. Like the saying “Keep your enemies closer. . . .”
And I fell like a love-starved puppy begging for a damn bone.
Because of Reese.
And He’s with me.
And blue eyes and six freckles now.
And smiles that fire me up.
Fingers that feel soft.
A cheek on my chest.
And secrets about her dark days and her new ones.
And my favorite ass in the world.
I don’t want to have anyone.
I don’t want to need anyone.
I don’t want to feel anything.
I don’t want to feel like this.
I want to be alone.
Me, Tate, the ring.
But even with Reese miles away, she’s with me more than ever. When I fight the fight, she’ll be in my head more than ever.
And chances are, I won’t be the guy she’s rooting for to win.
I turn off the water and towel off, pull on a pair of sweatpants, grab a jump rope, and take it on with a vengeance.
♥ ♥ ♥
IT’S PAST MIDNIGHT and I crave her voice like I crave nothing else. I dial her phone, get the voice mail. And listen to it like a junkie, Hi, this is Reese. I can’t come to the phone but leave a message. . . .
I leave no message. But I text:
He’s gone.
I toss my phone aside and shove my rope back into my duffel and drop on the bed, then punch my pillow and plop to my stomach, hating that all that’s left of him is in me.
