“Very well.” Steve nodded and went to talk to Patrick.
As the other pallbearers were slowly stepping outside, I jogged over to Patrick to make sure he was okay with the plan. He would have been fine riding with Marty and the rest of Team Dragon, but I wanted my security guys with him.
“You good riding with Steve and the guys?” I asked Patrick.
“Yes, that will be fine.”
“Okay. I’ll see you at the service.”
I joined the back of the line where the other pallbearers were getting into the limo. I ended up sitting on one of the longer seats beside Brendan Rowe. The TCF owner and president, Vin, sat closest to the door so he’d be the first out to greet Carlos’ family. I leaned back in my seat and brushed lint off my pants as small conversations broke out around me. Vin was the only one in the limo who wasn’t a fighter.
“Anyone think Silva will show his face?” Sam Hernandez asked.
“He fucking better not,” Fernando quickly replied.
“Yeah, that would be some nerve,” Brendan said.
There had been an investigation into the fight between Carlos and Marcos to ensure everything had been within the rules and parameters of TCF. And though nothing conclusive had come out, many of us knew exactly how Marcos Silva fought—dirty and violently.
“Anything can happen in this sport. Any accident can happen at any time to any of us that could land us in a spot just like Carlos,” Taysom said.
That was very true, and I remembered when it happened how Mom went on and on about worrying over my safety. Patrick had even voiced concern. I assured my family that I trained hard to make sure my body was in the best shape it could be in. Hopefully that would reduce anything major from happening. But I knew all it would take was one hit and your life could change.
When I found out that Marcos Silva was forced to retire months after our fight this past summer, a huge part of me felt a little guilty. There was a good chance that it was a hit from me in our last fight that detached his retina, but Marty said Marcos could even have been injured after the fight. Word between trainers and doctors said he’d often refused medical care and exams after the fights to show how tough he was. News of Marcos retiring due to a partial loss of eyesight happened shortly after Thanksgiving when everything was going on with Chase. I didn’t dwell on it.
Taysom was right, though… Anything could happen to any of us at any time. It could end up being career ending and be no fault of anyone.
* * *
Tons of peopleattended the funeral, and after everything was done, I rode back to the hotel in a limo with Team Dragon. As they entered the hotel bar, one of the guys turned to me and said they were going to meet in the restaurant later tonight for dinner, and I said I’d most likely meet them.
The hotel bar wasn’t really big, and it was crowded. Most of the people in the bar were connected to TCF in some facet. If they weren’t fighters, they were from the front office, or were trainers and managers. I bought my team a round of drinks, and we raised our glasses and bottles in a toast to Carlos.
As smaller conversations broke out around us, Patrick left to go check the front desk for more newspapers. While he was gone, I stepped closer to the TV that was mounted high in the corner. I took a long sip from my beer bottle and leaned on the tall pub table as I read the closed captioning that gave glimpses of the funeral today. The TV stations had coverage of the funeral and the celebrities, athletes, and local dignitaries who attended. When I flashed on the TV screen along with the other TCF guys carrying the casket, a man set his glass down on the pub table.
“Why doesn’t it surprise me that the boy from Beverly Hills somehow makes it on TV for a man’s funeral,” the man said.
I knew that voice. I calmly set my bottle down and turned to face Marcos Silva. He was almost unrecognizable wearing glasses and slicked back hair. When he was an active fighter, his hair had always been shaved close to his head. And I guessed the glasses were added following his injury.
“Are you even old enough to drink liquor yet?” he asked. He brought his glass up to his lips and eyed me as he drank.
“Did you come here to create a problem?” I asked.
“No. Just came to pay my respects,” he said smugly. “Walked in here to have a drink and I see Hollis fucking Ward on the TV and in the flesh. I can’t get away from you.”
“Don’t do this here in front of all these people. Don’t turn today into being about you.”
“I’m not, boy.” He took another sip from his glass and then said, “I sympathize with his family and feel bad for the guy.”
“Really?” I hoped he picked up on my sarcasm because I didn’t believe for a second that he felt anything for anyone but himself.
“Yeah,” he said and nodded as a smile appeared on his face. “I mean, after all, I know exactly what it’s like to be injured and then forced into retirement.”
His eyes were as cold as I had ever seen them, but he wasn’t going to intimidate me.
“Anything can happen in this sport,” I said as I then brought the beer bottle to my lips and took a long sip while I stared at him. “It’s not the opponent’s fault how your body reacts,” I said and set the empty bottle on the table.
In the blink of an eye, Marcos had knocked the beer bottle off the tabletop with such force that it hit the wall about ten feet away. The bar full of TCF people quieted down at the sound of glass shattering. Though I could hear people heading toward us, I didn’t take my eyes off Marcos. His index finger shook as he pointed at me.
