A Fighting Chance (24 page)

“Hi, Nico,
” she says. “Me llamo Drew.” A woman slices through the mass of people and positions herself at Nico’s side. She aims a kind smile at Drew and introduces herself as Christiana. She’s beautiful. She’s tall, with dark brown skin, and long black hair. She’s thin but her stomach is a small, round bulge. I think she’s pregnant.

“Speak Spanish?” she asks us as Nico greets her with a kiss
on the forehead.

“Not really,
no,” Drew says. “
Maybe
…
un poquito.
”

“His English no good. Mine okay,” Christiana explains with a nervous
look. “Nico want meet
El
Americano
y
say
buena suerte
.”

“
Gracias. Good luck to you, too,” I reply.

“Nico say he hear you good fighter. He hope you win tonight
but not on him.”

We all laugh. “Same to you, Nico,” I say. I never really get to know the other fighters; you don’t want to hesitate when you have to punch someone
in the face because you care about what will happen to them. You just have to turn that shit off. The problem with this world is that it teaches you to treat your opponents as enemies inside
and
outside of the cage. Your suspicions and instincts are running on extreme overdrive, to the point that sometimes you end up overestimating a threat, and in the worst-case scenarios, underestimating one.

Nico whispers something to
Christiana, and with a lot of giggling she explains, “He say you better be ready.”

I smirk. I like this guy.
I like both of them. “Oh, I will.”

A
n anxious expression stretches Nico’s face. “See you in the cage,” he says slowly.

Christiana takes Drew’s hand. “We go in front.
For them.
But…I hide my face. Too much blood.” After Drew agrees we all say good-bye, and their whole group moves away.

“That was nice,”
she says. “I don’t think it was some kind of tactic, either. I couldn’t find anything dirty on him. Fights clean as far as I can tell. No cartel sponsorship, even though they really want him.”

“Yeah. Miguel and Sandrine couldn’t dig up much more than that
, either. It’ll be cool to fight someone who isn’t trying to paralyze me.”

An hour and a half later, the announcer
calls my name, and I walk into the cage, hood up eyes down, relishing how amped the crowd is for the fight. Nico strolls in with his fists raised over his head, then walks to the side of the cage where his friends are. He finds Christiana and taps his palm against his chest before winking at her. Camaraderie floats between us when we touch gloves and the bell rings. Circling each other, we swing easy punches back and forth. He fakes footwork to the left. He comes at me with two jabs and a straight punch, all of which I block, but he surprises me when he drives a kick into my stomach with unbridled force. He follows up with an uppercut and rapid-fire punches to my face. I take a beating, but I’m thrilled that he’s actually good at this.

He stumbles
backward and presses his arm against his forehead, as he leans forward almost all the way to the waist. When he is standing upright again, I use the opportunity to land hard blows to his body in quick succession and back him toward a side of the cage. He catches me in a clinch, his hands locking at the back of my neck. He knees me in the mouth, and a gushing stream of bloody saliva falls from my lips.

Nico frees me suddenly as he staggers to the side
. He swings a front kick at me, missing me completely. I don’t even have to duck or react with a defensive move. He just strikes the empty space next to me. Sometimes, opponents will allow you to build up confidence by pretending to be weakened or inexperienced, before they unleash an attack that usually leads to you getting knocked the fuck out. He squints and blinks as he backs away from me, shaking his head, and I plant two kicks—one to the ribs and one to the chest. I hit him with a right hook to the chin next, and a punch to the mouth. He takes a jab to the face as he tries to clinch me again, but he can’t grip my neck. The round ends while I have the upper hand, delivering a volley of punches to his face and body.

Drew comes to my corner. “You aren’t going easy on him ‘cause you like him, are you?” She wipes the blood off my face with a damp towel and squirts water into my mouth.

“I do like him, but he’s eating canvas tonight for sure.” I’m really going to hate choking him unconscious in front of his girl, though. “I’ll buy him a drink or something afterward. So, you two ladies seem like you’re having fun.” I know I am. For the first time since I started fighting again.

“Fun is an exaggeration, but I’m enjoying getting to know her. It’s just nice to have someone to talk to. Someone who gets this.” It’s too early to call them friends
, but I like the idea of bonding with them, eventually. He’s probably fighting to support his family and I completely understand that. “She’s due in the fall, and then he’s going to quit and they’ll move to a safer place in Mexico City. Get married. She hates coming here, especially because she’s pregnant, but they only have each other. She just wants to support him. Don’t let the pregnancy fool you, though. That Christiana is a feisty thing, you should hear the way she’s cheering on her man.” Drew dabs sweat off my face. “Don’t worry, I’m cheering mine on, too. Kick his ass.”

My pulse beats at my temples, and
I have to focus on the fight, so I try not to read too much into her referring to me as her man. It’s motivating as hell, though. I glance over to Nico’s corner and he looks spooked. He’s bouncing his legs while he sits, and he’s grimacing. He’s not even paying attention to whatever his friend is telling him.

When the clock hits zero, we’re both up and converging in the center of the
cage again.
Ding.
As I put my gloves up, Nico holds out a hand to me, and I relax out of my fighting stance, eliciting boos from the rabid horde. Doubling over, Nico grabs his head and winces. From the corner of my eye, I see Christiana forcing her way even closer to the cage, and she starts shouting his name.

“
Estás bien?
” I yell over to him. Nico nods as he stands upright again and takes on an offensive pose once more for the fight, but his legs wobble and his arms flail as he stumbles backward. He falls against the chain-links, and his pupils roll up into his head.

Then
he collapses.

