Chapter 43

“Aren’tyou two getting a little old for this?” Molly places her hands on her hips and glares at us.

Molly was here, waiting on the back porch when we dragged our sorry asses home. She had not been amused to watch us stagger out of Remy’s vehicle.

She herds us into the kitchen, fuming the whole way.

“Old? We’re in the prime of our lives. This is what we do.” Remy holds his arms wide, then winces.

“Suuure.” She skewers him with a scathing look. “Real prime, old man.”

“Heh.” I limp toward her. “Tell him.”

“What are you laughing at, gangster walk?” She scowls and holds out her hand, blocking my hug.

“Hey, now.” I cock my head. “Those are fightin’ words.”

“Look at you.” Molly sighs and reaches up on tiptoes to touch my cheek. “Damn you, Remy.” She throws a scowl at her brother, then roughly grabs my chin and turns my face. “At least he didn’t cut you open.”

“I think he cracked one of my ribs,” Remy complains.

I roll my eyes. “You were being stubborn.”

“Ugh.” Molly throws her hands up. “You two can nurse each other back to health. I’m staying in my room tonight.”

She spins away, grabs her bag off the table and speed walks toward the stairs.

Remy snickers. “I think she’s mad, bro.”

“We could’ve done this Monday…or literally any other time, you know.”

He grins wider.

“Fuckin’ cock-blocking motherfucker,” I grumble.

He laughs, then hisses a pained breath. “Ow.”

“Feel that?” I point at him. “That’s Karma.”

“Yeah? What’re you naming your aches?”

“Remington.” I chuckle at my joke but he just shakes his head, then pulls another pained face.

“Maybe I should take you to urgent care,” I suggest.

He closes his eyes for a second as if he’s assessing his injuries. “No. If it gets worse, I’ll go. Right now, I want to shower and sit with some ice.”

“All my fancy ice packs I brought back with me are in the chest freezer downstairs.” I nod to the basement door.

We both stare at it.

“Think we can get Molly to run down and grab them for us?” he asks.

“Unlikely.” I wince. “She’s pretty mad.”

A few minutes later, Remy and I haven’t moved far when Molly stomps down the stairs and into the kitchen again.

“Ugh. I’m so mad at you two.” She throws her hands in the air. “But I can’t stand knowing you’re in pain.” She turns and glances at both of us. “What do you need?” she asks me.

“Ice packs.” I gesture vaguely to the basement door. “They’re in the chest freezer.”

“How many?”

“All of them,” Remy groans.

Molly growls, a sound that’s more adorable than angry, and stomps toward the door.

“This is why I didn’t wait until Monday,” Remy says. “So someone was around to nurse us back to health.”

“You’re an idiot.” I limp over to the cabinet and take a bottle of Tylenol off the shelf. It takes two tries to twist off the stupid childproof lid.

“All right. Geez, these are cold.” Molly dumps an armful of icepacks on the counter. “Who started the fight?”

“Why does it matter?” Remy asks.

“Because whoever started it,” she says slow enough to convey how irritated she is with us, “gets last dibs on the icepacks.”

I laugh and then wince at the pain spearing my cheek.

“Since no one’s answering, I’m assuming it was Remy,” Molly says.

“Hey!” Remy protests. “Why me?”

Molly glances at me and lifts an eyebrow.

“I can’t rat out my bro.” I shake my head.

Ignoring me, Molly turns toward her brother. “Take off your shirt.”

“What? Why? Just give me an icepack.”

“I want to see how badly you’re bruised.”

Remy lifts one side of his shirt up. His skin’s a pinkish red. Tomorrow it’ll probably be black-and-blue. Molly hisses out a pained breath and glares at me.

“What?” I point at Remy. “He started it.”

“I knew it!” She picks up the longest icepack and hands it to her brother. That’s my girl. Not a mean bone in her body. Her worry for Remy outweighs any anger at him. “You need help getting to your chair?”

“No. I’m going upstairs.” He presses the pack to his side.

“I’ll come check on you and change out the ice pack in a half an hour or so,” Molly promises.

