The Song of David (24 page)

“I don’t, baby,” I said gently.

“Why?” Her tone was plaintive.

“I won’t be able to focus on what I have to do. I’ll be worried about you.”

She sighed, a gusty swoosh that lifted the dark strands of her hair closest to her mouth.

“As soon as I win, I’m coming to you,” I promised.

“You’re that sure you’re going to win?”

“Yep. I’m gonna win, I’m gonna raise my arms over my head, and I’m gonna say, Yo Millie, we did it!”

“How very Rocky Balboa of you.” She smirked.

“That’s right. And then I’m gonna go running through the crowd, out the doors, three blocks down, two blocks over, and I’ll bang at your door, and you can congratulate me in any way you see fit. Make sure Henry’s with Robin.”

She laughed, but I could tell she didn’t want to laugh. Silence settled between us, and we started to walk, meandering in the general direction of where I’d parked. The grounds around the tabernacle were perfectly maintained and ideal for walking, even if Millie couldn’t enjoy the landscaping.

“I’m not made of glass, David,” she said softly.

“I know.”

“Really? Because I’m guessing if I could see, you would want me at your fight.”

“Maybe,” I admitted, nodding to myself. “But you can’t see. And having you out there in the crowd, being bumped and pushed, hearing the fight going down, and not knowing if I’m winning or losing, that seems unnecessarily cruel. And I don’t want that. You’ll be afraid for me, and I’ll be afraid for you, and if I’m worrying about you, my mind won’t be where it needs to be.”

“But Tag, that’s kind of how it works. I care about you, you care about me. It’s called a relationship.” There was frustration in her voice, and I noticed she called me Tag whenever she was a little irked at me.

“I protect you, you protect me,” I insisted. “That’s how it works. You protect me by being safe and secure while I fight, so I’m not distracted. And I protect you by insisting on it.”

She sighed again, and I stopped walking and turned her to face me. Gently, with the pads of my fingertips, I smoothed her forehead, traced the scowl between her eyes, and then touched her unsmiling lips, pushing the edges up, forcing her to smile.

She grabbed at my hands and nipped at my fingertips, biting a little harder than was playful, showing me her frustration.

“It’ll be broadcast on FightNet. FOX sports will be there too, but I don’t think it’ll air until later. But on FightNet you can watch it in real time. You can log in and watch it at home. Mikey does the play-by-play for Tag Team fights. He’s good at it, Millie, and I’ll make sure he knows you’re listening so he gives a little more detail than usual. That way you will know exactly what is happening, when it happens.”

She shook her head as if she didn’t like it at all.

“Please, Millie?” I whispered.

“I don’t want you to feel alone. It feels wrong not to be there,” she protested.

“Everyone fights alone, Millie. That’s not something you can help me do.”

“Okay,” she whispered.

“Okay?” I asked.

“Okay,” she acquiesced.

I kissed her gratefully, almost desperately, and she kissed me back. But I sensed the hurt and tasted her reservations.

When I dropped her off at home, I didn’t come inside and she didn’t sulk or simper. I was buzzing with pent-up energy, nerves, and anticipation. I had forty-eight hours to mentally prepare for the fight, and I needed a clear head and no distractions. Even beautiful ones.

“You’ll come here Tuesday night, no matter what time it is?” she asked, her hand on the door handle, her stick at the ready.

“I will,” I promised. Bloodied, bruised, beaten, I would be there.

“I’ll be listening, I’ll be cheering, and I’ll be waiting,” she said simply. She pushed the truck door open, slid to the ground, and I watched as she made her way inside and carefully shut the door.

(End of Cassette)

Moses

MILLIE
HADN’T
BEEN at the fight. I realized that now. At the time I was too amped on the energy of the crowd and the hype of the big event to notice a missing female, especially when she wasn’t
my
female.

Georgia hadn’t gone either. She’d kissed me and told me that babies and brawling didn’t mix so I should go without her. She said she and Kathleen would stay home and do girl stuff. I knew that ‘girl stuff’ basically meant that Georgia would feed and bathe Kathleen, rock her to sleep, and go to bed early herself, but I let her talk me into it.

So I was running solo, sitting on the very front row with a few Tag Team members who weren’t working Tag’s corner, when Tag strutted into the arena to a Waylon Jennings song about cowboys being hard to love and harder to hold. The crowd cheered and joined in on the chorus, and Tag egged them on. It made me laugh. I was so nervous for him I was practically seeing double, and he was acting like a big gorilla, monkeying it up to the packed house, his smile wide, his muscles bulging. He didn’t seem nervous at all, and when he caught my eye he smirked and pounded his chest.

