He nods, turning his head away from me briefly. “Do you want to know the toughest lessons I’ve learned in my field?” At my nod he explains. “That you can’t help everyone. That there are no magic pills for those far beyond our reach. That love isn’t always enough. And that sometimes you have to let go. For your own well-being, your happiness, you have to let go, Sol.”
This time when I cry, it’s that awful cry that force women to cover their faces, the one you feel down to your soul. And Mason lets me, let’s me feel it, but most of all lets me own it. Because knowing your sick mother, the one you love with your whole heart, will never be well has to be one of the shittiest feelings in the fucking world.
It takes me a long time to calm down, and when I do, it’s not because I feel that much better. It’s because I know I can’t continue sitting there. “Thank you,” I say, wiping my tears.
He pats my shoulder and rises slowly. “This is a difficult time for you,” he says. “If you want to talk, my office door is always open.” He smiles a little then. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to visit with my father.”
He ignores my slacking jaw, smiling politely before walking into the building and closing the door behind him.
CHAPTER 28
Finn
Diego “The Python” Lopez. Like me he’s 12 and 2. And like me, he’s been gunning for the belt for the last eighteen months. We’re so evenly matched in height and weight, the odds are almost evenly split. He’s a brown belt in Brazilian Jujitsu, an old school wrestler, and a brawler on his feet exactly like me.
The difference is, he’s still that laid back kid he always has been. Me . . . I don’t know what the fuck I am anymore.
Bam, bam, bam. I throw punches, dipping my head so my spinning back kick catches Angus’s gloved hand as he lurches away.
“Finn, enough,” Killian yells, over Angus’s swears.
I back off, not because I’m done warming up, but because I catch the fear in Sofia’s eyes, again. Hell, everyone here is looking at me like I’ve lost what’s left of my sanity.
Maybe because I have. I shake it off, reasoning this rage is exactly what will get the job done tonight.
“He’s not ready,” Curran mumbles to Killian. They’re standing beside each other, both with their arms crossed. “Is it too late to call it off?” he asks.
I point to Killian. “You’re not calling shit off.” He stiffens, realizing I’m seconds from losing it. “What?” I ask. “I’m standing right here. It’s not like I can’t fucking hear you.”
“Finn, please,” Sofia says, stepping toward me.
She wraps her arms around mine, and leads me away. Unlike the other changing areas we’re usually assigned to, those that are smaller and limited in space, tonight we’re in one of the newly constructed locker rooms. An hour ago it was packed with fighters warming up. Most are new, trying to make a name for themselves and dreaming of that main card lineup I’m a part of.
They’re gone now, either hanging in the lounge watching the remaining fights, or getting stitched up as a result of all the hits they took.
Sofia squeezes my arm. “Finn, I don’t want to tell you that you shouldn’t fight tonight.”
“Then don’t,” I answer. “Sofe, you’re seriously the only one I can still talk to. Don’t let me down by making me think I can’t.”
“I’m always here for you, Finn, and I’ll always listen. ”She lowers her hands, tilting her head to the side. “That doesn’t mean I’ll stay silent when I think you’re making a mistake. Right now, you’re not focused. I’m worried you’re going to get hurt.”
“Or hurt the other guy so bad he won’t get back up?” I question. Yeah. I’ve thought about that, too.
It’s what Killian did to his opponent following his breakup with Sofia all those years ago. He was so angry and lost without her, he made hamburger out of the champ’s face, earning him the win twenty-eight seconds into the first round.
I want to say that Sol―with all this anger she unleashed when she dumped me―maybe did me a favor and gave me the advantage I need. I want to say that thanks to her, I possess the power and wrath to wipe the mat with Lopez and earn my title match. Except if I do, I’d be lying to myself even more than I have been.
I’m just as lost, just as angry, and just as vicious as Killian was. I didn’t understand what he was going through when it happened―couldn’t grasp how one woman could wreck him so bad and inflict so much pain. But now, I’m living and breathing that shit.
Ire is what I feel. But it’s not enough to win a match. It makes you sloppy, makes you take risks, so impatient you screw up. Can it make your swings harder? Yeah. If they connect. Yet as much as I know this, and that I need to get past it, I’m so far deep into that rage, there’s no coming back. Not anymore. So I take a breath and say a silent prayer that when I do unleash tonight, the ref will be smart and quick enough to save Lopez in time.
“Finn . . .” she says, shaking her head like she wishes she could somehow ease all the agony slapping me around.