Page 66 of Fighting for You
I’m beginning to think my brother and these boys have been spending a lot of time together. He’s told me on several occasions he never wants to have kids of his own. Raising me was more than enough for him. But it appears he can’t help but attract wayward young people looking for guidance and in need of help.
“How’s the shoulder?” I ask Max, eyeing the sling he’s still sporting.
“Getting better,” he says in between shoveling forkfuls of food into his mouth. “You did a good job, Doc.” My heart clenches at the nickname, the sudden and casual reminder of Brooks a shock to my system.
“Hayes says you’re a nurse,” says Sebby from my left. “Are you going to help at The Pit now that Becca’s not coming around anymore?”
His words catch me off guard, both because he knows about The Pit and also because he seems to know more than I do.
“Who’s Becca?” I ask.
“The vet tech who was patching Max up when he got his ass beat,” he says with a teasing grin aimed at his brother.
“You little shit,” retorts Max. “I definitely beat my fair share.”
“Language!” says Hayes, sounding like the dad he doesn’t want to be. I smile at the bickering around the table. Though I barely know them, Max and Sebby fit so well with us. These are the simple family moments I always longed for when it was just me and Hayes growing up. This is turning out to be one of the best Christmases I’ve had.
“Anyway,” says Max, rolling his eyes. “Becca broke up with Sean, a guy I fight against sometimes—he’s pretty cool. Has a mean left hook.”
He continues rambling about the other fighters, and I can barely keep up. The way he talks about The Pit, the fighting, and the people involved, it’s clear the whole operation means a lot to him. Despite the violence and inevitability of getting hurt sometimes, he loves the fighting, the discipline of it.
“Anyway,” that seems to be a favorite word for Max, “She’s not coming around anymore. Are you taking over for her? We need someone with some medical know-how. This guy,” he motions to Hayes with his head, “can barely put on a Band-Aid.” Hayes huffs at him but continues eating without a word.
“Wait,” I say, putting my fork down and turning on my brother. “You don’t have a medical professional there when these fights are happening? Hayes, that’s so dangerous. Someone could get really hurt, and you’re at least thirty minutes from a hospital. That could have serious consequences—things you can’t come back from.” I put as much emphasis as I can on the last part of my sentence so he understands the gravity of the risk he’s taking.
“You want to do it?” he says gruffly in between bites. I’m taken aback by his question. I look around at the three of them, Max looking like he’s seconds away from begging me, Sebby’s curious eyes on me, and Hayes’ resigned face—he’s expecting me to say no.
“Okay,” is what comes out, surprising us all. “But it can’t be willy-nilly. You can’t just call and expect me to be there. I have work, and I can try to schedule my shifts, but you have to work with me. And I need a space; I can’t just work out of the back of a truck. I’ll need supplies, a clean space to work, a table.” What am I doing? Am I really agreeing to this?
Seeing these boys, knowing what could happen to them, I can’t in good conscience let them keep going with no medical supervision. A vision of Brooks’ bruised face flashes through my mind. I know I could be putting my license at stake here, but I also trust my brother.
“You’re serious?” asks Hayes, disbelieving. “You’re really going to do this? I can get you whatever supplies you need. Just get me a list.”
“Where—” I start but then think better of it. “You know what? Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know how you can get medical supplies. But you have to understand how much trouble I’d get in if the authorities found out. I’d lose my license, probably go to jail.” My heart races at the thought of the risk, but I’m not entirely sure if it’s only because of anxiety. Layered below the low hum of panic is a small thread of excitement. I’m going to be a part of something with my brother; he trusts me to handle this.
The rest of dinner passes with us listening to Sebby tell us about an online Dungeons and Dragons tournament he’s planning with some friends. It sails way over my head, but I love his enthusiasm and how his eyes light up when he gets to explain what D20 and hit points are.
It’s not until way later in the evening when I’m hugging Max and Sebby and gathering my things to head out that I remember the messages from Brooks I ignored all day and the empty house that awaits me. I briefly consider telling Hayes about what’s potentially waiting for me outside, but the words won’t come when he envelops me in a hug at the door.
“Merry Christmas, Booger. I love you,” he says quietly in my ear.
“I love you, big brother,” I whisper, pulling away. I wrap my jacket around myself, hug the leftovers he packed for me to my chest and head out into the cold.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Brooks
The sound of sleet wakes me, and I’m immediately reminded of the reason I drank myself to sleep last night. Or this morning, rather. I don’t think I actually passed out until after 5 a.m. I’m on the couch with a slew of beer bottles surrounding me on the coffee table, the floor. I regret more than just my choice to get plastered.
Running a hand over my face, I groan at how shitty I feel. Both physically and emotionally. I don’t remember much of last night after I ruined the best thing that ever happened to me, but it’s the only part worth remembering. I’m not sure I’ll ever forget the look on her face the moment I broke us. The moment I broke her.
I fish my phone out from underneath me—grunting at how sore I am—to check the time. It’s just past noon. I have multiple missed calls and texts from, well, everyone. Everyone except Margot. The one person I want to talk to.
Before I click on any of the messages, I see one I don’t remember sending in my text thread with Margot. Fuck. I am not the drunk texting kind of guy. Or I wasn’t until last night apparently.Fuck me.I click on the thread to see how terribly I embarrassed myself.
12/25 1:17 a.m.
Me: Fuck, Margot. I’m sorry, I’m such an asshole.
