Charlie and I are kept separate for most of the day. I spend my time exploring the streets nearest the hotel with Mason and Casey, having already picked out a few shops that I wanted to stop into when I was free from Charlie’s itinerary. Mason comes along without a single complaint, staying close to his mother and me at all times. His only request is that our last stop be a bookstore, so that he can pick up the latest release in his favorite series.
When we finally return to the hotel, in an elevator taking us to our respective floors, Mason looks up at me, and then forward again and says, “That was fun. I can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t want to live here.”
Casey’s eyes widen and she nudges Mason’s shoulder, but he does not look at her, and she does not look at me. I only smile as the elevator doors open and Casey and Mason step off.
“We’ll see you soon, Stella. Try to get some rest, before tonight.”
I nod and say goodbye, and as the elevator doors close again, I smile, wondering if Charlie had been like Mason as a little boy, in constant worry for others. Because if he didn’t care, who would?
I take Casey’s advice when I return to the room, falling asleep immediately – alone. But I do not wake that way. Instead, I'm pulled from sleep by Charlie's lips on my bare shoulder.
Before I can even open my eyes, I speak, “Is it time to go already? I didn’t mean to sleep long. I don’t know why I’m so tired.”
I take a deep breath and finally open my eyes. Charlie sits beside me on the bed. He brings his hand to my face and brushes his fingers across the skin underneath my eye, leaning closer in concentration.
“Eyelash,” he smiles, and then his finger moves back again, this time tracing circles on my cheek. “We still have over an hour. You’re probably tired because I’ve stressed you out,” he smirks.
“Likely so.”
He withdraws his hand and sits up again to remove his shoes before lying down fully beside me.
“Are you nervous about watching tonight?”
“Not about watching,” I tell him, “I’m worried that you’ll be hurt, that’s all.”
“I’m glad that you aren’t afraid of more than that,” he smiles, “Still unnecessary, though.”
“What will happen if your side starts to hurt? Will you be able to just walk off?” I ask.
Charlie is obviously amused. His eyes squeeze shut with quiet laugher and when he finally responds he is still grinning. “I suppose I could. I wouldn’t though.”
I frown, “Tell me you wouldn’t allow yourself to be hurt for pride.”
“I won’t be hurt, Stella,” he keeps his smile, and I keep my frown.
I sigh and lay my hand against his cheek, wishing away my own nerves. I move my hand down his neck, across his shoulders, and over his arms, feeling his muscles as if to remind myself how strong and solid he is.
“I love you,” he says, and I look from his large arm to his sweet smile and what nerves I have cured start to resurface. No matter his physical advantage, it kills me to think about him fighting anyone, knowing him the way I do.
“And I love you,” I say.
“But do you trust me?”
I almost tell him no, that I think he is being stubborn, and has been since the night that he was stabbed. I nearly tell him that he should not compromise his quiet confidence for blinding pride and make a mistake that could cost him much more than his boxing career.
But I only nod, because truthfully, I do. I know that Charlie is smart, and I believe that he wouldn’t want me there tonight if he thought that something terrible would happen. He would never knowingly put me in a position to be upset; I trust that.
This venue is much larger than the one that hosted the fights in Charleston – a small arena. Charlie and Mark lead us towards the back of the huge building, into a tall, concrete hallway, both of them have large duffels slung over their shoulders.
“We’re heading to the locker rooms,” Charlie says, “There may not actually be any lockers, but don’t call them dressing rooms.” He turns back to me with a grin on his face.
“Only cage fighters have dressing rooms,” Mark adds, chuckling at his own joke.
For now, Mason and Casey are beside me, but only because Mason begged that he at least should get to see where the fight will be, even if he isn’t old enough to stay.
We are all stopped by a man at the end of the hallway, at the mouth of an open room that looks to be an actual locker room, but is divided into smaller sections with black, temporary wall structures.
While the man gives instructions to Mark and Charlie, I notice a boy – a couple of years younger than Mason, it seems – approaching us with his mother. She makes eye contact with me and smiles almost shyly as her son goes straight to Charlie and tugs at his sleeves.
“Excuse me, sir,” the boy says in a voice that is small, but big enough to grab everyone’s attention.
“Hi,” Charlie says, looking down at the boy that is only a bit taller than his waist.
“Could you sign these for me?” The boy holds up a pair of soccer cleats.
“That’s all he has with him, he’s just been to practice,” his mother explains, “I know you’re not a soccer player, but he saw you training at a gym near here over the summer, and when his coach told him that you were a boxer, he wanted to meet you, but didn’t get the chance.”
