Page 55 of Sacrifice the Knight (Checkmate 6)

“There was that kid who knocked the other kid’s tooth out.”

“Daddy, stop!” I whimper. “Please stop.”

“Her tooth was already loose,” Meg objects. “That one wasn’t Evie’s fault.”

“You asked for this, hon.” Daddy pulls me in and presses a noisy kiss to the top of my head. “You know, I used to be friends with Kincaid’s dad so long ago.”

“I know, Daddy.” I blow out a breath of boredom. “I know he was your housemate, drinking buddy, racing hooligan, Mac-inspired young idiot who didn’t know when to stop taking risks.” I swear, I sound just like Mac when I ask him to listen and he so clearly doesn’t want to. “You’ve told me a billion times.”

Chuckling, he sits back with a smile and folds his arms as they prep Mac to step up for his turn. Three generations of double dimples blink beneath our bottom lips. Three generations of not being able to betoldanything. We Blairs insist on experiencing the falls and scraped knees, rather than listening to the cautionary tales.

“No, Bry wasn’t the idiot in our pack. That role was all mine.” He laughs. “Bry was our responsible one, because he was always providing for his family. Right outta high school, he had people to take care of, so he stepped up fast. Whereas I didn’t have to get serious for years, not until your mom came along, and by then, I’d had enough fun for everyone. You say you know, that I’ve talked about him.” He shakes his head. “But you don’t really know, honey. It was more than just friendship with Bry. It was a brotherhood. It was family.”

I twitch with nerves and grit my teeth when Bobby Kincaid slams his fists to my son’s chest in aget psyched! motion. “So what, Daddy? What’s your point? Because I’m not in the right headspace for philosophy right now.”

He casts an arm in the direction of the ring. “You don’t see that brotherhood? You don’t see Mac and Benny? Mac and Bobby? Benny and Bobby?” He points right at the boys as they stand forehead to forehead and Benny shouts their fight plan. To Bobby, who proudly stands over his students and nods in agreement with what Benny says. Then to the fighter girls, standing just outside the ring in their competition clothes: fight trunks, sports bras, braided hair, warrior faces. Evie just fought and won, but she’s not running off to celebrate, but standing by for the next battle. “Anybody who knows these people becomes family, honey, and there’s no way on God’s green earth Kincaid is putting Mac in if he thinks he can’t win it. Bad leg and all.”

I know this. It’s not like I didn’t grill the Kincaids and get these same reassurances years ago. But knowing and doing are two different things, and fear makes a mom irrational. “I’m just so scared, Daddy. It’s my job to protect him.”

“And it’s my job to protect you.”

I turn to argue, which he completely expected. “You demand independence; you say you’ve got everything under control. You’ve been saying this since you were sixteen years old and made me a grandpa. But no matter how hard it was for me to let go, I had to step back and trust you. Now you gotta do the same for him. Don’t be scared. Be excited. I had no clue my life would circle right back around here, to what Bry built, to this gym and those boys, and to this family unit Mac is so fortunate to be a part of. Buck up, honey. Find your balls and get ready to watch this shit. Personally, I have money on this fight.”

“What?” I turn and smack his shoulder. “Who did you bet? There arenotbookies for this shit, right?”

“There are sharks everywhere, honey, you just gotta know where to look. They don’t hold up signs and advertise their presence, but I promise, you just gotta look into their eyes, and you know. I have this innate belief that my boy is gonna kick ass. I know it in my gut, so I put down a little cash to show my support. I guarantee I’ll be doubling my money ten minutes from now.”

The bell beside the ring dings and draws my eyes around. It was a warning ding, a notice for everyone but the fighters and referee to get the hell off the canvas. “Oh God,” I groan. “Oh God, oh God, oh God. How much did you bet on him, Daddy?”

“That’s between me and my bookie. None of your business, honey. You ready for this?”

Ding, ding.

“Oh God!” I grab Meg’s hand and squeeze until she cries out and smacks me. I watch from ten rows back as my baby steps forward with bucket loads of confidence, a smug grin that the other kid would no doubt love to wipe off, and no limp, because the guys have pounded the message into him a billion times during training:we don’t show our tell; we don’t show our weakness.

If Mac’s opponents find out his leg is injured, they’ll target it and end the fight. It’ll all be over the moment they figure it out. So from the second he woke today, his limp was gone, only to be replaced by gritted teeth and a determination not to show his weakness.

“Step forward, Mac!” Meg bounds to her feet, seemingly unaffected by the glue that holds me down. “Smash him, handsome!”

“Blair!” Even Daddy jumps to his feet with a loud boom. “Do it, Blair! Finish it!”

I cover my eyes, pretend I’m not suffering from a whole-body seizure, and find no reprieve when I peek through my fingers to see Ben and Bobby on the outside of the ring shouting their instructions. Mac wouldn’t hear Meg or Daddy. He probably doesn’t even hear Bobby or Ben. But he does blitz his competition, dodging fists, kicking out with lightning-fast snaps of his leg, and throwing jabs that, ten years from now with more muscle and more time in the gym, would knock a grown man out. Mac skips out of reach faster than the kid can move, then rushes forward and slams the kid to the ground despite the fact this is supposed to be stand up combat only.

The referee steps between the boys to allow the other time to get up, and in that time, my showboating son walks his side of the canvas and smiles at his fangirls.Oh God, he’s going to be the fighter everyone wants to beat.Mac and that boy are the same size, the same height, the same weight, but as I watch through my fingers, I find myself thinking of it as an unfair fight.

Not unfair for Mac, but for the kid I was so sure measured the same, but now seems so much smaller than my arrogant son.

Through a red, white, and blue-striped mouthguard, Mac smiles. From beneath a red head guard, he winks to his harem of girls. And when the referee restarts the fight, with muscles in his thin arms that I had no clue existed, he pops that poor unsuspecting kid on the chin and sends him sprawling until my lunch surges up my throat.

“He won!” Meg jumps on heeled feet and fist pumps the air. “Yes, kid! You’re so fuckin’ badass, Mac Blair!”

“Meg!” I jump up and grab her hands. “Potty mouth! This is a kid’s event.”

“I don’t care.” She brushes my hands off and turns back. “My boy dominated. Wooo, Mac!” Placing two fingers between her lips, she wolf whistles and makes my sweaty baby laugh from the center of the ring as they pick the other boy up and stand them together. He’s unharmed, fully padded, and not crying or anything. These kids aren’t knocking each other out.

Justdown.

And now my baby’s hand is being lifted into the air in victory.

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