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brITT

LATE NIGHT VISITOR

W alking along the manicured lawns for the millionth time this month, nerves batter at my stomach in a violent cacophony of regret, worry… longing.

I’m not nervous to see Steph. We’re old pals. We’re pros at this now. But I’m nervous about what’s happening right this minute on the very opposite side of our huge country. He’s so far away, and I so desperately wish I was with him to show my support.

Pride… it might be the end of me.

Just like our meeting, our break up was that of fireworks. We went down in a blaze of glory. Exactly apt for us, I guess.

Stopping in front of Steph’s marker, I smile like she’s here in the flesh and we’re catching up for coffee.

Despite my jealousy, I genuinely find comfort in my visits here with her.

I may have overreacted a little with the whole Jack and Steph thing. My distance this past week has reaffirmed that I can’t compete with a ghost. I literally can’t. Distance has given me perspective; my emotions got the best of me, and I let it smash Jack’s and my already shaky foundations wide open.

As is typical in most relationships, we’re both at fault, but I’m fairly certain I started it.

And he ended it.

“Hey, girl. I’m here. I was running late, sorry. I had to escape Alex. ”

Sitting in front of her headstone, I trace the engraved letters of her name and grin. I’d like to stretch out in the sun like I usually do, but it’s going on dinnertime and the sun is long gone.

This cemetery has never really felt so creepy before, it never held that power to freak me out. It’s a beautiful space, beautiful grass, colorful flowers, established trees – though not so many that it makes the place seem shadowy and weird.

But tonight, with the moon high in the sky and all the other graves around us in shadow, being in this cemetery at night is a hell of a lot creepier than I thought it might be.

I hope Steph’s watching over me, and I hope she keeps the serial-killer-cemetery-stalkers at bay. I can’t deal with that kind of upheaval this week.

“So… he’s already there.” Don’t focus on the creepy wind. Don’t think about the cemetery stalkers.

Taking my phone out of my pocket, I swipe screens until a sign-in box pops up, then I start the process of blowing my phone bill into the next world.

Worth it.

I log in to the pay-per-view provider exclusively showing tonight’s fights, and I wait for the buffering to complete so I can at least watch him fight, even if he’ll never know it.

Kit came by my house this week with an envelope full of tickets; plane, first class, hotel, penthouse suite , fight, front row. She said Jack wanted me there. She said I needed to be there.

Proudly – so fucking proud – I said no thanks and walked back inside my house. The envelope sat on my front porch, perched against the front door, an hour later when I was brave enough to venture outside again.

I slapped five stamps on the envelope and sent it return to sender. I had to return it, I needed him to know I wouldn’t be there, I needed him to not waste time looking for me.

My absence will mess with him enough. Him not knowing would be so much worse.

Finally, as the creepy tickles of wind on my spine send tingles and goosebumps skittering along my flesh, my phone loads and the sportscasters shout into the cameras. Lights and music roar behind them. The energy is palpable as they, and millions of spectators, prepare for the fight they’ve been waiting two years for.

The heartbroken Romeo is back; bigger and more determined than ever .

The octagon stands empty, the earlier fights done and dusted, victors and losers already decided.

The side of my tiny screen shows the fight stats in tiny, fuzzy detail.

Two fighters.

The current champion… and Jack, the former . Both men sit at two-hundred and fifty pounds, both over six and a half feet tall. Jack has a half inch height advantage on his opponent, and another inch advantage in reach.

Both men have impressive fight records.

Both have one loss by KO.

I prop my phone up so I can see it, but silly as it may be, I sit it so Steph can see it, too. I feel like she’d want to watch. I know I would. Despite my earlier freak out, I lay on my stomach with my feet lifted and crossed at the ankles, and I watch with a soft smile as pictures of Jack flash across the screen.

It’s not even his fault he’s so fucking sexy.

“So, it looks like you and I both made it to the fight, anyway.” Biting my lip, I watch the screen; I watch the cameras pan the crowd and the six trillion signs with Steph’s or my hashtag.

I should be flattered that so many people know who I am. And that so many people care about Jack and Steph. She won’t ever be forgotten, and instead of being jealous, I should be happy for her. She’s going down in history as the Jackhammer’s Juliet.

A girl’s legacy could be worse.

