7. Chapter 7

Bradley

Beep. Beep. Beep.

How much had I had to drink?

Beep. Beep. Beep.

My head felt like it had been put through a spin cycle. My eyes hurt to open and when they finally did, I couldn't focus. The lights were bright, too bright, and there were shadowy figures moving at the edge of my vision.

"I think he's waking up," said a familiar voice, the one that would always bring me back to reality.

"Arthur?" I murmured, reaching out for him. There were sheets over my chest, but they didn't feel as soft as my own. A sharp pain shot through my hand as I tried to move, but I still reached I needed—

"Hey. Come back to us, Bradley." Then his warm hand was holding mine.

I liked it when he full named me. It reminded me of home. At the gym, I was usually "Brad" or "The Unbeatable." But to Arthur and my family, I was just Bradley.

"Bradley, dear, are you with us?" I turned in the direction of my mother's voice. I was still struggling to focus, but as she leaned into my periphery, it was definitely my mother.

"Wha—" I started, but my throat felt all gross and scratchy. I coughed and tried again. "Whasgoingon?"

Arthur's thumb traced soothing shapes on the back of my hand. I wasn't sure he noticed how often he did it, how often those little touches became a part of my day. They were a completely unprofessional part of our relationship I was scared to point out in case they stopped.

My mother's hand tightened on my shoulder and I turned to look at her as she came into focus properly. I was in a hospital bed, tubes extending from the hand Arthur was holding to an IV bag on my mother's side. My father was a few steps behind her, stoic as ever with that usual expressionless stare of his. It was impossible to tell how he was feeling when he was looking at me like that. I never knew if it was pity or pride.

"W-why am I here?" I asked. "Did I lose?"

My mother and Arthur shared a pointed look. I could remember getting into the ring, the energy of the fight and drawing out those final hits so that the crowd got more than one and a half rounds of my last fight. I was savouring it and then…nothing.

"You were hit pretty hard," Arthur started.

"That's kind of the point," I said, regretting the sarcastic quip as soon as Arthur's face crumpled. "…sorry."

"What Arthur means to say is that you took an illegal hit to the kidney and then a punch to the chin so hard it knocked you out cold," my mother finished.

"That cheating bastard. So I won?" I knew it was stupid to try and massage my ego when I was in a hospital bed, but I needed to know that my streak had continued—even if for the worst possible reason.

Arthur and my mother shared another glance, and even my father looked away. "Mum?" I pressed. "Did I win?"

"The judges were split on whether Oleksandr's hit was deliberate or not—they declared it an accident. Anyone with eyes could see he was playing dirty, but as the punch to your kidney deflected off your glove they declared it a no-contest."

That hit me harder than any physical punch. "So he's getting away with it? He's allowed to cheat and get an unblemished fucking record?"

Beep. Beep. Beepbeepbeepbeep…

I realised then that the noise that had woken me up was my own heartbeat, and it increased along with my stress level. Arthur squeezed my hand, pulling my attention back to him. Dark circles rimmed his watery eyes, telling me he likely hadn't slept.

"Let's not focus on that," he told me. "You didn't get up, and for a second…." He cleared his throat when his voice started to break. "You've been out for twelve hours and they've hooked you up to test your kidney function."

"And I'm okay?"

"You're okay," confirmed Arthur. "The concussion that might take a week or two to wear off, but otherwise all tests are coming back normal."

Maybe it was the concussion that made me feel like I was falling into those big, tired eyes. I scoffed inwardly. I knew better than that. I could fall into that little man's eyes any day.

"What the fuck happens now?" I asked, laying back onto the pillows and looking up at the too-bright fluorescent lights in the hospital ceiling, blaming them on the way my eyes watered. "That was my last fight. I was going to get the glory, enjoy a few weeks of retirement and get the…" Get the boy. "I had it all planned out. Now what?"

"You come home," my mother said with a sad smile. She leaned down to kiss my forehead. "Come home and rest. And then, once you're better, we'll work out your next steps."

"Arthur…" The name escaped my lips before I was even conscious of my need for him. Fuck, maybe that concussion was more serious than I thought.

"Arthur is welcome of course. He can stay in the guest room next to yours."

I looked at Arthur. "Is that OK?" I asked. Please say yes. Please, please say yes.

"Of course. I'll be there for you as long as you need me."

It was weird to be staring up at the ceiling in my childhood bedroom. My parents owned a big old house on the outskirts of Hereford, straddling the border between England and Wales. Dad's job in stock trading had done him well, paying my way through years of boxing lessons. When I'd first started, I'd been made fun of for being the posh boy with the rich parents. "Reckon he's got a glass jaw to go with the jelly legs and the trust fund?" they'd ask. I tried to make sure their jaw knew exactly what came with my trust fund.

But boxing had made me the man I was, made me more resilient than a lot of my private school peers. I'd learned to take the knocks, both literal and metaphorical, and apply myself in a way I'd never imagined I could. I climbed painstakingly through the ranks until I was better than all of them.

And yet there I was: staring up at the ceiling, well aware that I was once again directionless.

Arthur was asleep in the next room. I'd planned on telling him I loved him after that fight. How could I do that now with this shame hanging over me? Boxing had been my entire life, and I had fallen at the very last hurdle. I wasn't sure I was man enough anymore. Arthur deserved better.

It wasn't fair. But then again, they always say life isn't fair. I would get better, I knew that. But I didn't know how yet.

I thought I deserved a little time to wallow.