Liv

The next day, Memphis asked me to visit Miles with him after his training and before his work. I didn’t leave his side until he was asleep. After four or five days of the same, he quit asking. I just came along.

He didn’t always have work, and on the days he didn’t, I’d watch him pull off miracles. At least, they seemed miraculous to me. He’s jumped on top of boxes that I could rest my chin on, and he sprinted the basketball court down on Central about a dozen times in a row with seconds in-between to catch his breath. Then he’d walk a lap and drink water to do it all again.

Sometimes he pushes himself so hard he vomits. And sometimes he gets mad when he doesn’t see a physical toll, like he’s not pushing himself hard enough. I remember when my dad would train. I didn’t get to watch much, but I got to see him work with Leo when I had no other place to go. Leo made my father vomit a lot.

His exhaustion means when he hits the pillow, he’s out. Last night, I laid on him and watched his body move with every breath. He dreams often, and his body twitches a little, but last night his muscles were still. I can see the effects of this final hard push. His muscle tone is like a suit of armor, and his speed—both in his feet and his hands—feels like it’s doubled.

Every night, we both strip down almost completely, and I crawl under his heavy quilt that I’ve learned has been with him since he was ten or eleven years old. He never pushes for more, though I know he would take the invitation in a beat. He lets me dictate every step of whatever this is we are in. Somehow, because of that, I’ve been able to separate my two worlds—the brightness I live in with Memphis and the burden I clock in with in the morning.

Today, though, I can’t seem to stay focused on paying the electric bill, filing quarterly taxes, or closing out August’s books. He’s dressed for his fight today, and Leo’s brought in help. Seeing him with his name on his waist, his game face on…it scratches at a part deep inside of me, and no matter how hard I try, there is no tuning this out. Eventually, I give in and close the laptop and file of receipts and move out to the lockers where there’s a carpeted bench made for this purpose—to stare in awe at people who can do things others can’t.

I used to sit here and watch Archie.

“He’s going to try to burn you out early, so don’t take his bait,” Leo says, circling behind the opponent he’s brought in to play the part of Omar Morales.

When they go right, Memphis circles left, his feet weaving in easy steps, gliding like a hockey player on ice until one of them disrupts the pattern, faking and flinching. Sometimes, Memphis reacts, but most of the time, he remains smooth on his feet. He could go on like this for days, and that’s the point.

“He might hit you. If he gets in a good shot, then that’s on him, but you trust your defense. Don’t fall in just because he says it’s time; you tell him when. You get to say when it’s time for you to fight, and when it’s right, you hit him with those fucking bombs right there.”

I smirk at my uncle’s words. He’s always had this passion for this part of the fight. He can make even the weakest boxer twice as strong simply by shouting a few things at him in the ring. His words stick, and they show up when a fighter needs them. A reminder to hold back, a lean to the right, a weak side—it calls up weeks of muscle memory behind the words in a blink.

“Come on, punk,” Memphis’s sparring partner says. “Whatchu got? Come on.”

He jabs at him, and Memphis simply changes up his rhythm. Eyes of a hungry tiger circle the ring, his lids heavy, blocking out everything but the form in front of him. He sees his feet. He sees his fists. It’s his torso, though, that gives away all of his secrets. If a fighter can conquer speed there, be faster at changing direction than an opponent, then he’s got them.

They dance, trading light jabs to keep it interesting, and Memphis never falls for the trick. He gets hit once in the side, curving away from it to lighten the blow. He won’t be hit hard now anyhow. It’s too close to the real thing. His body needs to be peak.

While the fighters continue to circle each other, Leo steps in and says something in the other fighter’s ear. He motions with his fist, pulling it in tight, unable to help himself from acting out his directions. Memphis doesn’t waiver, though—his eyes stay narrow, distractions don’t exist, in his mind, he’s already in the moment.

“That your pussy over there?”

And in one breath, both Memphis’s and my centers of strength start to crumble. Fake Omar pushes the one weak button Memphis seems to have—me. In doing so, he sends me right back to the beginning, where fighters live in one world and those of us who have living, beating hearts must survive somewhere else. We can’t possibly live together because when we do, focus isn’t perfect, champions slip up, and fragile feelings get swallowed by regret.

Memphis flinches just enough, his narrowed eyes suddenly open, and Fake Omar moves in on him, stopping before it becomes real.

My eyes flutter closed. I wish myself small, too numb to slink back into the office and close the door.