“Here he comes!”

Smiling, I watch my screen turn black as the arena lights blink out. Cameras flash, and tiny screens, thousands of them, illuminate smiling faces in the crowd.

As soon as the music begins, the lights flash on.

I laugh at how ridiculous he is.

Not Linkin Park, not Eminem or Jay Z or anyone else you’d expect.

Jack walks out to Pink, and he rocks it in his black robe with purple lettering. His face is already sweaty, like he’s already had a fight tonight, and his hair sticks to his sweaty brow.

“Well, this is different,” the sportscaster announces. “Who is this?”

“That’s Pink!” the other guy answers on a laugh. “I’m a little behind on pop, though. I don’t know what it’s called.”

“It’s called True Love,” I answer no one.

“I’m not sure where the Jackhammer’s going with this, but even his sister feels more badass right now. ”

The other guy laughs the way Santa does in the Christmas TV specials. “You can tell him that, Greg. Be brave. Get your head smacked around. Meanwhile, I’m staying on my side of the cage and not ragging on the dude in love.”

The cameras pan away from Jack and leave me frowning at the loss. Instead, they focus on the signs in the crowd. “Team Steph,” the first guy says awkwardly, “or Team Britt. I feel like we’re in a daytime drama.”

“Don’t be such a grouch, Greg. Dance a little! Pink is serenading us.”

Jack continues his walk through the tunnel and emerges into the crowd. Four men stand behind him. The four men that would stand in front of a bullet for him. Jon, Bobby, Aiden, and Jimmy walk behind him with their fight faces on and their chests full of adrenaline.

Jack’s fighting in the octagon tonight. But all five of them worked for it.

I follow his every movement until he reaches the cage, and it’s not until they pat him down and he steps into the octagon that I realize I’m shaking. He’ll be okay. He’s got this.

Fuck, I probably should’ve gone.

He asked me to be there, and I flaked. Fuck.

“Where are the rest of our Kincaids?”

I smile when the camera zooms to the front row and skims across them. It’s ridiculous how many prime seats they take up. This is where the A list celebrities and former champions normally sit. Pink should be sitting there, yet the Kincaids have it filled like a daycare. The women hold their babies, and the older girls sit with popcorn and soda shared between them.

Jack runs a slow lap of the octagon while the sportscasters continue to talk, but as he comes closer to his family, he stops and stares with a wounded expression.

Watching his family for a tense minute, he squats low and pokes his fingers through the cage fencing. I – and several million other people – watch on curiously as Kit stands and passes Emma to Bobby. Taking Bobby’s hand, the trio move the ten feet toward the cage, then placing her hand over Jack’s, the brother and sister talk in yes, no’s and jerky head nods.

I watch Jack’s eyes transform. I watch a single twinkling tear slide along Kit’s cheek. I watch them lay their foreheads together, even with the cage separating them, then I – and several million other women – sigh and fall a little deeper in love with Jack Reilly.

Before I’m ready, the cameras swing away from the octagon and move across the crowd. They zoom in on the signs that pit me and Steph against each other.

The media want this to be a thing. They want it to be big.

Bigger .

They ask where I am, they wonder why I’m not there. All of the Team Steph sign holders shout and cheer when they realize I’m not there, when I’m made out to be a horrible chick who doesn’t have his back. Then the Team Britt people, who my ego finds a boost from, start cheering for me.

Finally separating, the cameras follow Kit as she takes her daughter and finds her seat. I watch in avid curiosity as the cameras pick up Tink as she stands and passes around long, blank signs to all of her siblings. Passing out pens the same as I still have rolling around my trunk, the Rollin crew women start writing on their white cardboard.

“Bets on what they’re writing, Greg?”

“I’m calling TeamSteph,” he answers arrogantly. “The new chick isn’t even here. Nothing can replace a guy’s first love, so I’m betting on Steph.”

I roll my eyes at the world’s insistence that we compete. I did enough of that already. I don’t need their help.

“Alright, show us what you got, Rollers.”

They turn their signs as one. Anyone would think this whole thing was coordinated, choreographed like a game show.

Will I win or lose? So stupid.

“Team Jack,” Greg reads out. “Well, that’s lame.”

