Page 118 of Sacrifice the Knight (Checkmate 6)

“Is my mom watching?”

“Yeah, she’s watching.” I wait for his dazed eyes to come to me. “She’s crapping her pants, but she’s watching. She didn’t bring the pompoms.”

He smirks. “Tell her she doesn’t have to be scared, okay? I got this. I’m gonna be world champion, then I’m gonna kick a Kincaid ass.”

Bobby laughs. “You can fight Jimmy. He’s still agile and stupid enough to step up to fresh muscle.” Bobby’s head comes up when the warning bell dings. “Okay. Round two. Legs, body, legs, body, head. It’s tried and tested. Get his hands down, slam that leg; if he falls for it, take his head. You don’t have to get fancy, okay?”

“Okay, Coach.”

Bobby, Benny, and I climb off the canvas and take our water bottles. Mac has no visible injuries, no cuts, nothing to mend. These kids aren’t whaling on each other, so our job as guys on the ropes is to basically have a chat between rounds and provide water. But now Mac steps forward and meets his opponent and the ref in the center of the canvas.

They’re told to bring their gloves up; the bell is rung, and they start again.

Mac is slower off the mark this time, slower to lift his hands, slower to duck and move. While Mac was talking about kicking Jimmy Kincaid’s ass during the break, that other kid was formulating a real plan with his team and has come out with guns blazing.

“Hands up, Mac!” Bobby’s shouts come louder when Mac’s head snaps around. “Hands up, or I’ll tape them to your fuckin’ head!”

Mac shakes his head and skips around to escape his opponent. Jab, jab, jab, he gets some of his own back, but he’s still slow, so he takes as many hits as he delivers, and trips on his own feet as he tries to skip around. “Mac Blair!” Bobby angrily roars. “You have ten seconds before I call it. Prove to me that you can take that big fucker, or I’ll pull the plug. I don’t send my fighters in just to take a beating.”

Whether Mac hears his coach or not, he stands taller, straightens his shoulders, lifts his hands. Then he rushes forward and smashes his opponent against the ropes so fast, the other kid’s team has to jump back or risk getting trampled.

The girls who spend so much time in the diner with these boys stand no more than twenty feet away and scream their instructions. They’re not stupid instructions, but real technique, real combos that Mac takes into his arsenal and uses. The blonde screams at the top of her lungs. The other one, the brunette, shouts instructions too, but she’s not as crazy about it.

She’s more interested in watching than coaching.

Legs, body, legs, body. Mac does it over and over again. Fists. Feet. Legs, body, legs, body. When his opponent drops his hands, Mac goes for it, steps back, chambers his leg, and strikes out so his shin slams over the padded head gear and knocks the other kid to the canvas with a floor-shaking boom.

“Yeah!” The gym explodes with cheers and wolf whistles. The fighter girls jump on each other in celebration, and Bobby and Benny do the same. The referee pushes Mac away and helps the other kid to his feet, and when he’s steady, and the screaming celebrations continue to deafen every person inside this gym, he holds the boys’ hands, waits, builds the anticipation, and when our side, our family, is ready to explode, he lifts Mac’s hand in victory.

I press my fingers between my lips and wolf whistle until his laughing eyes come to mine. “Yeah! Mac Blair! You did it!”

My heart throbs with pride, and my stomach twists with nerves. My life has involved a whole lot of dangerous shit, but I’ve never been to an interclub fighter tournament for a bunch of teens before. It’s strange that it makes me nervous, considering there’s no real danger. I watch Mac’s every move with an almost painful grin and adrenaline zinging through my body as though I was the one in the ring. His eyes bounce around from face to face. He looks to me, then Bobby. He laughs at his cheer girls, then blows a humble kiss toward his mom.

This is only a fight gym and kiddy fighters, but the celebrations last for minutes.

I don’t move from my spot right where he put me, but as time goes on and his hand is lowered, Mac’s eyes change from laughter to something else. From animation to… empty.

“Mac?” I throw a fast glance over my shoulder in the direction he’s looking in hopes of seeing what he sees. To see what’s changed his mood. Maybe Zeke is here, or maybe Katrina tripped and fell on her face. But nothing. Nobody we know. Looking back to Mac, I frown while everyone else obliviously celebrates.

I lift a foot onto the canvas before I realize my moves, and still, everyone else cheers.

My instincts scream that something is wrong. Instincts borne from the career I chose, and in which I trained among the best of the best to be sharpened and trusted. Instincts I know I shouldn’t ignore as Mac’s opponent is walked to the opposite side of the ring. The referee goes with him, since he was the one knocked to his ass, but that leaves Mac standing all alone in the center of the ring while he dazedly looks around. For every second that passes, I watch with my own fucking eyes how his skin turns gray. “Mac?” Bobby’s laughing chatter with Ben stops when he catches my shout. He turns to me with a frown, then to Mac as I dive through the ropes.

Mac drops.

Like one of those toys that crumble because they have no bones, he collapses just half a second before I can reach him. His head bounces off the canvas as elated cheers turn to horrified screams. Panic erupts louder than any of the cheers from moments ago as Bobby dives into the ring beside me, and I hurriedly press my ear over Mac’s mouth in search of his breath.

The Roller girls scream against whoever tugs them away. Bobby’s hands wrap around Mac’s wrist, but I bring my ear to his chest and pray.

“There’s no pulse!”

Bobby and I shout the same thing at the same time. It’s as though we were asking for confirmation, but because we both said it, the horror hits, and my hands instantly go to Mac’s chest. My stomach rolls, and my heart clogs my throat, but I push against my kid’s chest and pray George has brains enough to keep Katrina away. “Mac. Mac. Mac. Mac.” I pause, drop my ear to his chest and find nothing.

Bobby helps me tear the headgear from his head, and when I open his mouth to try to breathe for him, I tear the mouthguard out and toss it away. “Come on, Mac.” I pinch his nose and press our lips together. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Mac’s lungs fill and lift his chest with every breath I give him, but there’s no miraculous recovery. “Call an ambulance.” I look to Bobby with wild eyes. “Call an ambulance!” I cup my hands and begin pumping Mac’s chest. I can’t believe I thought of his chest as broad just minutes ago. I considered him strong and badass, but beneath my hands now, he’s just a boy.

“Not again. Not again. Not again.” I stop and come back to his mouth. Pinch his nose. I breathe for him. “Don’t leave us, buddy. Don’t leave your mom. Please don’t leave.” My tears drip from the tip of my nose and mingle with his sweat, but my hands remain strong.

For twenty full minutes that feel like five fucking hours, I compress his heart and breathe for him. Katrina fights George’s arms. I see her in my peripherals, biting, scratching, screaming to be let free, but I can’t help either of them. I can’t get her free, and I can’t help him hold her, because my entire being is consumed with counting my compressions. “Please come back, Mac. Please come back to us.”

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