“That’s what I was talking about, Memphis. You let that happen in Vegas and the next thing you see will be the side of the ref’s shoes and a tilted world that might never come back in focus. Distractions...goddamnit I told you about the fucking distractions. You couldn’t help yourself, though, could you?”

My eyes begin to sting with the welling tears. I feel dirty sitting here, the subject of this lesson, and I’m angry that Memphis isn’t saying anything, even though most of me doesn’t really want him to because Leo’s partly right. I’m a distraction.

The heat beginning to turn my face red, I get up without offering as much as a glance toward the ring. I shut my office with my palm, careful not to slam it behind me. I tap the music app on my phone and turn the volume up as loud as I can without the sound becoming tinny. Then I open the computer and stare at the last line I completed before I took a break. I let my worlds bleed together, and now it fucking hurts.

There’s no working after that, and if I did, I’d make errors I’d only have to reconcile tomorrow. Instead, I pretend to click around, then pause to make a dot in the margin of my receipt list. I perform, and eventually, the panic felt in my heart strikes away the need to cry. I hate this world, and I hate how easy it was for me to get sucked in.

A crashing sound echoes beyond the glass door of my office, and I only let myself sense it with my periphery. Leo’s thrown the metal stool a bunch of times in my life. It may have been a few years since I’ve heard it, but I recognize it.

It’s only a few more seconds before the office door flies open, crashing into a wire bookcase and tilting it enough to spill dozens of files on the floor. I could let this all hurt, or I could fight. I could box it out and let it be noise, because really, that’s all it’s ever been.

My eyes blink as I stare at a week of work tossed carelessly thanks to a grown man’s temper tantrum.

“I just got those perfect, you fuck,” I say, a little fire lit by my boldness.

“This isn’t a game, Liv. You didn’t need to come back here and mend your little, broken, fucking heart. You needed a job, good. We gave you one. You needed a bed. Fine, I gave you one. Don’t fuck with business, though, Liv. This fight matters; it matters a whole lot more than your goddamned spilled files and your batting eyelashes that for some goddamned reason my fighter can’t fucking ignore.”

The only reason I look up at the end of his words is because he’s pointing at me fiercely with his finger. My lips sneer automatically because it’s so rude. And if a little smack talk can get in Memphis’s head in here, then maybe Leo should be focusing on his fighter instead of me.

“One, I’m pretty sure you’re over using the F-word, and two...those fucking files are keeping you from being audited, and I’m fairly certain you and I both know how much that’s worth. So yeah, they’re pretty fucking important.”

My eyes level his. I take in the drunken tint of red in his whites, stains from tobacco on his teeth as he licks at the back of his mouth and twists his dry and wrinkled lips enough to silently growl at me.

I’m stronger than I think, Leo.

He doesn’t bother to shut the door behind him, but he’s never been one to leave without making a scene. He walks to the center of the gym and picks up the discarded stool and chucks it out the open garage door into the parking lot, one of the legs coming off and ricocheting into someone’s hubcap.

“I need a break! You!” He spins on his heels and points at Memphis as he walks backward, feeling in his pocket for a lighter as he moves toward the parking lot behind him. “This isn’t a day we can just quit and pick up tomorrow. We’re out of time, so get your shit together in your head and we’re going to dance until your feet fall off when I get back.”

The handful of people in the gym watch Leo leave, but quickly go back to their workouts, not stunned by his outburst either, it seems. Fake Omar stands a few paces away from Memphis, staring at him with his gloved-hand held out. Memphis finally pounds his own glove on top.

“I’m sorry, man. He said to try rattling you with that, and I don’t know. I didn’t know it was something personal,” the guy says.

“It is personal,” Memphis interjects. “And it’s fine. Whatever, I’ve got it under control.”

The man purses his lips and stares at Memphis for a few long seconds before his eyes shift over to me. We both know that Memphis is lying. The guy leaves the ring, though, mentioning something in a softer voice about heading out to grab lunch. Memphis waves him off then slides down with his back against the corner, one knee up and the other leg straight out in front of him. His teeth move to his tape, and eventually he flings his glove off with enough force to bounce it out of the ring.

His chin lifts and his heavy eyes settle on me behind a desk, a dozen yards away. His tired eyes widen upon seeing me, and his chest lifts with breath, but never seems to fully exhale.

“Do you want me to leave?” My voice carries, and a few guys working at the heavy bag nearest to my office stop to watch. We’re like a regular show, it seems. Stay tuned, boys—this soap is getting good.

