The Hardest Hit (16 page)

“Would've been nice to have a doctor on call,” Daniella said, nudging Trevor's arm. “On nights like these we could use one.”

The woman didn't lie. Both he and Daniella stood inside the arena at Caesars Palace observing the setup for the fight. Daniella's belly was getting bigger by the day, and Trevor's heart raced. Yes, they could use a doctor to help them deal with the anticipation that filled the huge empty space, and the excitement boiling deep inside both of them.

Tonight, Domenic Raccio was taking on Dion Nash. A bittersweet taste filled his mouth. It should have been Trevor's big night. He was the guy who was supposed to take on Nash. But, he didn't let his being barred from stepping inside a ring phase him, nor did he take his jealousy out on his protégé.

The commission had tied his hands. There was nothing he could do.

Over the weeks that passed while he waited for his reevaluation, Trevor had devoted all of his free time to boxing, either conditioning himself or training Domenic.

The letter the commission sent said he couldn't box, not that he couldn't coach. So, he took full advantage of his position on the training staff, and the loophole the letter failed to address. Tonight he would coach his mentee in one of the biggest fights of the young boxer's professional career: his first.

Still, if he looked too long at the ring, a slight twinge of sadness pricked the back of Trevor's throat. This fight was supposed to be his. The one he'd worked for, trained for, spent hours in front of old videos memorizing Nash's every move. Yes, tonight was to be his night. But it wasn't. Just like Chelsea was supposed to be his girl, but she wasn't.

Since they'd last spoken he came to realize that some things didn't work out, no matter how good they seemed at first. Aside from seeing her car in the clinic's parking lot, he never got a glimpse of his beautiful ex-girlfriend. Better not, he told himself over and over. Seeing her would only make his heart ache and his body fill with a longing he'd never again fulfill.

So, he concentrated on what lie ahead of him; Domenic's big night, and his first as an official trainer and corner man. Shakes would be there sitting in the front row should he need a cut man. Nearly pushing eighty, Abraham Shakes could stop a cut quicker than any younger man could hop into the ring. Shakes knew all the secrets, and Trevor considered himself lucky to learn from him.

The event workers set up chairs while the riggers hung the lights. Maintenance workers checked the sound, and an event promoter busied himself preparing for the start of the show.

Daniella looked over at him. “Are you going to be okay?”

He shoved both hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Yeah, just nervous, I guess.”

“Totally understandable. Tonight will be your first fight on record as a head trainer. No pressure.” She laughed.

“I have to be honest with you. I'm not sure he'll win.” Trevor's mind rolled through all the videos of Nash he'd watched. “Nash has an uncanny ability to get out of tight spots. Back him up against the ropes and he's an escape artist. That's how he won gold in the Olympics.”

She placed a hand on her hip. “And Domenic's not quick enough to handle those kinds of moves?”

Trevor shrugged.

Daniella turned to him. “Losing his first professional fight would shake his confidence. So, if you think he won't win, you'll need to prepare him for that, too.”

He turned to his trainer. “I totally disagree. If I go in his dressing room, and even so much as hint at a loss . . . he'd . . .”

“What?” Her grin turned up the corner of her mouth. “Hold it against you?”

A pause swelled between them.

“I see. Omitting the truth is better for him. He's your guy, Trevor. You train him how you see fit.” With that, Daniella climbed out of the ring and walked through the shadows, leaving him alone.

He understood where she was coming from, and it didn't take a genius to know she was pointing out the similarities of how he was treating Domenic to how Chelsea had treated him. So, what if he had to omit the truth to spare Domenic a case of nerves. That was nothing compared to what Chelsea had done to him.

He took a moment and allowed his eyes to scan the arena. A thousand empty seats would soon be filled with people there to see Dion Nash. Even if he would have been able to fight, he knew most of the fans wouldn't have been there for him. He had no following. Tonight would have been his first step at building a fan base. Yet, once again, nobody cared.

An acidic roll washed through his stomach. He had two choices. Stand in the ring and beat himself up for not being able to fight, or walk through the ropes go find his boxer, and use everything his studies had taught him to help Domenic beat Dion Nash.

Self-pity wasn't his style. Trevor climbed through the ropes intent on making Domenic Raccio a champion.

***

Hours later the noise from the crowd hummed through the arena, and his guy was shaking out a bad case of nerves. Trevor stood in Domenic's dressing room watching him puke again.

“It's okay, man. It's all part of it. Get your stomach in line with your head,” Trevor said. “You can do this. We've trained for this. Nash is going down.”