Charlie has already gotten on a bended knee and agreed to sign for the boy. He speaks quietly to him, asking his name and how old he is. Casey begins to ask the mother if she’s staying for the fight, to which the mother says no, that she’s here only because she has friends who work the venue, and a curious little boy. I turn my attention back to Charlie as he continues to speak to the boy.
“Have you been playing soccer for a while?” He asks, handing the signed gear back to the boy.
“Only for a year.”
“I played soccer too, but I wasn’t very good,” Charlie says, “I’m sure with a year’s experience, you’re much better than I ever could be.”
The boy shakes his head and smiles, “I don’t think so. Thank you for my cleats.”
When the boy’s mother collects him and they begin to walk away, she looks over her shoulder and mouths a thank you to Charlie.
“Does that happen often?” I ask.
“It does,” Mason answers for Charlie, who is far too modest to say anything.
Within thirty minutes, the larger room that we’re in is buzzing with activity. Other fighters have arrived with their trainers and entourages, and I begin to hear a crowd build in the arena past the concrete hallway.
Mason wishes Charlie good luck, knowing that it’s nearly time for him to leave, and Casey hugs Charlie, kissing his cheek and whispering something.
“If you need me at all, you can call me,” Casey tells me on her way out, “Of course, I don’t know why you’d need me. Don’t be nervous, I’ve probably just made it worse.” She looks worriedly at me and shakes her head a bit.
Charlie and Mark are talking in the corner of the smaller, makeshift room that we’re in, so neither hears our conversation.
“I know how scary it is, watching him,” Casey assures me quietly. Mason stands beside her, pretending not to listen. “He is very good at what he does though, and Mark keeps a close eye on what goes on. Mark might not seem to be… good with details, but he can catch Charlie’s mistakes before he makes them. Just try to relax and enjoy yourself.”
She pats my shoulder as I nod, and I think I can feel the color draining from my face, though I do appreciate her trying to calm me.
Fifteen more minutes pass and it’s only the three of us. I try to keep quiet and out of the way, but there doesn’t seem to be much that I can disturb. Mark leaves and returns frequently, and Charlie tries to talk to me as though we’re sitting in Clemson listening to records, and not about to be separated into a ring and bleachers while I watch him fight. Even though he speaks with his usual calmness, I can tell that he’s in his own head as much as I am.
Mark returns to the room for what must be the tenth time, but he stops in the doorway.
“Stella, I’ve told one of the men working where to seat you, so I know where you’ll be. He’s waiting.” Mark nods, making brief eye contact with Charlie, who sits next to me on a metal bench.
“Well,” with a deep breath, I stand, and Charlie follows, “Good luck, I know you’ll—”
Charlie cuts me off by kissing me – hard – bringing me extra close by my hips.
“I love you,” he says against my lips, and then he rests his forehead on mine, “Don’t be afraid, okay? And if you are, just come here. Even if I’m out there, come here and wait for me and we’ll leave as soon as we can.”
“Okay,” I smile, “I think everyone is more worried about me than they are about you. I don’t want you to be stressed out, either. I’ll be fine, as long as you are.”
“Then I have nothing to worry about,” he smirks, taking one step back, allowing me to leave.
I tell him that I love him one more time before I leave him, following Mark back down the hallway, watching as he points me towards a large man in a black tee and jeans. He tells me to follow him, and that he’ll come and find me after Charlie’s match.
The man seats me and politely asks if I need anything. I assume that, as nice as the venue is, no one else is treated so gently at these matches, and I wonder just how worried Charlie has made Mark about my possible reaction to the situation.
Honestly, I don’t feel as nervous as I’d expected to. Casey was right – Charlie is amazing at what he does, and I trust him.
Charlie and his opponent are the second fight of the night. Just ten minutes after I’m seated, the first fighters enter the ring. I pay no mind to their names, but I choose a favorite immediately when one has a violent smile, thrusting his fist into the air and growling, while the other – my choice – simply keeps his head down, listening intently to his coach and swiping a thumb across his nose nervously, ignoring the crowd.
Their fight seems to go by very fast. In fact, it seems that without the time between rounds, the fighters were only pinned against each other for a collective minute, though I know it was much longer. I wish silently for Charlie’s to go so quickly in my mind.
My favorite is declared the winner, and he finally acknowledges the crowd when the referee grabs his red-gloved hand and raises it over his head. He looks up for only a moment, squinting at the lights in his face before the referee drops his arm and the winner turns back to meet his coach.
As soon as the ring is empty, the lights begin to shift and change and the announcer’s voice sounds over the speakers, beginning to introduce the next set of opponents. Every noise in the room dulls to a buzz as I stare off towards the side of the arena where the fighters enter, waiting for Charlie.
