A Murder For Crow
“And the winner, by submission, via the rear naked choke, with one minute, fifty-two seconds remaining in the second round, Crowley “The Crow,” Daviessssssss.”
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Listening to his name echo over the cheering crowd never got old. On the remarkably short list of things he’d miss about the sport, this was near the top. Gulping in air, he struggled to regulate his breathing, mouth dry despite the water he’d drunk. This was it. The moment he’d welcomed and dreaded for the past three weeks.
Congratulating him on his victory, the interviewer, Chuck something or another he’d never been able to pronounce, tipped the mic his way, asking what he planned to do next. Funny, but next had always meant calling out an opponent, chasing a title, settling a score. Tonight, his heart pounded and not just from the exertion of the fight. Crow licked his lips, hoping to get the words out without choking on them.
“There is no next. Tonight I fought my final bout. Not a bad way to go out, either. I just want to thank my friends and training partners at Triple Tap for always having my back. You’ve been my family for so long it’s going to be surreal waking up Monday morning and not going to the gym to train. A guy couldn’t ask for a better team. Keep pushing one another, never quit. I’m going to enjoy watching you all from my couch for a change. I want to give a shout out to the fans, without all of you what would be the point. Major props to Donovan for my final match, thank you for being one hell of an opponent, I’ll be feeling those strikes for a while. Thanks to Jeff Ritter and the folks at FWF for giving me the opportunity to earn a living doing the one thing I’ve always been good at. It’s been a long, crazy ride, thank you for being with me every step of the way.”
One final wave, clasping hands with Donovan, a brief, sweaty hug, and those steps he’d had nightmares of tripping down. Backslaps and a whole bunch of “Why didn’t you tell me’s” on the way back to the locker room, then silence, blessed silence, which was good, ‘cause it was suddenly hard to breathe and the last thing he needed was to have a panic attack in front of everyone. He hoped that’s what it was, anyway, ‘cause if it was a heart attack that would be a shitty way to end the night.
Cold towel on the back of his neck, drink another water, breathe in, exhale, now do it again. Fingers pressed to his wrist, good, his pulse was no longer racing. There was cheering in the distance, dim, dull, he wouldn’t be able to hear it at all in the shower once he made it there. He never should have sat on that bench. His feet felt like lead now, his shoulders heavy and slumped. This was it. He was done. Retired at 45. Still young enough to do something else with his life beside trading punches with someone.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, he winced when his fingertips grazed the cut over his eye. His cheek was tender, his left side ached from a kick Donovan had caught him with. It was time to be done. Time to stop risking concussions that might leave him brain damaged and injuries that could leave him in too much pain to get out of bed. As it was, his left knee throbbed when it rained, the result of a surgery that wouldn’t have been necessary if he hadn’t been too bullheaded to tap when he needed to.
Now he was more than happy to tap out completely and breathe a sigh of relief that this part of his life was over, that he could finally quit fighting and just…rest. Bone weary he stood, took a moment to steady himself, waited for the panic that had been hitting on and off ever since he’d made this decision. No, he hadn’t told anyone. Hadn’t talked about it, hell, the last time he’d talked to one of them about it they’d talked him out of it. He’d let them talk him out of it. Let them talk him into three more years of mat drills, cardio, waking up before the sun to stretch and run and drink kale smoothies instead of scarfing French Toast. No bad carbs except on cheat day and even then he’d felt guilty for putting something in his body that wasn’t designed to help it run at its peek optimal levels.
In the morning, he was having French toast, with sausage links, and strawberries, whipped cream and chocolate milk. Afterwards, he was going to walk through the park to the bookstore on the other side of it, browse without checking his watch to see what time he needed to work a training session with someone. On the way home, he’d stop for a small bag of mini-donuts, pick up a steak and some salad fixing for supper, ‘cause no way in hell was he gonna let the body he’d worked so hard to sculpt go to fat in his retired years, even if he could afford to relax some of his stricter dietary rules.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Put one foot in front of the other until his fingertips touched the slick tiles of the shower stall. He’d done this a million times, even half blind from punches that had left his eyes swollen damn near shut, but tonight his fingers fumbled with the knob and the cold water wouldn’t warm up, not even a little, so he took the plunge and stepped beneath the spray while it was still icy.
The longer he leaned against the wall the heavier his hair grew. When had it escaped its braid? Had he undone it or had it come part on his own? It clung to his shoulders, molded against his neck. What would it feel like to be halfway down his back the way he’d always wanted to grow it?
With rhythmic movements he washed the sweat from his body, inhaled, shivered, laughing, ‘cause it was fuckin’ ridiculous that an event center of this size didn’t have a big enough hot water heater that all the athletes could get clean without freezing their assets off. Oh well, this would be the final time he’d have to worry about shit like this. All he needed to do now was wash his hair, get dressed, throw his gear in the back of his SUV, go home and start enjoying his retirement.
Simple.
Basic.
Easy.
Until it wasn’t.