There’s hope, stupid hope, in my guts when I ask that.
Hope that for the first time in my life, my father will look at my face.
For the first time in my life I can stare at his eyes and say, I’m fighting, Dad.
“Unfortunately, he didn’t make it. They tried to ease him out of the induced coma and . . .” She trails off when I inhale sharply. “The doctors want to speak with you about what’s next.”
Disbelief.
Denial.
Anger.
I grit my teeth as I lift my free hand and stare at my bruised knuckles in the dark.
“Sir?”
I turn my hand and glare at my palm.
Is it bigger than his? Wider than his? Does he have all the calluses I have? Does my strength come from him or from his denial of me?
“Sir?”
I glance at Reese as she stands at the bedroom door with the crisp bedsheet wrapped around her shoulders, so fucking lovely my eyes hurt, and I gruff into the speaker, “I’ll take the next flight out.”
“Maverick? What’s wrong?”
I scrape my hand down my face and end the call, then I toss my phone aside, go and scoop her up, and take her back to bed. I set her down, look at her face, and just want to bury myself inside her again, all night. The rest of my life.
“My dad’s dead. I’m taking a flight out. Get some rest.” I reach for my jeans and a clean T-shirt.
“I want to go with you, Maverick.” She reaches for her clothes.
“No. I don’t want you near him.”
“Why?” She halts, then drops her clothes and stares at me in question.
I shove my legs into my jeans, zip up and snap them, and then stare at her for a moment, and slowly shake my head. “I just don’t.”
I’m ashamed for Reese to know my father. I’m ashamed for her to see where I come from. You’re the good in my life, all of it. My lucky charm. I don’t want you near the bad.
Not even my own mother wanted to be near him again, a woman who once loved him. I don’t want my girl near him either.
“I’ll be back for the fight,” I say, shoving into my T-shirt and quickly grabbing my stuff.
Reese clutches the sheet to her chest, her eyes loving and tender and full as she comes to me.
Comes to me and lovingly kisses my lips.
I’m slayed by her.
Everything she does touches me.
Everything she does pleases me.
Everything she does cuts me.
“For luck?” I ask thickly, probing into her eyes, desperately searching for the measure of peace I crave to find.
She calms me; but there’s no calm for me now.
She shakes her head, smiling with more liquid emotion in her eyes. “For love.”
? ? ?
THEY NEEDED SOMEONE to claim the body—and nobody had. He died alone. In a fucking hospital bed. Never knowing his son. Leaving . . . nothing but his old fucking gloves.
Next was a burial, a service, and no one seemed to want one. Not him, and to be honest, not me.
I still buried him. Just me, standing there among thousands of other headstones, with a priest I’m sure he would’ve cussed at.
My eyes are dry. I’ve got cuts and scrapes from the fight, and my ribs still hurt like a bitch when I move to open my backpack.
I shift and grit my teeth, forcing my body to take the pain as I pull out the old gloves my dad sent me and toss them into the grave.
All my hopes follow those worn, torn black gloves.
I will never look into his eyes. Will never know if what they said about him was true. Will never know if there was something good in him or if all I’m spawned from is pure, undiluted asshole.
I feel no pain. Only frustration. Frustration and anger.
When the priest leaves, I speak to him for only the second but last time in my life.
I say, harsh, low, angry, “Goodbye, Dad.”
FORTY-ONE
LEGEND
Maverick
I feel poisoned just from looking at my dad in a casket. Just being near him and reliving all the years of waiting for him, waiting to prove myself to him.
I’ve run until my lungs are on fire, quads, calves, abs burning like firestones, my brain flaming with flashes of him in a coffin.
Flashes of Tate in the ring.
Flashes of me putting on my boxing gloves.
Flashes of Reese, saying, Love me hard.
Flashes of Oz, drinking.
Flashes of my mom, getting a check from me.
I hit the hotel and spend an hour under the shower spray, shutting my eyes. My phone has been buzzing, but I don’t pay attention to it.
Oz has been calling.
The final is in three days. I get back to New York tomorrow.
That’s all I know. I fight my fight in three days.
And I fight Tate—more father than I’ve ever had. It won’t feel good to beat him. It won’t feel good to lose, either.
While my real father died, I was training with Tate.
His greatest enemy. Who took me under his wing.
I got close to them. I got weak, thinking I was getting stronger. I’ve got more muscles but less walls around me. I can’t be weak, I can’t laugh with them, talk with them.