Nico doesn’t brace his fall at all as he lands facedown.
What the hell?
My feet are welded to the canvas, and I don’t move to help him right away. Not until I hear Christiana cry out, because it scrapes my heart like sandpaper. Snapping out of my stupor, I run and drop to my knees next to Nico, ignoring how the crowd is rattling the cage and heckling us.

“Nico!” I roll him onto his back, and all I see are the whites of his eyes. I shake his shoulders but he remains limp and unresponsive, his mouth hanging open.
I lower my ear to his lips, but there’s no warmth from his breath on my cheek. When I place my hands on his chest I feel the fading wave of a heartbeat.
Shit.
I start chest compressions.
“Hey! He needs help!” I shout but the crowd’s displeasure drowns out my pleas.

I’m still pressing down as hard as I can when one of the armed masked men steps into the cage and pushes me aside. I expect him to continue rendering aid but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans down and tilts Nico’s head from side to side.
He presses his fingers to Nico’s wrist and his neck, then glances at his watch for seconds that drag off into eternity.

“
Está muerto
,” he says in a cold tone.

His words slam into me like a wrecking ball. How can that be true? We just spoke. We were fighting. He was fine. He has a
fiancée. He’s having a baby.
But he’s dead now.

“
Está muerto
,” he repeats in the same callous way.

“I have to check again,”
I demand. “I’m checking him again.”

The mask
ed man shakes his head, his hardened exterior unchanged as he shoves me aside again. “He is dead, cabrón.”

“Call a fucking ambulance
then.” Even as I say it, I know it’s a futile request. No one’s going to call an ambulance to an illegal cage match, where police officers are working as cartel security. “Please, just let me check again.” We lost vital seconds when I stopped doing CPR, but I restart hard chest compressions, and I keep pressing until my muscles weaken under the strain. I grab Nico’s wrist, feeling around for the throb of a pulse, hoping for one. There is no trace of life left in him.
He is dead, cabrón.
And even if he’s not, in the medical sense, there’s no way to save him.

The world crashes
down around me, the colors fade, and I’m sucked into something infinitely black. No. It can’t be. It can’t be.
No.
My blood chills to ice, and my breaths shorten to smaller sips each time I take one in. I rock forward onto my hands and hang my head as the warning tingles of a panic attack burn my chest. I manage to suppress it, but I’m trembling when I lift my head and search for Drew. I lock eyes with Christiana instead, and the hopeful look in her eyes smashes my heart.
Jesus. She saw everything.

I shake my head.

Christiana sinks slowly against the cage until she’s on her knees, still clinging to the chain-links. “
Por favor. Él es mi vida
,” she cries. Crushing pain bleeds through her words and just dangles in the air around us. The clenching in my chest intensifies, and I’m wrenched right back to the edge of a panic attack.

I stagger out of the cage and go to where she is. She’s just sitting on the floor and hugging her knees to her chest as tears
roll down her cheeks. Her expression is blank, and only her eyes move as she watches me kneel down in front of her. “I’m so sorry, Christiana. I am so, so sorry,” I say as I take her hand in mine. The words are as weak as my voice, and empty and worthless. She turns her face away from me just as Drew pushes through the crush of people. She sits on the floor next to her and once she tucks Christiana into the crook of her arm, Christiana starts bawling.

“He died right in front of her,” I say and my voice
rattles its way out of my throat. “We barely…we didn’t…did I…did I…do this?” I hit him too hard. I noticed he was off and I didn’t slow down. I let myself enjoy the moment a little. I’m no different than Carlos. I
am
Carlos.

“Jess, breathe. Remember to breathe, slow and controlled
,” Drew says, but her voice quavers just as much as mine. “You didn’t…”
Kill him.
She can’t even say it. “He took really hard hits during earlier fights. He was slammed on the head several times in one of them, and didn’t get up right away. He was completely out and then when he woke up, he stumbled to the corner. He was holding his head. He held his head for a long time. You were his fourth fight tonight. He does at least three events a week. That’s what she told me.”

No part of the explanation trumps my guilt, so I don’t say anything in
direct response. I drape one of Christiana’s arms over my shoulders. “We should take her inside. She should see him.” With Christiana on her feet we lead her into the cage, but I make Drew keep her at the entrance for a moment as I clean Nico up for her, wiping blood and sweat off his face, and shutting his eyes.

After my mom died, I developed a fear of dead bodies, but I don’t feel afraid now. Just sad and defeated. And something else, too.
Resentful anger at the unfairness of it all. That this was the only means he had to take care of his family and that because of this he’ll never be able to.

Christiana doesn’t allow Drew to hold her much longer
, and she breaks out of her grasp to throws herself on top of Nico, kissing his face and his hands, begging him to get up. It’s gut-wrenching to watch. Sometimes I hate that the heart is so resilient, that it recovers from pain, because that means it can get hurt all over again, for yourself and other people. His friends, all shell-shocked, come in to stand over him in silent grief. Drew has to pull Christiana off Nico’s body with all her might when his friends and I hoist him upright and carry him out. The place is abuzz with voices, but the thump of my heartbeat muffles most of the noise. Horrified and curious stares follow us to a corner where we lay him down and cover him with his clothing.

“You stay with her and call Miguel and see how far he is,” I say to Drew
. “I’m gonna get our stuff, and we’ll get out of here and figure out where they want to take him.”

An authoritative voice
is attempting to recapture the crowd’s attention by initiating a catchy chant in Spanish. One of the masked men is flashing a wad of cash, and two other fighters are climbing into the cage. Moving on adrenaline-fueled autopilot, I dash for our bag, but a security guard cuts into my path and knocks me back with a hard palm to the chest. “Rest now.” He flashes teeth but his smile is menacing, even if I don’t account for the ski mask. “You fight Killian, no?”