Bruno Santos, on the other hand, entered the arena cloaked in a shimmery white robe with a hood so deep the only thing visible was the tip of his chin. His song of choice was something so bass heavy I couldn’t make out the lyrics, though I caught the words “destruction” and “annihilation.” He was hopping on the balls of his feet, shrugging his shoulders and tossing his neck, and I suddenly wished I’d stayed home with Georgia. Caring about people was a pain in my ass. Watching Tag fight was a bigger pain in my ass. My stomach turned over, and I glared at my friend, willing him to put me out of my misery as soon as possible.

Of course he didn’t. But he battled. He battled hard and ugly, taking as many blows as he dished out, and as usual, he seemed to fight better after he’d taken a couple swipes to the face. Like the song said, he was hard to hold onto. But he definitely wasn’t hard to love. The crowd was solidly on his side, and when he came back from a close call in the fourth round, escaping a near arm-bar that had made my stomach shake and my eyes water, the crowd was in a frenzy.

And then, when it looked like it would end in a decision, a decision that wouldn’t favor the challenger—they so rarely did—Tag caught Santos in the temple with a booming roundhouse that wowed the crowd and rocked his opponent. Santos stumbled, and Tag was all over him, his fists flying, Santos covering his head, not returning the blows. And then it was over. TKO for Taggert. I was out of my seat, screaming and jumping with the rest of the team, delirious with relief and overjoyed with the upset.

Funny, it never even occurred to me that Millie wasn’t there, but I’d definitely noticed that Tag didn’t stick around when it was all over. He was all business at the end, interviews and congratulations, hand-grabbing and palm-greasing. But he left when I left—I walked him to his truck—and the party went on without us. I went home to my wife, and clearly, he went home to Millie.

IT TOOK ME about two hours after the fight ended to keep my promise. I had an interview, a shower, a deep muscle rub-down, and another series of interviews before I could separate myself from the celebratory atmosphere and head for Millie’s. I was sore, and I’d popped a couple ibuprofens, but the adrenaline was still pumping, and I wanted to see my girl.

They must have been watching for me, because Henry shot out the front door and was buzzing around me before I was all the way out of my truck. Millie had her stick and was on the porch, waiting for me, just like she’d promised.

“Tag!” Henry was clicking his fingers again, obviously thrilled to see me. “Forty percent of Light Heavyweight fights end in TKO’s or KO’s,” he recited. It was nice to see he had the lingo down. I put my arm around his shoulders and pulled him back toward the house.

“Amelie cried the whole fight. Then I told her your nose was bleeding, and she covered her ears.”

“Henry,” Amelie sighed, rebuking him. But she reached out her hand for me, and I took it, releasing Henry and pulling her toward me, tucking her against my body, under my right arm as we all entered the foyer and shut the door behind us.

“The referee stopped the fight! Did he stop the fight because you were going to kill Santos? Did it make you mad when he made your nose bleed?” Henry shadow boxed around the foyer.

“Nah, it just made me fight harder.” I laughed at Henry’s wild-eyed recap.

“Everyone was yelling Tag Team! I started yelling it too! The whole crowd had on Tag Team shirts!” Henry was so animated he was practically levitating. I remembered the shirt that was still clutched in my right hand.

“That reminds me! Here, I got you one.” I tossed it to Henry, and he caught it and pulled it on, right over the Kobe Bryant jersey he was wearing. The shirt silenced him momentarily, and he admired himself in the ornate mirror hanging to the right of the staircase.

“I brought you one too, Millie,” I murmured, “But I left it in my truck. It’s your favorite color.”

“Does it say, ‘My boyfriend fought Santos, and all I got was this lousy T-shirt?’” she said drily, a smile playing around her lips.

“Oh man, that’s cold!” I drawled, but I leaned in and touched my mouth to hers, wrapping both of my arms around her. She returned my embrace and held on tight, her face buried in my chest.

“I forgive you,” she whispered. “But I’m never staying home again. That was the single most agonizing experience of my life.”

“I told you I would win. And then I’d come here. And here I am,” I said, nuzzling her hair.

“Will you marry us, Tag?” Henry asked intently, inserting himself back in the conversation.

“What?” I wasn’t sure I had heard him right.

“Will you marry Millie and be my brother?” he repeated, his expression completely serious. He wasn’t messing around. “We want to be part of Tag Team.”

I laughed and looked down at Millie. Her face was frozen. Her back had stiffened the moment the words left Henry’s mouth, and she pulled free of my arms. She reached for the stick she’d set aside, as if she needed something besides me to hold onto.

“Statistically, athletes with solid family units have better stamina, more purpose, better mental health, and overall improved performance than athletes who are either divorced or unmarried,” Henry rambled off robotically, and I tore my gaze from Millie’s stunned face.