“Team Jack… Team Jack… Team Jack… Team Jack… and… IHatePopQuizzes.” The announcer barks out a laugh. “That kid’s got spunk!”

I laugh at my sweet Evie, always the salmon swimming upstream. She just doesn’t care for acceptance. She owns her differences just like she owns her wild hair.

I love her wild insubordinate ass.

“Here comes the champion!”

I roll my eyes at the roaring crowd, and for the several minutes it takes for Greg to kiss his ass, I tune out and come back to the cemetery. “Are you ready for this, Steph? You’re watching over him, right? You’ve got his back?”

Yeah. She does.

I know deep in my bones, she’s looking out for him.

It takes almost a full ten minutes for the sportscasters to stop gushing over the other guy and for the cameras to pan away from the dude’s nostrils.

Intense, ready, Jack comes back to the screen and rolls his sexy muscled shoulders. His tattoos dance and shimmer in the flashing lights under a sheen of sweat. My fingers itch to touch him again.

Why did I have to ruin us?

Just as ready, just as intense, Bobby shoves Jack’s mouthguard in moments before the referee calls them to the middle of the octagon, and like the drama that this is, the camera stops on Jack’s darkened eyes.

He stares straight down the barrel of the camera. He stares right at me. He can’t possibly know I’m watching, but it feels like he’s looking right at me.

His blue-eyed gaze; intense, serious, angry. But then his lips lift just the tiniest fraction, just enough to have his dimple popping. He brings his fingerless-gloved hand to his mouth, kisses the tips of his fingers, then points them right at me.

There are millions of women watching the fight tonight. A brand-new demographic that never would’ve paid for the broadcasting rights until now. And they’re all falling in love with my ex-boyfriend.

Dramatically – because drama sells – the music cuts out, the lightshow stops, and spotlights follow the guys as a microphone drops from the ceiling.

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. It’s beginning.

The referee recites the rules and asks the guys if they’re ready to go. Jack nods, he’s ready, but I’m not so sure I am.

“Steph!” I spin my bracelet nervously. “I’m gonna be so pissed if you’re not watching him right now. Don’t worry about the cemetery stalkers, you can go to Jack. Go. Run. Protect.”

The guys on the screen tap fists. “We’re ready for the main event of the evening!”

“Steph. We’re sisters, right? We’re cool? Don’t let him get hurt. “

“Let’s go to war!”

Fuck! I’m not ready.

“Reilly steps in quickly, he’s not screwing around,” Greg announces over the roaring crowd. “Jab, jab, jab, three times! Inside thigh kick, then to the outside. Christ on a cracker, he’s here to win.”

“That hurt!” the second sportscaster shouts. “Westlin’s already limping.”

“They’re on the fence!” Greg screams. “The Jackhammer’s rife for the take down!”

“A lot of people thought he’d drag this out longer, give us a good show. ”

“Left, left, left into Westlin’s jaw,” Greg speaks over his co-announcer. “Westlin has the Jackhammer in front guard.”

“Jesus, Steph. I really should’ve paid better attention. I have no friggin clue if front guard is good or bad!”

“Half guard! Westlin isn’t going down this fast.”

I squeal into my hands when the other guy’s fist comes up and slams into Jack’s face. Blood spurts free and almost has me rocking in the fetal position.

“Nailed him!” Greg shouts. “Westlin, BJJ black belt has locked the Jackhammer’s leg down.”

“Says a lot about Westlin, that the Jackhammer took this fight straight to the ground.”

The cameras alternate between zooming close enough we can see each and every bruise that blooms on the fighters’ bodies, and zooming out far enough we’re treated to a view of the Rollin crew on their feet as they scream instructions Jack will never hear.

“Reilly’s here to prove he’s earned this shot.” Greg moves and twitches like it’s him in the octagon. “He’s not riding his brothers’ coattails.”

“Not every guy that walks through here has two former champions in his corner though–”

“They’re on their feet!” Greg screams. “Reilly is relentless! He takes them to the fence all over again. He’s trying to get his back–”

“Westlin ain’t that green.”

“Reilly uses his weight. He’s tiring Westlin out.” I watch on as Jack knees the other guy in the ribs. “He’s chipping away, chipping away! Interesting strategy.”

Jack and Westlin part suddenly, and escaping, Westlin flees to the center of the octagon. Jack simply chases. “Watch that overhead right!” the announcer says. “Westlin’s moving slow already.”

