Sol

“Cool.” That’s what Finn said when I told him I loved him. He grinned and said, “Cool.”

I think it would have bothered another woman and pissed her off. But it was such a “Finn” thing to say and do. I’m not sure if he’s heard it before and I didn’t ask. If I’m being honest, I was more worried he’d said it to someone else.

Do I wish he felt the same? Of course I do. But when I think back to everything my mom is dealing with, in a way I’m glad he doesn’t.

Maybe I’m too screwed up to love.

“How’s Mami?” I ask my dad, plugging my other ear to drown out all the noise from the arena. Finn may not love me, but that doesn’t stop him from showering me with affection and wanting me with him. So here I am in Atlantic City, at the fight that can move him from his current rank at number seven to the next in line for the belt.

I crank the volume when I can’t make out what my father says. “Sorry, Papi. Can you say that again?”

“I said I think the new dosage is starting to work,” he repeats. “She was more alert today.”

“She was?” My attention veers in the direction of the welterweight and his camp as they pass me. He’s gushing blood from a deep cut on his forehead, his nose is visiting his right cheekbone, and there’s so much swelling on his face, his eyes are nothing more than slits.

And this poor bastard won!

I force a smile when he waves my way. He’s friendly with Finn and we had dinner with him and his girlfriend the other night. I’m not surprised he remembers me We had a nice time together. I’m just shocked he can see me. 

“Is she able to hold a conversation with you?” I ask my father. As I wait for his answer, I take a moment to pray up and down that Finn doesn’t end up the same way. Jesus, the guy is one giant bruise.

Yet as much as I’m scared for Finn, the fact that my father doesn’t respond right away causes that awful sense of dread to dig its way into my stomach and find its way into my voice. “Papi . . . what is it?” I ask.

“It’s probably nothing.”

I close my eyes, willing myself to stay calm. “If something’s wrong with Mami, you need to tell me.” As much as I wish I could be spared from what’s happening, it’s not a luxury my mother can afford.

He waits, as if debating what to tell me, adding to my mounting nervousness. “She talked to me about remodeling the kitchen,” he says.

It wasn’t what I was expecting to hear. Not so soon after her meds were adjusted. And while to anyone else it might not sound like a big deal, the news is actually huge. Fixing the kitchen is one of those things my parents used to discuss before my mother became really sick. It’s needed a major remodel for years. But lately my mother hasn’t noticed. She hasn’t noticed anything―unable to see things that are right in front of her―unable to live in the present or our reality. The fact that she’s starting to notice . . . that’s a good thing.

“Really?” I ask.

I can hear the hope in my father’s tone. “She was talking about new cabinets and possibly replacing the counter with granite. I’m not sure if it’s something we can afford, but if it will help her―if it’s something she wants, I’ll try to do it for her.”

My eyes sting as I smile. That’s love for you, doing something for your partner just to make her happy. I want to believe that she’s better and that the mother I remember is coming back to me.

I ask the question perhaps I shouldn’t. “Do you think she’d know me?”

My voice is so soft I’m not sure he hears me. When he doesn’t respond right away, I’m sure he didn’t, or worse yet, that his answer is no.

“I think she might,” he says, hope continuing to find its way into his gravelly tenor voice. Except, he wouldn’t be my father without saying what he says next. “Too bad you’re with that boy. Otherwise, we could find out tonight.”

I try not to laugh, but I can’t help it. Papi knows Finn’s name. His remarks about “that boy” and his threats to hide “that boy’s body” aside, I think he likes Finn. Does he like how practically inseparable we’ve become, or how I’m staying at his place almost every night? Oh, hell no. He’s a Latino father who owns six machetes. But despite his traditional beliefs, he wants me happy. And he knows Finn makes me happy.

“Give Mami a kiss for me and tell her I love her,” I whisper.

“I will. Be safe, mija,” he says.

I disconnect, but I’ll admit, I practically jump away from the cinderblock wall when the roar of the crowd belts down the hall as if in collective pain. I push open the door to Finn’s private changing area and rush back in. “What happened? I ask.

All Finn’s brothers and his sister are gathered around the giant flat-screen fixed to the wall. Except for Killian and Seamus, who are helping Finn warm up.