Domenic nodded, then he ran to the toilet again and blew chunks. When the kid stopped retching, he wiped his mouth with a taped hand. “Yeah, Nash is mine.”

His words sounded weak, way weaker than his pungent breath. The poor guy looked green. Sweat beaded on his brow. This didn't look good. Not at all.

“Never figured you for a puker,” Trevor said.

Domenic turned back to the commode another time and vomited.

“Nerves are a bitch. You'll be okay.” Seriously, he'd have said anything to calm the guy down. So, he tried looking forward to help get Domenic's mind off his jitters. “Tell me. What's the first thing you're going to do with that prize money? Upgrade that shithole of an apartment, or put a deposit down on a brand-new ride?”

Domenic passed a taped hand over his mouth. “Go see a fucking doctor.”

Trevor laughed.

“No man, I'm serious.” The stern look on his face told Trevor he was. “I think I've got the fucking flu.”

His shoulders slumped. “You're shitting me, man?”

Domenic pressed his hand to his head, as if holding it there would help. “I don't know if I can do this.”

Terror gripped Trevor's stomach. Was his boxer backing out? No. No. No. He couldn't allow that to happen. They'd signed contracts. Money—Stamina's money—was on the table. They were three hours away from the bell ringing, and now his guy was telling him he might not go through with it?

Unacceptable.

The kid needed to know what was at stake. “You can't back out now. It doesn't work that way. We've all signed on the dotted line, Daniella included. There's money, not only in ticket sales, but concessions that Stamina gets a slice of. It's too big of a show for you to think about bailing.” Trevor gazed at his pale, sweating boxer.

Oh the poor guy. This was no good at all.

He shook his head. “Okay. We still have some time. Go lie down.”

Domenic heeded Trevor's instruction. He smacked a hand to his forehead.
Think. Think. Think.
Okay. There were several moves at play here. He could call Daniella. Allowing himself a moment, he thought that through and imagined their conversation.

Boss, my guy can't fight.

He's your boxer,
she'd say.
He's your problem.

Daniella wasn't the kind of boss who'd leave him in a lurch, but being part of the training staff meant handling any crisis. The show always went on. Somehow. And, part of a trainer's job was to make sure everyone stuck to what they'd agreed to.

Maybe, he could ask for a delay. Just an hour to give his guy time to stop heaving. Trevor walked over to the supply bag and pulled out a copy of the contract. His finger scanned the page, and he sighed. Just as he suspected: a hefty fine for delay of fight. Perfect. Daniella would have his ass.

There was only one other thing he knew he could do. He drew his cell phone out from his pocket and dialed Chelsea's number.

“Trevor?” she said, and his heart gave a strong thud.

“Hi. I'm sorry to bother you, but I didn't know who else to call,” he said.

“Sure. What's up?”

God, she sounded good. “We're fighting tonight and my guy is sick, really sick. He can't stop vomiting. We're set to go on in three hours and I don't know what to do.”

“I'm coming over,” she told him.

He rattled off the location and told her how to get into the arena through the event entrance. “I'll leave your name at the desk, so you'll sail right through.”

“Okay. Don't worry.” She sounded as calm as ever. “I'll be there in ten minutes.”

Screw it. Trevor couldn't stand around and wait for Chelsea to find their dressing room, so he waited for her at the security desk. Pacing like a cat in a cage, he walked behind the line he was barred from crossing. He couldn't go outside and meet her in the parking lot. That meant delays getting back through security for both of them, and Trevor couldn't spare the time.

When he left, Domenic was lying down on his side, curled in a ball. Some contender. Poor kid. Of all the rotten luck, for both of them. Domenic had trained too hard to find himself getting KO'd by a fucking virus. And Trevor didn't need his training debut swirling the bowl like one of his fighters puke sessions.

If the situation wasn't as desperate as it was, part of him would find it funny. Every time he was on the brink of something good, fate handed him a fat, stinking turd. Trevor swore life was against him. He simply couldn't win.

He looked down to check the time on his phone's display, and as his head went up, there she was. His heart nearly stopped. God, she was beautiful. Dressed in a black shirt and jeans, she wore her lab coat embroidered with the Sunrise Hospital logo. She'd left her hair in long, loose spirals, just the way he liked it.

As she grew closer, he noticed the absence of makeup on her face. Another way he liked her best. He loved it when she allowed her natural beauty to shine through. Cosmetics were for models who needed them, not his girl.

But then, she wasn't his girl. Not anymore.

Shaking the thought from his mind, he walked to her as she showed her credentials.