His opponent is announced first, and I try my best not to focus on his features, or even to hear his name. I am thankful, however, when he does not have the same evil grin as the last losing fighter, and he does not pump his gloved fist towards the ceiling.
Charlie enters next. He does not smile, and much like my first favorite, he only attempts to look into the crowd for a moment as he makes his way towards the ring, raising his glove to the cheering audience. He squints as well, and then his eyes lower as he watches the floor in front of him with a frown in his brow.
He wears no shirt, only shorts and brown, leather boxing gloves – though they are brand new, not the same pair that he wore in the gym on the first day that I watched him train.
When both fighters are in the ring, before the match begins, Mark speaks to Charlie in the corner opposite from the other boxer and coach. Charlie begins to scan the audience. Mark’s hand slaps Charlie’s arm, and he looks irritated as he points towards me.
Charlie finds me quickly then, and he smiles just slightly, as if to be sure that only I notice. Mark finally regains Charlie’s attention and I think about what Casey told me just over an hour ago, hoping that Mark is catching every mistake before it can be made.
“Excuse me,” I hear a voice from behind me, and nearly turn. Then, I remind myself that the only two people whom I know here are in the ring now, and that the voice is likely calling someone else. Then, I feel a tap on my shoulder.
“Miss?” The voice sounds again and this time, I turn around and am brought face to face with an older man with thick, brown – but greying – hair, and eyes so dark that I cannot make out the color in the faint light of the arena seating.
“Sorry, I thought you were speaking to someone else. Can I help you?” I ask curiously.
“I just saw that boy look at you,” His eyes look over me at Charlie, “Do you know him?”
“I do,” I smile.
The man opens his mouth and takes a breath to speak, but stops himself.
I had previously tuned out the announcer, but the noise from the crowd changes, and I realize that the fight is about to begin.
The man still has not spoken. He keeps his face close to mine, and his eyes towards the ring. Finally, he nods.
“Alright,” he says, and he leans back into his seat beside me.
I turn back towards the ring, wondering briefly about the man’s peculiar behavior. Then, I decide that he must simply be a fan. Charlie seems to have many. In fact, I can hear his name being called over the constant chants from the crowd.
The crowd does not bother me like they had in Charleston. Their cheering seems less barbaric. Perhaps because the venue is so much less intimate, I feel as though the fighters are not as affected by us in the crowd. They are free to focus on their sport, to not feel so pressured, even with the larger audience.
And for me, I can convince myself that the sea of faceless spectators are a little less aware, a little less present, and that it is only truly me watching Charlie.
The fight begins. The first movements of Charlie and his opponent seem synchronized. I do not notice how tightly I’m gripping the bottom of my chair until the other fighter punches at Charlie and I jump, straining against my own hold. Charlie punches back then, and while Charlie did not move from his opponents punch, his hit causes the other fighter to move back slightly, and Charlie does not allow him to recover.
The fight moves fast then, punch after punch is made by each fighter, but they seem to be holding back still.
By a later round, the fight has become more violent. I sit forward in my seat still, my fingertips sore from digging into the bottom of my chair. For a moment, I think I see blood on the other fighter’s face near his jaw, but I convince myself otherwise.
Charlie glances towards my seat between rounds, and I wave a bit each time. I’m not sure that he can see me from the bright spotlights that circle him, but I still try, so that he does not think that I’ve left.
During the break before the last round, I sneak a quick look at the man who still sits behind me. His face is white, his eyes fixed on Charlie, his mouth in a hard line. While I have relaxed slightly since the start of the fight, this man seems to have become tenser. I wonder if maybe he is here for Charlie’s opponent, who seems to be tiring and fading, and perhaps he was only curious to know if I knew Charlie personally.
In the last seconds of the fight, Charlie no longer reserves his energy, and it becomes apparent that the other fighter has no more to exert. With Charlie’s last punch, the fighter’s body turns, following his head, and blood spills from his face onto the mat – the blood that I’d told myself was only sweat under strange lighting. I cringe as the fighter falls to the ground in front of Charlie.
As the countdown ends, and the crowd cheers more loudly than I’ve heard them yet, a referee grabs Charlie’s glove and throws his arm in the air, as he had done with the victor before. Charlie does not make any attempt to acknowledge the crowd at first. He looks at the mat in front of him, his breathing hard and rough. Finally, when the ref releases his arm and it falls down to his side again, Charlie pays me one glance, and I notice blood on his face, too. But the small gash on his eyebrow is not enough to unsettle my relief that the fight is over.
Charlie waits for his opponent to stand again and removes his glove to shake his hand, seeing him off with a nod.
