Go get ’em, baby.
The first bell rang to indicate the start of round one, and she covered her eyes. His Army opponent came out swinging, and Graham instantly went on the defense, using footwork and an innate understanding of where each punch would be thrown before it was to dodge and weave around the barrage of punches and jabs. If she knew more . . . she could have given him mental instructions. As if that would have helped . . . but it would have made her feel more productive than just watching him work his ass off to keep from being hit.
When a blow from Mr. Army connected, glancing off his jaw, she looked down and sat. As everyone around her stood, she had no view of the ring. And probably for the best. No wonder Reagan had said before she’d nearly thrown up at her first match. How did someone watch the man she loved intentionally step into the ring and get punched?
When the bell sounded for the end of round one, a few people sat, but not enough to see. She jumped back up and saw Graham walking to the corner and the tiny stool set there by Coach Cartwright. His back was to her, and he didn’t look behind him. Good idea. Keep focused. There was no way to know how it had gone. No way to know if he’d been hit in the face, or the stomach . . . God, this stupid, violent sport! If Zach ever decided to take up boxing, she’d just have to kill him.
So instead, she focused on Graham’s opponent. His chest heaved as he sucked in wind, and it was shiny with sweat, but he appeared untouched. As if they’d spent the entire first round doing nothing but practicing their Zumba moves around each other instead of trying to punch and jab each other’s eyes out.
This sport made no sense to her at all.
When the bell for round two started, she sat back down. Wuss. Total wuss. This was just something they would have to come to grips with. He would have his boxing hobby, and she would encourage him from a distance. A long distance away. Like, from home.
After the last round, she stood and watched as Graham and his opponent came to stand in the middle, not looking at each other, an arm’s length apart. Graham’s head was bowed, as if he didn’t want to look up. Or maybe because he was exhausted. Or possibly hurt? Kara’s heart raced at the thought. She wanted nothing more than to throw herself down the bleachers and crowd surf to the floor, run to him and hold him until he recovered.
Overreaction much, Kara?
After conferring with the judges at their table on the main floor—who Kara knew based their scoring on connected punches—the referee climbed back into the ring. He stood between the two men, pausing for effect. The rumble of the gym grew quiet as they waited, like a classroom full of students whose teacher was about to hand out either a reward or a punishment, and they didn’t know which . . . then grabbed Graham’s hand and lifted it high.
She screamed. She screamed so loud the person in front of her covered her ears and turned to give her a bitchy look. Kara couldn’t have cared less. He’d won. He’d won! Grabbing her purse, she made her way quickly out of the row—apologizing profusely along the way as she was sure she knocked into more than one set of knees in her haste—and worked her way through the people leaving during the break to hit the restrooms or concession stands to run at the main floor. But she couldn’t get to it. The area for the team and staff was roped off this time, with security standing guard.
Graham had shrugged back into his robe and was heading back toward the exit that would lead him into the locker rooms. She wanted him to turn around, to notice her. To come for her.
“Graham!” She jumped and waved like a lunatic, but he either didn’t hear her, or wasn’t ready yet to talk. He kept walking.
“Hey, girl.”
She shrieked and jumped a mile high. Hand over her racing heart, she turned to find Reagan standing behind her . . . or rather, towering over her. “How freaking tall are your heels today?”
“A mile. The more stressful the situation, the higher the heel. It’s my coping mechanism. You must be excited. He won!”
He won. She breathed in, then out, then out some more as Reagan squished her with a big hug. Kara hugged back. “Thanks for letting Marianne borrow your car.”
“She borrowed my car?” Reagan pulled back, a look of confusion on her face. “What?”
“Uh, never mind. I’m going to hit the restroom while I can. See you later!”
Sorry, Marianne.
*
GRAHAM shook a little as Brad yanked off his gloves. He could have done it himself, with a little effort, but his hands were still cramped, and the shaking wouldn’t help.
Grabbing a pair of scissors from the supply table, Brad waited. “You gonna stop shaking so I can cut your tape off? Otherwise you might lose a finger.”
“I’m trying,” he said through clenched teeth, then growled when he flexed his fingers wide and they only shook more violently. “God damn it.”