“Thanks.” He pats her shoulder and walks slowly toward me. “You good?”

“I’ll live.”

He makes a fist and lightly taps my shoulder. Remy’s way of apologizing.

Once he’s gone, Molly sorts through the icepacks and finds one designed to wrap around my knee. “Come on. Let’s get this on you.” She looks at the pile and grabs two more packs. “Couch. Go.” She jabs her finger toward the living room.

“Nurse Molly’s stern bedside manner is really hot,” I say over my shoulder as I hop out of the kitchen.

She grumbles something I can’t make out.

Once she has me arranged on the cushions with an icepack on each aching spot, she sits cross-legged at the end of the couch, facing me. Tension twists between us and I shift my body closer to her.

“Griff, can you answer something seriously for me?”

“Always.”

She bites her lip. “Don’t be mad.”

I reach over and rest my hand on her knee. “I could never be mad at you.”

“How much longer are you planning to fight?” She waves one hand in the air between us. “Besides Vegas. After that…how much longer do you think you can keep doing this?”

This?I feel like I’ve been fighting my entire life. I never wanted to. I didn’t have a choice. “Today wasn’t a fight. Just a sparring match that got a little out of control.”

She tilts her head and levels me with who are you kidding glare. “A little?”

“We had some issues and aggression to work out,” I concede.

“About what?”

“Fighter confidentiality.” I run my fingers over my lips.

She rolls her eyes. “That doesn’t exist.” She stares at me for a few beats, more questions brewing in her beautiful blue eyes. “Was it about me?”

I blow out a long breath. “Not exactly.”

She seems to accept my non-answer. “Did you sort it out?”

“I think so.” I nod once and return to her original question. “Vegas is a lot of money.”

“So when you win and you’re offered another fight for even more money, what then?”

Shit, she’s dead serious.

So, I crack a joke. “I appreciate your assumption that I’ll win.”

No laughter. Just her unwavering, concerned stare. “All the money in the world can’t cure you if you end up with Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy,” she continues.

The full medical term rolls off her tongue easily. Someone’s been doing her research. “I’ve never been knocked out,” I say, knowing full well plenty of concussions don’t result in loss of consciousness.

She tilts her head, silently calling bullshit on me. “Yeah, and athletes who’ve never been diagnosed with concussions still get CTE. Strange, huh?”

All right. I need to cut the bullshit. “You’re not saying anything I haven’t thought of. At the house, a couple of the guys were so hard to understand, I wondered if they already had brain damage.”

“Yeah, I remember in the beginning of the show, they kind of mocked Bull.” She frowns. “Seemed shitty under the circumstances.”

“I’m not surprised.” I rest my hand over hers. “Do you want me to pull out of the Vegas fight?”

She’s shaking her head before I fully get out the question. “No. Don’t put that decision on me. I support you no matter what. But you keep talking about money for our future, and I want there to be a future for us, period.”

“I hear you.” I run my hand over the top of my head. What will I do if I get offered another fight after Vegas? How much is enough to keep us comfortable for the rest of our lives? “I don’t need stacks of cash. I don’t have any desire to go dropping a fortune on diamond-encrusted watches or Lamborghinis and yachts.” I tilt my head and give her a crooked smile. “Although, you’d look fantastic in a bikini on one of those things.”

She flicks her gaze to the ceiling. “You don’t need a boat for that. I’ll wear one for you wherever you want.”

“That so?” We’re getting off track. I reluctantly file mental images of Molly in a skimpy two piece to the back of mind to examine later. “I want to work with my hands.” I hold them out and flex my fingers, pain flaring through each knuckle. “Building things instead of tearing them apart. My plan’s still to buy Jerry’s garage and work on cars.”

She blows out a relieved breath.

“Fighter wife life, not for you?” I ask.

“Like I said, I want to support you no matter what. But I also want you to take care of yourself.” She cuddles closer, allowing me to wrap my arm around her shoulders. “So we can grow old together.”

That’s exactly what I want too. I kiss the top of her head. “Sounds like a plan.”