I wrung my hands nervously as I slowed to a stop at the edge of the lounge area, noticing the first aid box waiting, untouched on the coffee table. I glanced around at the mix of familiar and unfamiliar faces of the fighters. Most were too busy preparing for their fights to notice me while others stole quick and confused glances my way.
Breathe. It’ll be over soon.
“Lily!” The call came from the direction of the kitchen and lockers, where Seb was standing by the latter, waving me over with a big grin on his face. He wasn’t in his usual fighting clothes but wearing a pair of jeans and a plain red T-shirt. His wrist was in a brace.
That dread eased a little, replaced by relief as I approached him. Happy to have at least one kind person to speak with for the night. Seb didn’t seem to have a mean bone in his body.
He crossed his arms and smiled. “You’re looking better than the last time I saw you.”
The last time, when I was throwing up in a gutter…
“Well, I hope so.” I laughed weakly.
“Does Antonio want you here?”
“Mhm.” My smile wavered and I glanced around the room at the varied fighters moving about. Some were built like giants, others wirier, and a few short and stocky. And there was a chance I would have to sit closer to them and patch them up as if I were a qualified nurse.
My search slowed on the gym equipment on the far right wall of the basement, where I caught a glimpse of that back tattoo. A set of demonic wings etched across his shoulder blades and down the back of his arms. The owner of that tattoo, doing much better after what Murphy did on Thursday night.
Dean slammed another fist into the worn material of the punching bag when Seb nudged me with his bicep. “Stick with me and you’ll be okay.”
Did I really look that nervous?
“Just be mindful of Jack Murphy though,” he added.
I froze. “He’s here tonight?”
Seb nodded towards the couches where several fighters were waiting, but it was the one with his back to us that Seb then subtly pointed to. When the fighter turned his head, looking across to the gym equipment, he revealed the poxy skin of his face and I shuddered.
“He’s versing Dean in the last round.” Seb cocked his head slightly, his eyes on the back of Murphy’s head. “I don’t understand how he thinks he’ll walk away a winner from this one. Dean has been itching to beat the crap out of him since Thursday.”
Because fighting outside the basement wasn’t allowed. Dean had held back the night Murphy and his friends pinned him to the front window of The Den.
I had only ever seen one of Dean’s fights and it was over for his opponent long before it started. There was no doubt that he would be able to take on Murphy with the same efficiency. Even now, as Dean ripped into the punching bag across the room, it was easy to see Murphy had a challenge ahead of him. If not from skill or strength, but age. Dean was the younger of the two and several inches taller than the Irishman.
“Come on,” Seb said, taking a step in the direction of the fight pit entrance. “If Antonio wants you patching these suckers up, he’ll want you close.”
I followed closely after him, keeping out of the path of the other men or avoiding bumping into them as we approached the second door in the wall that divided the basement. Once there, we waited at the side of the doorway, peering down the path that cut through the crowd and led directly to the pit.
The fights began just after 11 PM, with the first round being for two new members. I had to double-check with Seb that he hadn’t made a mistake when he pointed out the first of the novices; a huge man with arms as thick as tree trunks.
“We call him Tiny Tim,” Seb had said as the giant of a man stalked into the pit. “He’s Antonio’s.”
I couldn’t help but stare, and pray that his poor opponent made it out alive. Which he did.
Barely.
Each fighter that left the pit had some form of injury; a bloody nose, split lip, bruises on their ribs or face, a fractured cheekbone. I grimaced at them all as they walked by, and thankfully only saw three of the 14 men. One needed his broken pinkie strapped to a popsicle stick, another needed some help stopping the bleeding from his eyebrow, and the third needed something cold to press to the bruise on his ribs.
Seb said to the last guy, “There are ice packs in the fridge. You’ve got legs so use them.”
Throughout the evening Seb and I either watched from the entrance or played cards on a small table nearby when the matches were “less exciting”, according to Seb. I think it was his way of keeping me distracted though so the weight of the situation didn’t become too much.
He had invited Dean to join us in a game but he declined, giving me a subtle nod in greeting before focusing on wrapping the black gauze around his fists. Flexing his hands as he did.
When the time came for his fight with Murphy, Seb and I were waiting at the doorway again when Dean approached. Completely composed, he watched the end of the fight before him with his black hoodie on but unzipped. He slid his hands into the pockets of his shorts as he focused. His scarred eyebrow set in a subtle arch.
I pulled my eyes off him to ask Seb, who was standing between us, “Do either of you get nervous before a fight?”
