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It took me six rounds to knock Reggie out; everyone else usually only takes two. My stamina was tested, my fitness was pushed, and because I was in the ring longer than normal, it meant more hits to my body. Which is the sole reason why I’m here.
My next opponent I’m facing will be Big Dom and, like me, he hasn’t lost a fight yet. He has been around the cage for a few years, and we have never come against each other, the two of us both undefeated. The organizers of our MMA have been trying to get our fight together for years, but timing and injuries have prevented it up until now.
Promotion will start soon, but we already know that it is going to be deadly. We are well matched in weight and height, with him slightly younger, but I have more experience. This fight will be a guaranteed sell out, held in one of the biggest warehouses in Philly. Big Dom won't give me even an inch of reprieve, so that’s just another reason to focus on recovery.
“Big Dom will be harder,” Benji states, reading my mind, and I glare at him.
“As if I don’t already fucking know,” I snarl. Big Dom is an asshole too. One who is extremely unpredictable and one hundred percent conniving.
“We need to get you recovered and onto training as soon as possible. Where is the fucking nurse?” Benji starts up, pulling at his chair.
I continue to lie on the bed, uncomfortable but too sore to complain. A moment later, the door swings open, with Ian walking back in, pushing a wheelchair.
“No fucking way,” I say as soon as I see it. “There is no way I am sitting in that fucking thing and getting wheeled around this fucking hospital.”
“You have had some hits to the head tonight and most likely have a concussion. You can’t walk to the scan room,” Ian tells me simply, his hands coming to his hips, and it appears that he is feeling sassy tonight as well.
“No. Fucking. Way,” I grit out to ensure he knows I mean business. I would rather fall to the floor than sit my ass in that.
Sighing, he pushes the chair back out the room, before holding the door open for Benji and I. “This way, gentlemen. We need to head down the hall and to the right.” I gingerly rise from the bed and follow Benji out the door, shuffling my way down the godawful corridor in this godawful place.
6
Catherine
The lights are dimmed as I step into the room, closing the door on the small amount of noise outside. I see Carter lying still as the dead on the bed, eyes shut, hands clasped over his bare chest. It is now very early morning, and so I take a few quiet steps in his direction. I look over and see his friend Benji snoring, drool on his chin as he sleeps over in the armchair. Not leaving his side for a moment. It is nice that he has such a good friend, even if he’s been a jerk to the medical staff here.
I set my equipment tray on the table and wheel it closer to Carter. His breathing is steady, but his face looks tense. Hopefully he is in no pain. Grabbing the clipboard from the side of his bed, I look over the stats Ian has recorded over the past few hours to ensure he is still doing okay.
“Am I going to live?” he asks me, his lips twitching into a small smirk. His deep voice feels like velvet across my skin, and I struggle to not let it show as a shiver moves down my spine. He wasn’t asleep as I had thought. I look at him, but his eyes remain closed, his hands still locked together across his broad chest.
“Yes, you’ll live to see another day. There is no internal bleeding, and you should be recovered in no time. But you have a slightly elevated blood pressure rate, so I’m just going to check your pulse.” I put the clipboard down and move to grab his hand, and as my eyes flick to his neck, I can see his pulse thumping.
“Are you feeling all right?” I ask him as my fingers grip around his wrist. I internally count the beats, not missing his sweaty palms, and I am wondering what is going on. What he might not be sharing that’s ailing him.
“Fine,” he says much too quickly, and I narrow my eyes at him just slightly.
“Are you sure? Your pulse is moving pretty fast for someone who’s lying down?” I offer him an opportunity, and with him not looking at me, I don’t think he’ll bite. But then I hear him take a breath.
“I just hate hospitals,” he admits. I continue to count the beats, seeing if I can slow it down by keeping him talking. Rule out any other cause and take his word for it. It’s not an uncommon fear, that’s for sure.
“Any reason? Or you just don’t like us prodding doctors?” I tease to try to lighten the mood.
He huffs out a laugh. “Pretty ones, you mean.” My eyes flick to him again, as his words don’t quite register.
“You think I’m pretty?” I ask in jest, still counting, and I feel his hand relax in mine.
“Beautiful,” he says seriously, and even though his pulse has now slowed, mine starts to race. My stomach flutters, so I have no choice but to bring the conversation back to where we started. That’s my only option.
“Have you spent a lot of time in hospitals in the past?” I ask him, needing this to remain strictly professional.
“Too much. I was always in here as a kid.” I can hear the unease in his voice. Just as I am about to let go of his hand, I feel his muscle tense again.
“Really? Did you have lots of falls or injuries?” Grabbing the clipboard, I note his pulse.
“My mom. I was in and out of hospitals with her, until she passed.” I pause my movements, bringing my gaze back to him. The room is quiet for a beat, his expression unreadable. But I’ve seen enough pain to know what it looks like.
“I’m sorry you lost your mom, Carter. It is hard to lose a parent so young,” I say, swallowing roughly as I place the clipboard down and lean against the bed.