Finn is so focused on staying loose and hitting his targets, he doesn’t answer. But as his family pulls away from the screen, he doesn’t have to.

There is Conan McDavis, former heavyweight champ, now an unconscious individual face-planted on the octagon’s floor. Sofia is the first to look away, crossing her arms as her attention bounces to Finn. “He’s not getting up,” she says quietly.

“He will,” Kill says, his voice tight. He’s not looking toward the T.V. and neither is Finn, but they know what happened. The commentators are losing their minds, screaming over the amped up and hollering crowd.

“Holy God,” Wren says. Gorgeous looks aside, she’s had her share of street fights and she’s witnessed more MMA matches than I have. But the way she’s staring at the screen, it’s like she’s never seen so much blood.

Like Killian says, Conan the heavy weight fighter who likely just fought his last professional fight does get up . . . albeit wobbly and walking into the fence rather than going around it. The ringside medics rush to him, hurrying to pat down what remains of his face.

Curran touches my arm, drawing my attention. As a cop, I know he’s seen his share of pummeled bodies and dealt with people freaking out. . . pretty similar to what I’m close to doing. I didn’t even notice him come to my side, just like I didn’t notice my mouth dangling to the floor until I force it closed.

“You all right?” he murmurs, leaning back and crossing his arms over his super-sized chest.

“Fine,” I say, or rather squeak. I glance over my shoulder at Finn, who’s bouncing around, swinging, elbowing, and spinning into his back kicks like nothing happened. Like that poor sap didn’t just suffer major head trauma and is likely screwed up for life.

Curran drags a hand through his buzzed blond hair. “You sure?” he asks. “You don’t look too good.”

“I’m a little hungry,” I answer, lying through my teeth and wondering how the hell I’m going to get through this match.

Wren fumbles through her purse and pulls out a candy bar. “Here, have some sugar,” she says.

“Thank you,” I tell her, not bothering to argue. I rip into that candy bar like a woman possessed―scratch that―like a cavewoman possessed on an island where her caveman lover is about to be eaten by a dinosaur.

“Don’t worry, sunshine,” Finn says, adding a wink. “I’ll take you to a nice dinner after the match.”

I force what I hope is an encouraging smile, returning my focus to the screen in time to see the winner being interviewed. Good heavens. Even he seems to feel bad about what he did to Conan. He glances over his shoulder as the commentator congratulates him, watching Conan’s camp carry his slumped form out of the octagon.

Angus, Finn’s oldest brother who’s adding more bulk to his belly by ramming another donut in his mouth, shakes his head. “If that’s not a career ending injury, I don’t know what is,” he says.

“Angus,” Curran warns, his attention cutting my way.

Angus ignores him, scratching his shaggy dark beard. “I mean, at the very least he’s going to need new teeth.” He shrugs. “He should have retired two years ago. Before his speech got wrecked to shit.”

“Angus,” Curran says again, this time louder.

Angus, of course, isn’t listening and reaches for another donut. “After that shot to the skull, he’ll have to stick to coloring books and Candyland for shits and giggles.” He gives it some thought. “Hell, if he can even manage that.”

“Angus, shut up already,” Wren yells as she watches me sink to the couch. “Finn doesn’t need that shit.”

I think she means Finn and Sol. Her eyes are on me. But I’m not alone in how I feel. Everyone appears ill at ease following what went down these past two match-ups.

“Finn’s going to own it,” Killian says, his voice gruff as he watches Finn’s strikes.

“Yup. I’ve got it,” Finn agrees. He spins around, another perfect roundhouse kick finding Killian’s glove. Sofia and Wren sit on either side of me, watching as I shove the rest of the candy bar into my mouth.

I’ve been fine. Totally and completely fine with Finn being a fighter. In the past, I even caught a few of his fights on T.V. I know he’s tough. I’m confident he’s skilled. I’m positive he’s focused. But I’ve never actually seen him fight in a live bout, especially not as his girlfriend.

The matches I saw on T.V. were hard to watch. I knew him and thought he was a nice guy. I didn’t want him to get hurt. Now that I, well, love him . . . Jesus Christ and three to four disciples, how am I going to get through this?