Mark pats Charlie on the back as they clear the ring, and they quickly disappear into the darkness that surrounds the illuminated square.
I try to watch for their shadows to appear in the concrete hallway, but the man behind me beckons my attention once again.
“Excuse me, Miss. I knew Charlie a long time ago, and I’d love to congratulate him.”
He hands me a small card with only a PO Box number written on it.
“I’m in the process of getting a new number,” he says, “So, if he could just send me his address here, I can send him back a letter. I’d really like to send him something,” he emphasizes.
I nod, “I’ll make sure he gets it.”
The man thanks me and stands from his seat, moving towards the aisle and walking slowly down the stairs, seeming stiff. By his tattered, oversized clothing, I assess that the man likely has no cell phone or permanent address.
I unzip the wristlet that sits beside me in my chair and tuck the card inside, with intentions of giving it to Charlie and asking him to write to the hopeful old man.
“Stella?”
I look towards the aisle, past the spectators who sit beside me to find Mark waiting with one of the large duffel bags. I abandon my chair, thankful for the realization that I will never again assume a seat to watch Charlie fight.
“He’s okay, right?” I ask Mark as I approach.
“He’s great, but I know he’d rather see you now than me,” he smiles, laying his hand against my back. Mark’s stiff behavior has changed now that he has a win to be thankful for.
“I’m going to head back to the hotel ahead of you both. I know Mason will be waiting up to hear what happened.” He pats my back as we renter the divided room. “Right over there,” he reminds me, “Just go on in. He knows you’re coming. Enjoy your night.”
I walk quickly towards the door and enter the room without hesitation. Charlie stands in front of a mirror, holding a rag over his right eyebrow. He drops the rag in an instant when he sees me in the mirror’s reflection, and hurries towards me with a grin.
He picks me up while the door is still open behind us, holding me with one arm and closing it as I wrap my legs around his waist. He walks us to the bench then and sits down, leaving me in his lap. He ignores my fingers tracing about the skin near his cut, and he presses his lips against my neck.
I let him kiss me for a long time then, excusing myself from any worries or thoughts.
It’s late when Charlie and I finally make it back to our hotel. We order room service, though I barely make it to eat, nearly falling asleep with my head in Charlie’s lap as a movie plays on the television and he tells me about his experience in the ring.
“I was afraid I’d really hurt his jaw, but when he shook my hand, I could tell that he wasn’t in too much pain.”
“I couldn’t even tell you what color his hair was,” I giggle, “I didn’t want to see him – really see him. But I’m glad he’s alright.”
Throughout our conversation before and during our late dinner, I remember the older man and his request several times. Each time, however, Charlie captures my attention with another detail from his fight, and I forget again.
I’m shaken in the middle of the night, and I sit up immediately to determine what is causing the movement. The television is on, and from the greenish light that pours from the screen onto the bed, I can see that the only moving object is Charlie, beside me. His arm begins to toss once I am not under it, and he groans in his sleep.
“Charlie,” I rub my hand over his arm, and he feels hot.
“Charlie,” I repeat, “Wake up.”
I shake his arm then, and he opens his eyes immediately with a gasp.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Did I do something? Did I hurt you?”
“No,” I laugh quietly, “You were just being restless. Do you feel okay? You’re too warm,” I feel his forehead and it, too, is hot.
He does not respond, but winces a bit.
“Do you dream when you’re restless?” I ask.
“No,” he sighs shaking his head, “I never remember dreaming when I wake up, anyway. I think I must dream of being in the ring, though. I can’t think of anything else it would be.”
He winces again and stands up from the bed, heading into the bathroom. I turn down the volume on the television and wait for him to return, laying back down into the pillows.
I’ve nearly dozed off again when I hear a loud groan and the sound of Charlie getting sick in the bathroom. I climb from the bed quickly, calling his name in vain.
I grab for the knob and hastily pull open the bathroom door to find Charlie leaning over the toilet, his hands on either side of the seat.
“I’m okay now,” he says tiredly, but then he is sick again, and I turn towards the sink, grabbing a clean washcloth and dampening it with cold water.
I wait for a minute before asking him to turn towards me so I can wipe his face. When he does turn, his skin is an odd color, along with his lips, which are usually so rosy.
“Charlie,” I shake my head, my eyes wide.
He nods and holds his shaking hand out to take the washcloth from me. He wipes his mouth for only a second before he winces again, and this time I can see that he is grabbing his side.
“Please,” I say, trying not to cry, “Please, let’s go to the hospital. I think something’s wrong.”
As I say it, he lunges forward to the toilet, this time only coughing.
“Call Mark,” he says, “I want someone to be there with you.”