“Reilly’s got that mouse under his left eye,” Greg announces. The fact that Jack has a black eye almost makes the asshole giddy. “Left, left, left again! Reilly’s jab is lethal!”

“Superman!”

The crowd goes wild, but I have no fucking clue what a superman is. I know who the fictional character is, but I don’t get how that applies here.

I was a shitty sort-of-girlfriend! I don’t know half of what they’re saying.

“Westlin comes in with a left, left, body, left–”

Jack dives forward on the final left, tackles Westlin around the waist, and pushes them to the floor. I never realized how much time fighters spend hugging on the floor, but I feel like I prefer it this way. There are less wild punches thrown when they’re on the floor.

Less meanness.

“This is what I was talking about!” the announcer shouts. “This fight ain’t all stand up! They need a full arsenal to win. Westlin has the jitsu, but Reilly has them all. Knees, knees, left, knees!” His screamed words come just half a second after Jack’s strikes. “He’s doing it! He’s screwing up Westlin’s rhythm.”

The referee jumps in exactly when a loud horn rings through the stadium.

“What a great first round!”

I watch the referee push Jack toward the Kincaid side of the octagon. Instantly, Bobby and Aiden sprint inside with towels and water.

I hang on every tiny detail I can see; Bobby and Aiden’s lips move fast, shouted instructions that no one can hear except the trio of brothers. Jack nods and shouts back, but then the footage pulls away to a slow-motion replay of the last seconds before the bell.

“Jesus.” Groaning, I turn to Steph with a pounding heart and sore hands from scrunching them so tightly. “How did you sit through all his fights, Steph? How’d you not keel over from the worry?”

“Reilly’s known for his knockouts. He’s normally a stand-up guy, as opposed to ground and pound.” The slow-motion stuff continues, but the announcer speaks and the crowd continues to scream. “It wasn’t uncommon for a fight with the Jackhammer to be over by now.”

“He’s got a plan, Greg. I guarantee it.”

The cameras go live again. I follow every tiny micro move Jack makes. His left eye, swollen shut, blood drips from his brow, and his left arm hangs loose at his side.

Aiden spreads some sort of ointment over Jack’s forehead, but I simply stare into his eyes. His breath comes heavy, he allows his brothers to work around him, but he stares into space and chugs the offered water.

“Westlin’s camp is so confused! They thought they knew Reilly, they thought they had him figured out, but he’s brought a new fighter here tonight. He’s been eating his Wheaties and working on some new moves.”

When Jack stands, the crowd grows louder.

“The Jackhammer came here tonight with a plan, and knowing who he has in his corner, I’m not surprised. These guys aren’t new, and they ain’t stupid, either.”

The bell rings and sets my blood on fire .

“Let’s go!”

My heart thuds heavier as Jack and his opponent skip forward. They touch gloves, then step back to bounce on the balls of their feet.

“Westlin, Jackhammer; round two!”

Jesus, I think this might actually kill me.

My stomach rolls as Westlin kicks toward Jack. I expect him to get hurt. I expect Westlin’s leg to slam against Jack’s head, but instead, Jack catches it and traps it between his arm and ribs. Running forward on bare feet, he slams Westlin to the cage and rains fists over his face. They bounce to the floor and have the screaming crowd on their feet.

“Westlin’s forced to the mat!”

“Perfect timing by the Jackhammer. Wait! Westlin’s got a hook in!”

“Good position for him to use the fence. They’re getting to their feet, possibly setting up a guillotine...”

What the fuck is a guillotine?

All I see are two large, sweaty guys rolling around on the floor.

With shaking hands and my heart in my throat, I watch the guys climb to their feet. Westlin skips away and like they are playing a cat and mouse game, Jack follows.

Westlin is a big ol’ steak, and Jack’s starving.

“Head kick!”

I seize in fright when Westlin’s long leg swings wide. Arching back, Jack avoids the brunt of it, then spins, fast as a snake.

“Spinning back kick!”

This is too much. It’s too much! I want to scream in frustration. I want to sob. I want to scream at Jack for not ending it already.

Why is he making me suffer? He must know I’m watching!

“Gotta get those hands up, Westlin!”