I turn to Sofia. “How did you do it?” I ask her, keeping my voice low with the hope that Finn doesn’t hear me. “All those times you saw Killian fight and witnessed everything he had to go through to become a champion, how did you get through it?”

Killian retired after he won the super heavyweight title, walking away from a lot of money and earning a great deal of criticism due to his young age and the expectation of defending his title. I can understand, to some extent, where the condemnation came from. Killian could have possibly held the title for years, become more of a legend, and given his legions of fans more of what they wanted. But he had his reasons for leaving the fighting circuit.

The main reason being Sofia.

He wanted a quality of life a lot of fighters don’t have after years spent in the ring getting punched in the skull and pushing their bodies to the breaking point. And he wanted to share that life with Sofia. As much as she never asked him to walk away, he knew it was something she wanted and he recognized how hard it was for her to watch him get hurt.

I wait for her words of wisdom or some sort of silver lining. Yet it takes a moment for those words to come.

She rubs her hands as if gathering her thoughts. But then I realize she’s not working through what to say, she’s remembering what she saw. “It wasn’t easy,” she admits. “I . . .”

“She almost fainted during one his worst matches,” Wren finishes for her. Unlike Sofia, who’s in a pretty dress, and me, who didn’t know better and wore a cute top, jeans, and boots, Wren is wearing a form-fitting and very short navy dress that shows off her long legs. “Seriously,” she adds. “Sofe turned as white as my ass and we had to catch her before she fell over.”

Awesome.

I glance back at Sofia, my eyes rounding. “I wish she was joking,” she says. “But I really had a hard time being strong.” She takes my hand in hers, motioning to the T.V. “These fights are brutal. Sometimes, the referees don’t stop them in time. More often, the fighters keep going, their desire to win interfering with their logic to stop.”

“Like Conan?” I ask.

She nods. “Every now and then, Killian wrestles with whether to return to the octagon. He’s a fighter at heart and a fighter’s mentality is hard to change. But then he’ll catch a match like this one or run into a former fighter with permanent injuries. Those moments remind him that he wants more for himself and for us.”

I squeeze her hand. “I’m glad Killian walked away before he was permanently injured. But Sofia, Finn’s not there yet. It’ll be years before he even thinks about retiring. All he talks about is his next fight or the one after that, or how the belt is going to feel when he raises it over his head. He loves what he does. That fighter mentality you mentioned? He’s has it and he’s not letting go.” I sigh. “I don’t want him hurt. But knowing how much MMA means to him, I want to be there to support him.”

“So be there,” she says. “Just be prepared for him to get hurt.” She bows her head. “Not that it helped me.”

“I hear you,” Wren agrees. “Sometimes, it’s all I can do not to look away.”

Wren was quiet during our conversation. If you knew anything about Wren, it speaks volumes. But she’s listening and she cares. “I’m sure,” I say, acknowledging her worry. “I mean, you love him, too.”

She grins, her smile reminding me of Finn’s. “You sayin’ you love my brother?”

I tilt my head. My voice is soft, but I mean what I say. “I really do.”

My words and tone give her pause and dull her smile, but not in a bad way. “Good,” she says. “I think you’re what he needs.”

It’s not the first time one of his siblings has told me that. From what I’ve gathered from the recent family functions we’ve attended, Finn’s drinking had been out of control and he was advised to stop. He still drinks when we go out, a couple beers or so, but he’s never been out of hand around me. It’s likely because we’re making up for that high with the ridiculous amount of sex we’ve been having.

I’m not complaining. Sex with Finn is so personal. I’ve never experienced the amount of intimacy I feel with anyone else but him. I think, or at least hope, he feels it, too. The way we talk afterward, and the way we hold onto each other, it’s like we’re afraid to let go.

My attention drifts back to where he’s warming up, seemingly unaffected by the chaos unleashing in the octagon as the next fight commences. I can’t say I’m exactly what Finn needs, or that I’m the person who has helped him get better. His intense counseling sessions have played a big role. That much he’s shared. Yet we both realize he has a long way to go.

Just last week when we went out, some idiot hit on me and refused to back off. I thought Finn was going to break him in half and kick the leftovers aside. I’ve honestly never seen him so angry. Thankfully, his brothers were there to haul him back, giving me time to calm him and to convince him to walk away. Not that he was happy about it.

