Page 14 of Nights at Seaside
He smiled at the question. “Really big. I’m the East Coast Boxing Federation cruiserweight titleholder, and ranked number three in the Northeast Boxing Association.” He couldn’t keep the pride from his tone.
“Cruiserweight? Title fight? I’m sorry, I don’t know the lingo.”
“Cruiserweight is the weight class, usually 176 to 200 pounds. I hold steady between 198 and 200. And holding the title means you’re the champion in that division. A title fight is a fight for the title, or to become the champion.”
“So…you’ll fight the best in the division and try to win the title from him?”
He nodded, remembering the doctor’s warning, and his smile slipped away.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Do you like it? Fighting, I mean?”
He lay on his back beside her again, wanting to avoid her gaze while he thought over his answer.
Sky reached for his hand. “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me. Sometimes we don’t know what we really feel.”
He looked at her then and felt even more drawn to her than he had all evening. He didn’t want to hold back, but revealing the truth would burn like an open wound, and once she realized how much he loved boxing, she might run the other way. She smiled and he realized how quickly their connection had developed. Better to find out now than after they’d spent even more time together.
“For the first few years, boxing was an outlet and obsession. I loved the adrenaline rush as much as the power of knowing I had succeeded at what I set out to do—to win. Then it became my passion. It was what I lived for, and then, after my father became ill, boxing took on a new meaning. In addition to being something I love, it became something I needed to succeed at to secure his future.”
“I’m sorry, Sawyer. I didn’t realize—”
He squeezed her hand, then pushed up on his elbow again, missing the connection he felt when he gazed into her eyes.
“He was in the Vietnam War, and like too many other veterans, he fell prey to the aftereffects of Agent Orange. Parkinson’s hit him a few years ago. He’s in stage three, still able to function for the most part, with deficits in speech, walking, facial expressions, and…” His chest tightened as he rattled off the parts of his father that were quickly slipping away. He inhaled a breath and felt the urge to move. Sitting still made him feel like he wasn’t doing anything to help his father, and that, he realized as he stood and reached for Sky’s hand, was just one of the painful realities of his father’s illness. There was nothing he could do for his parents but help financially and provide emotional support.
They walked up the beach as he described what his parents’ life had become—the slowness of his father’s gait, his endless tremors, and his need to rely on others, which he knew his father disliked.
“I can’t imagine the sense of loss your whole family must feel. My mom’s death was a shock. It was unexpected and treacherous, but I can’t imagine watching her deteriorate because of a disease.” She squeezed his hand. “How does his health tie into how you feel about boxing?”
“I’ve always fought regionally because I wanted to be close by in case my parents needed me, but regional fighters don’t earn as much as national fighters. And then I won my titles and finally began earning big. Big enough that four years ago I was able to purchase a house that had been in our family for generations but my parents had given up nearly fifteen years earlier because they needed money.”
“That’s incredibly generous, and so meaningful, to bring that family history back into your lives.”
He stopped walking and looked toward Commercial Street, thinking about the last few years and how much had changed—and how much hadn’t. His father’s health had changed, which had taken a toll on both of his parents, and his fighting had progressed to higher levels, but he felt like he was treading the same water he’d been over many times before.
“The house was all my father talked about when I was growing up, and bringing it back into the family felt like the biggest achievement of my life. Even bigger than the titles I’d won. I’m renovating it this summer, adding wheelchair ramps and making it easier for him to get around so he can still spend time there as his disease progresses. You asked about how my father’s illness fits into my boxing. The more I learned about Parkinson’s, the more I realized what he’d need in terms of care as the disease progressed and how much his care would cost. The military covers a good deal of his medical expenses, but he’d never want to be put in a health-care facility full-time, despite the fact that there’ll come a time when his care will be too burdensome for my mother.”
Sky’s eyes filled with compassion.
“He’s the only man my mother has ever loved, and although she says she’ll care for him…” He shook his head. “It’ll be too much for her. It would be too much for anyone. I’ve finally made it to a point where a title fight would mean enough money to cover in-home, professional medical care for the rest of his life.”And now the doctor says another blow to my head could leave me brain damaged.He pushed that awful thought down deep and said, “I’m going to win this title fight for him, and then I’ll think about retiring.”
“Sawyer.” She reached for his other hand, holding both as she gazed into his eyes like she was seeing him for the first time. “You’re fighting to provide for your father? That’s admirable. Your parents must be very proud of you.”
He couldn’t confirm that as easily as he would like to, because his parents didn’t know about the doctor’s recent warning—if they did, he knew his father would tell him not to fight. Sawyer had one last chance to pay his father back for seeing enough in him, for believing in him enough to redirect and center him. Sawyer had had years to think about that day his father had handed him over to Roach, and there was no doubt in his mind that his father had saved him from teenage years filled with trouble. Who knew what he might have done, or where he might have ended up? His father might not have been around much, but he cared. He cared enough to risk his son being pissed off for weeks on end.
No matter what, Sawyer was going to win this fight. He dropped his gaze to the sand, then shifted it to the parking lot, and watched a group of people laughing as they walked toward the lights of Commercial Street.
“He was very proud of me.” He needed noise to drown out the chaos in his head and the ache in his chest that accompanied thoughts about his father and the doctor’s warning.
“Was? And now?” she pushed.
Now it’s like looking in a mirror, at what could happen to me if I get hit in the head again. Now I hear his slowed voice telling me to give it up and follow my heart to something else. Now I’m standing between two rivals playing Russian roulette. On one side is my father’s care and quality of life. On the other is something I haven’t thought about with any great significance—my own well-being.
And now the thing I never expected has happened.
Now there’s you. Causing me to question my decisions in a way I never have before.