“Dr. Chelsea Fox, from Sunrise Hospital. I'm here to see Domenic Raccio, my patient.”

The security guard examined her badge and then peered inside the doctor's bag she carried. Trevor wanted to yell out and tell the guy to hurry the hell up. But he also didn't want to raise any suspicions that the fight might not go off as planned.

After being cleared, she walked over to where Trevor stood.

“How's he doing?”

Trevor had two answers to her question. The first pertained to Domenic. “Not too good. He's vomiting a lot. I'm not sure he's going to make it through tonight.” The second referred to him, but he kept his response silent. He couldn't exactly say that seeing her made his heart sink to his toes, and that he missed her more than he could articulate.

So, he went with the good bet, the safe bet, and kept the conversation limited to his fighter. Together they walked toward the dressing room. “He started out this morning doing okay. Then, I noticed as the day wore on he got really tired. He started sweating profusely. And, now, well, now he can't keep anything down. Not even water.”

They opened the door and found his big, tough boxer passed out cold.

“Sleeping is good,” Chelsea said. “Do you want me to wake him?”

If she didn't wake him, what would they do? Stand there and look at each other? Or be forced into a conversation Trevor didn't want to have? He'd called Chelsea because he'd needed to get his guy medical attention, and she was the only doctor on his speed dial.

“Yeah,” he said. “Do it.”

Chelsea sat her bag down and drew out a pair of latex gloves. After wiggling her fingers inside them, she made her way over to Domenic and gently woke him. For the first time in a long time, Trevor observed her in action.

She bent down, eye level with Domenic. “Hi there.” She spoke soft and gentle.

Domenic woke. “Oh, hey, Doc.” His guy sounded weak.

Trevor let out a long, labored sigh. It looked as if he'd have to call Daniella and give her the bad news.

Chelsea worked the boxer over with a full examination. She listened to his lungs and stomach. Asked him a bunch of questions, and took out something that looked like an oversized Q-tip, and swabbed the back of his throat. Once she finished, she told Domenic to, “Lie down and rest,” then she made her way back to Trevor.

“Well.” She sighed. “It's certainly the flu. I took a swab to take back and analyze but I've been doing battle with this nasty strain for weeks.”

“Is there anything you can do?” he asked, placing a hand on his hip.

“I brought some antivirals, but they'll take time to start working. It's the flu; there's no real cure. Patients have to ride it out. I'm also going to give him a trimethobenzamide injection.”

“What's that?” He felt his brow furrow.

“A shot to ease the nausea and stop the vomiting. If he's going to try to fight I'm worried about him losing too much water from his system. Under the heat of the lights, and not to mention the physical exertion, staying hydrated is paramount.”

“Good,” he said. “Sounds like we've got a plan.”

“Does he really have to fight?” She pressed her lips in a firm, flat line.

Trevor lifted a shoulder. “He doesn't have much choice. The contract covers only life-threatening conditions. Fights don't stop for a case of the sniffles or the flu.”

“It should've been you in the ring tonight.”

Oh how right she was. Sorrow filled him. Her words wrapped around his lungs and squeezed so hard he could barely breathe. “Yeah.” One word was all he could muster.

“That's my fault. I'm very sorry. I take full responsibility for you not fighting.”

He shook his head. “Don't be sorry. It's over. I mean, I'd give anything to be in the ring tonight, but the fact is my scans show I'm not there yet. Dr. Foster was a little overanxious to kill my career, but it doesn't change the fact that if she hadn't barred me, I still wouldn't be fighting tonight anyway.”

“I heard Daniella got the commission to agree to a reevaluation.” Hope sprang into her eyes.

He gave a chuckle. “Yeah, can you believe it? Now that's one lady I wouldn't want to go up against, in or out of the ring. I have another scan scheduled for tomorrow, and the appointment for my reevaluation is next week.”

“Well, good luck.”

His eyes locked with hers. He missed her. So. So. Much. Hearing the sound of her voice, seeing her compassion for his fighter, and just having her close touched him someplace deep in his soul. He felt empty without her. That he knew. And part of him longed to have her back in his life.

But she'd lied to him, and that cut him deeper than she'd ever know. But what kind of person did that make him if he couldn't forgive her?

“Can you stay tonight?” A look of shock crept on her face. “For the fight, I mean. Can you hang around in case we need you?”

“Of course,” she answered without hesitation.

“Good,” he said, “I'm going to go back to the security desk and get you clearance for the front row. You can sit with Shakes, and I'll make sure to tell them you're with me.”