“He’s eatin’ those jabs, Greg.”

Diving forward, Jack throws his arms around Westlin’s waist and slams him to the floor.

“He’s got side control!”

My blood thrums through my veins, like it knows something exciting’s about to happen. The crowd grows louder, and the announcers’ voices bounce. Bobby and Aiden stand on the outside of the cage as they scream and jump.

I can feel it in the air, the excitement, like we all just know it’s coming to an end.

Jack lies across Westlin and holds him down. Using his weight to pin him to the octagon floor, he works his left arm against Westlin’s right and tries to create a gap between it and his ribs. Lifting his backside, dropping his knee into Westlin’s ribs, then dropping down again, he meticulously works to create that gap.

“He’s gotta do something, Greg! He’s gotta get outta there.”

“The Jackhammer’s pounding on him. Fists. Knees. Fifty seconds left of this round. This might be the first time Reilly has ever taken it to the third round!”

Westlin moves slower and slower the longer Jack lies on him. He’s exhausted, and each time Jack slams his knee into his ribs, his face screws up with pain. On a final knee, Westlin’s body opens up and collapses to the floor.

Instantly jumping forward, Jack straddles Westlin the way I’ve straddled Jack a million times before.

Fist after fist after fist, Jack throws wide punches down over Westlin’s poorly protected face. One, two, three punches. Seven, eight, nine, Westlin’s head snaps side to side.

Jumping between them when Westlin’s leg falls limp, the referee pushes Jack off with surprising strength and the crowd roar to their feet until the speakers in my phone turn tinny.

“Jack the Jackhammer Reilly, your NEW world heavyweight champion!”

Standing on weak legs, dropping to his knees in the middle of the octagon, throwing his hands over his face, Jack’s broad shoulders shake as he breaks apart on live television.

The crowd’s noise is like thunder in the stands, but my shouts, they echo in the dark cemetery as tears stream from my eyes; tears of happiness, tears of devastation, tears of exhaustion.

His brothers slam the gate open within a single heartbeat. All four men surge forward until, taking their youngest brother in their arms, they create a single group hug that has the women in the front row weeping.

The cameras pan the screaming crowd, then a dazed Westlin, then the Roller men until, finally stopping, we get a close up view of Bobby and Jack; father and son, brother to brother, a mentor and his student, with their foreheads pressed together and moving lips as Bobby shouts words – of love? Of encouragement? Of forgiveness?

Standing as one, the five fighters pull a weak Jack to his feet and turn as Westlin approaches them. Limping, bleeding, weak, the two fighters, men who’d been tearing each other apart just two minutes ago, now hug like all is forgiven .

Before I’m ready to let him go, before I’m ready to say goodbye, the camera pans to the screaming spectators and the flying banners.

I don’t want to see them! I want to see Jack.

“Ladies and gentleman! At four minutes and thirteen seconds of the second round…” The crowd roar as the referee fastens the belt around Jack’s sweaty hips. “…declaring your winner…” Jumping, Jon throws his fist into the air the way the fifth grade boys do at school when they win a game of kickball. “…Knockout by Teeeee-Kayyyyy-Ohhhh…” Bobby pulls Aiden in for a body crushing hug. “…and nowwwww… for the seventh time… the newwww heavyweight champion of the world… Jack ‘The Jackhammer’ Reilly!”

The fight footage cuts out as soon as the referee lifts Jack’s hand into the air, leaving a frozen image of Jack’s intense eyes staring straight into the camera.

My phone switches to ads and breaks the spell that has me holding my breath. The air rushes from my expanded chest as I sway in the cool night air.

“Well, shit, Steph.” Dazed, in shock, emotional, my breath comes fast and furious as though it was me that just fought the world title.

My phone dings, dozens and dozens of texts flood in from just about every person I’ve ever met.

They’re all a variation of ‘He won!’

Giddy, nervous, my stomach swirls. I want to spew, I want to dance. I want to hug him.

I don’t answer my texts, I simply close my eyes and thrill in the feel of my heart beating for Jack and his success.

My phone dings again, but with a different ringtone. Snatching it up on an excited squeak, I open the chat box and swallow my tears at the sight of a name I haven’t seen in a week.

Jack: I won.

Sighing, I reply: I know. Congratulations. x