My heart is squeezing with mixed emotions. I’m angry that Leo made me an example. I’m pissed he was right and that it worked. I’m mad that Memphis isn’t able to shut me out, and I’m terrified that I’m not going to get to watch him fall asleep again tonight.

“No,” he says, voice gravely and without much life.

His eyes blink slowly, and his head never moves from the fixed position it’s in resting against the corner post.

“I’ll shut the door…when Leo comes back. I won’t watch,” I say.

“I want you to watch.” His response is fast, like he had it ready.

I turn in my chair and fold my arms over my chest, leaning back by pushing with my foot on an open drawer down low. I bounce a little by bobbing my leg, and I consider his request.

“You’re making me a part of your training, like I’m a hurdle you have to overcome,” I say.

“You are.” The speed of his answers stings a little, and I wince.

“This doesn’t work for me, Memphis. Not like this, and you know it.” I stand up and move to the door, but by the time I get to it, Memphis leaps to his feet and swings his legs over the ropes, rushing to the door just in time to stop it with his foot, holding it open for me to have to listen.

“I’m not Archie, Liv. You have to have faith to know it. I think you know me enough to trust it. I’ve shown you who I am,” he says, his head falling against the door, sweat-dampened hair falling over one eye.

“I’m not a hurdle.” I inhale through my nose, keeping my mouth closed tight after I speak.

His jaw flexes as his throat moves in a slow swallow, his eyes dipping below mine briefly before coming back to challenge me.

“You are in here. In that ring back there, with your crazy uncle and his head games, yeah, Liv…you’re a hurdle. Doesn’t mean I want to get rid of you or block you out or choose fighting over you. Just means I need to know I can do my job—that I can win—with you in the room.” He shrugs and shakes his head lightly.

“I don’t have to watch. I wasn’t planning on it, really. Watching you in the ring in Vegas would be like watching him—or like my mom watching him. The person it would turn me into…”

“You have to come. And you are not her just like I am not him, and you know that too.” Memphis brings his left hand up to his chest, patting it on his heart twice then curling his fingers into a fist and squeezing. “I’m no champion at all if you’re not there to see it.”

I breathe out a short burst of a laugh, but grow silent when I meet his gaze and see how very serious he is.

Well damn.

My hand eases its grip on the door, and Memphis pushes it open, stepping into me in one smooth motion, just like he moves in the ring. His right hand slides up my neck and into my hair, his left hand claws at my jaw. His mouth covers mine without stopping to breathe, and he kisses me until I think I might float away. This kiss is aggressive. It’s possessive in its very existence. My weight in his hands, he arches my back and bites at my lower lip, letting it slide from his grip slowly as his mouth morphs into a smile against my lips. His nose grazes along mine in a tickle, and his body exhales a low grunt, as though I’ve been conquered—my worries and apprehensions slain like a dragon.

“Oh,” I manage to squeak out, sucking in my top lip to taste what is left of him. “Just so you know, my uncle is going to be pissed.”

“Fuck your uncle.”

His eyes burn into mine, and a sinister smile fills his face. After a second or two, he slides backward through the door, leaving his eyes on me until he reaches the locker area. He flips open his and pulls out his phone, typing quickly, then tossing it onto the metal shelf and jumping a few times in place before jogging back to the ring, climbing in and moving as if someone is in there with him.

He shadowboxes, his eyes as focused as they were before, but this time all he has to work with is the enemy he can imagine. He’s fearsome, and he’s flawless. And when Leo and Fake Omar walk back into the gym, Memphis isn’t even out of breath, despite having fought a shadow for several minutes while my uncle sucked up his pride and came back before he was ready to.

I don’t move to the bench like I did before, but I do watch. Memphis points his gloved hand toward me, and my uncle looks my direction, slowly flipping the toothpick in his mouth before slipping into a grin. He loves conflict, and he thinks breaking a man down will only make him stronger. He may be right about that. Only Memphis has already built himself back up from nothing. He’s built himself into a champion. And for the next hour, he soaks up every weapon my uncle and Fake Omar try to throw at him, and he turns it into domination.

The way he moves brings me to my feet, and I’m unable to stay in my self-imposed cage any longer. I need to see him do it. My soul aches to watch him overcome every little thing my uncle can throw at him—the mind games, the speed—it’s meaningless in his path.

There’s just something about the way he moves…like a ghost.

Like a fighter.