“I don’t want anyone touching you,” he told me. “I mean it, Sol. No one’s going to hurt you, especially around me.”

I recognize where his protectiveness and his rage stem from. That doesn’t make either easy to witness.

The protectiveness is easier to manage. The rage is scarier. It brews below the surface of his smiles and soft touches. I can sense it and I’m not alone. To avoid trouble, Killian arranged for the other fighters training with him and Finn to have a separate changing area. Finn lost his mind on another opponent and his trainer following his last match. Killian was worried what Finn might do if someone was looking for trouble, but also what his fighters might do, as well.

Finn is well-liked by a lot of the other professional fighters, especially the ones who’ve trained alongside him and who’ve followed his career. They’re just as capable of starting fights in defense of Finn. And an all-out brawl between MMA fighters is the last thing anyone wants backstage.

“Do you think you might pass out?” Wren asks as I continue to take in Finn.

I consider her comment. Finn is so . . . mine. I shake my head. “I’m more worried I might climb into the cage and jump on his opponent’s back.”

“No, shit,” Wren says, sounding impressed. “Hey. Been there too many times.”

“I’m going to advise you against that one,” Sofia says, laughing softly. Her humor vanishes when she glances up at the screen.

Once more the crowd in the arena goes wild, the commentators yelling to be heard. “Oh!” Finn’s brothers yell at once.

A super heavyweight fighter that Killian faced years ago is lying motionless on the mat, his jaw dangling off to the side. I rise slowly with Wren, clutching my heart.

“He broke his jaw,” Angus says. Out of all the things that occurred in tonight’s bloodbath, this is the one he can’t seem to watch. He abruptly turns from the screen and marches to the opposite side of the training area, tossing the donut in his hand in the trash.

Everyone is silent. Dead silent. I can’t blame them. I’ve seen my share of fights and you can consider me a fan even long before I started dating Finn. But I’ve never seen back to back matches end like this.

I point to the screen when Curran, the cop, edges my way. “Is this, um, common?” I ask.

I really don’t have to ask, seeing how wide his eyes are. “Nope. I’ve never seen so much shit go down in one night.” He hurries out the door when someone knocks, shutting it behind him.

“Bad juju,” Angus says. “That octagon is cursed or some shit.”

“Nice, Angus,” Wren says, rolling her eyes.

I start to pace, only to determine I’m better off sitting. But as soon as my butt touches the couch, Curran rushes back in and I’m back on my feet.

“Finn, it’s time,” he says. He turns my way. “If you’re going to watch, now’s the time to take your seats.”

Almost silently and stoically, Finn’s brothers and the girls start piling toward the door, stopping to hug Finn, murmur words of encouragement, and cross themselves as they step away! I know they mean well. I was raised Catholic, too, but this whole funeral vibe they have going on is doing little to soothe me.

I walk cautiously toward Finn, trying to work up my courage to say something inspirational. But when he grips my hips and yanks me to him, all my words become jumbled beneath that gaze I so adore.

“Hey,” he says, resting his forehead against mine. “How you doing?”

My arms tighten around him. “I’m scared,” I admit.

Like always, he grins. “You worry too much, you know that?”

His easy tone lifts my mood slightly, yet it does nothing to stop the tremble in my voice. “I don’t want anything to happen to you or this face.”

He chuckles. “I’m not sure about my face, but I’ll be all right. I promise. Just promise you’ll be waiting for me when I’m done.”

“I will,” I assure him. “No matter what.”

Finn kisses me then. It’s not quick, nor is it innocent. It speaks of our time alone in bed, those moments when the world stops spinning with problems and angst and all that matters are our bare bodies merging as one. At first I was shy about his show of affection in front of his family. But as we grew closer it just seemed right, becoming something I expect and desire.

“I love you,” I whisper when he pulls away.

“Cool,” he tells me once more. But as he continues to hold my gaze and catches sight of my fear, his smile vanishes. He knows I’m terrified. “It’s going to be all right,” he tells me softly.

He means what he says. Yet as I leave his arms and walk out with his family, I can’t be sure it’s a promise he’ll be able to keep.