Zariah
Louisville, Kentucky
There’s not a single seat left at The Kentucky ‘Yum!’ Center. A slinky champagne colored maxi delicately hugs my swollen stomach and breasts, and fills out my remaining curves. I’d applied makeup while the hotel air conditioner blasted at a temperature that rivaled the crisp coldness of Moscow.
I contemplate on Connie’s words about how spoiled I am. She was spot on. Vassili rented a large luxury tour bus in order for me to attend this event. During the long ride, Vassili and I watched countless videos of his opponent Jose Cordova’s previous matches. Now, I’m wishing Vassili had enforced his request for me to stay in Los Angeles. I almost smile smugly considering my head game, but another contraction breaks my concentration.
Yuri is seated next to me. Thick jaws puffed out, like he might blow a gasket.
“How many undercards left?” I grit out the words, speaking up over the sound of fans cheering for the current favorite in the cage.
He chokes on his bottle of beer. “Dva!”
“Two! Did you just say two?” So far I've been confident in learning up to twenty in Russian to teach to Natasha, but I must be—
“Da. Should I go,” he’s already offered to tell Vassili how I’m feeling.
“No!” I grab his arm, before he can arise I feel another contraction. Damn, they’re getting closer.
“Please, Zariah. My kazen is gonna murder me.”
I sink back into the comfortable seat so close to the cage. My tensed frame loosening by the moment. “I'm okay. Now.”
Yuri glances at me in confusion. “What is this, a fucking exorcism?”
“It's called a contraction and it has passed. I can't go to the hospital until the contractions occur closer together, which won’t happen anytime soon.”
He settles back in his seat grumbling in Russian.
I practice the breathing exercises from the Lamaze class Vassili and I attended. Reminding myself not to grit my teeth and relax, while telling Yuri to count each contraction and the time frame that they occur.
Music blares through the speaker. One more fight before Vassili’s, and I silently beg God, like a sinner wearing Saturday night’s club attire to church.
As Linkin Park tears through the speaker’s a while later, I search through the crowd for the entrance of where Vassili and his crew will enter. A calmness slithers over my bones. Sensing her father, Natasha simmers down in my belly. I begin to wonder if I was having another case of Braxton Hicks, when Vassili rips the Killer Karo shirt from his sexy chest, exposing a wealth of glorious tattoos and muscles. After his gloves are checked and he’s all lubed up, Vassili somersaults onto the canvass.
Every ounce of my energy is used to cheer him on. Vassili hurry up and beat his ass! I meditate on that while squirming in the chair.
The announcer hypes up the crowd when another searing pain courses through my tummy.
“Fuck, Fuck!” I hear over the shouting.
The screaming isn’t from me. Yuri is yelping! His hand is balled into a fist, as I tear the flesh in his forearm. Teeth gritted, I ride out the pain while executing all of my energy on him. He lunges from the chair as Cordova has Vassili pinned to the cage.
“Wait, I’m sorry,” I call out, but he’s arguing with security, fumbling with the backstage pass on his chest, and then gesturing for Nestor in my husband’s corner.
They exchange words. Yuri points at me. Then Vadim is in the mix. My husband’s cousin returns, frown on his face. “We go to doctor now!”
"What about Vassili?”
“They will tell him during first seat.”
“No!” I stand, all the strength has burned from my legs. I almost fall into him. “I won’t have this baby anytime soon. You go tell them to let him finish.”
Yuri breathes deeply, helping me steady myself.
Since he hasn’t responded, I continue to argue, “You can take me to the hospital now, but don’t have them stop the match. If Cordova ends up with Vassili’s belt—”
“Okay, okay!” He holds out his palms. “I’ll text Nestor now. We go, Zariah.”
With one arm supporting me, Yuri pulls out his phone. The sunlight is funneling into the dark arena from ahead of us.
The first round is being called. If I were in my right mind, I’d say that Cordova led this one. We make it toward the concession area. The perimeter isn’t teeming with hungry fans like it was when we arrived. There are a few people in line for Dippin Dots when warmth trickles down my leg.
“Oh fuck, kazen, you-you…you will have this baby soon,” His eyes widen in horror. He mumbles about Vassili really killing him now while shouting for help.