Page 34

NASSEEM

“ I just don’t see how the fuck that’s good news.”

I said it before I could stop myself, slumped back in the oversized chair with my arms crossed tight. My voice was sharper than I intended, but I couldn’t help it. Egypt sat next to me, holding my hand, thumb stroking the back of it like she was trying to keep me grounded. It helped, but barely.

Dr. Hargrove didn’t flinch. He leaned forward a bit, resting his elbows on his knees.

“I didn’t say it was good news, Nasseem.

I said it was promising. You took a bullet to the side, fractured a rib, and we had to monitor you closely for internal bleeding.

Considering all of that? A full recovery projected in four to six months is actually… a gift.”

“A gift,” I repeated, shaking my head, heat flaring in my chest. “You know I’m a professional fighter, right? Four to six months ain’t promising, that’s a fuckin’ delay that could cost me everything.”

He stayed calm. “I know exactly what you are. And I’m telling you, from a medical standpoint, it could’ve been much worse. We avoided nerve damage. We avoided lung collapse. You’re walking, breathing, and with physical therapy, you’ll get your strength back.”

I dragged my hand over my face, rubbing my jaw hard like I could massage the tension out of it. Egypt’s grip on my other hand tightened a little. “You survived, Nasseem,” she said softly. “And I know that don’t feel like enough right now, but I need you to stop acting like this ain’t a win.”

I looked at her. For a second, I didn’t say anything.

Her eyes were big and round, full of that same love that damn near made me want to cry every time I saw it.

But under it, I could see her own pain. She hadn’t cried in front of me in days, and I knew she was holding it all in for me.

That shit made my chest hurt more than the fuckin’ scar.

“You know how hard I trained?” I muttered, my voice lower now, rougher. “How many hours I put in for this fight? This shit with Nate already had my head fucked up. Now this? The one thing I had control over is gone.”

Dr. Hargrove stood and gave a measured nod. “You’ll be scheduled to begin physical therapy next week. I’ll make sure you have the best care possible. Your body’s job is to heal. Let it do that.”

I nodded stiffly but didn’t say anything. After he left the room, I sat there in silence. Egypt didn’t push me. She let me breathe.

“I’m tired of this,” I finally muttered. “Tired of waiting, tired of rebuilding. I feel like I just get back up and life takes another fuckin’ swing at me.”

She reached up and placed her hand on my face. I leaned into the intimacy, feeling all the love, she had to give in that small gesture. “I know. But you’re not down this time. You’re still in it. And you’re not doing it alone.”

I looked at her, really looked at her. This woman had been through hell and was still here. Still choosing me. “I just…I don’t wanna let you down,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

She leaned in, pressing her forehead to mine. “Then don’t. Just get better. That’s all I need from you right now, for you to get through this recovery process.” And somehow…that made the weight in my chest a little easier to carry.

Recovery.

That shit sounded simple when the doctor first said it—like I was just gon’ rest up, ice my wound, maybe take some pills and bounce back.

But the second he told me the timeline..

. the second he said, “You’re looking at four to six months before you're back in the ring at full capacity,” my whole fuckin’ world tilted.

Four to six months? That’s half a fuckin’ year.

That’s a hundred and eighty-some days of watching everybody else keep movin’ while I’m sittin’ still.

It felt like my entire fighting career was suddenly outta my control.

All that work, all that training, all that pain and sacrifice—and now I gotta sit on the sidelines?

I didn’t say shit to Egypt on the ride home. She kept glancing over, asking if I was good. And I kept nodding like I was. But I wasn’t. I was spiraling inside. The only thing keeping me steady was the warmth of her hand in mine.

The second we got back to the house, I shut myself in the bathroom and stared at my own reflection until my vision blurred. I hated feeling weak. But that’s exactly what I felt.

“Nasseem, it’s okay to not be okay,” Egypt finally said as we sat down and ate dinner. She’d made stir fry and we were sitting across from each other at her small dining room table.

“I’m just fucking mad. Every time I think this shit can’t get any worse, something else happens. I mean damn, ain’t it enough that I got shot, that we lost our fuckin baby, but now I’m about to lose my shot at this title as well?”

“Life sucks sometimes Nas, even for people like us. I think we needed to be humbled honestly.” I looked at her confused, eyes so narrow you’d think I’d smoked the world’s largest joint.

“Look at where we came from, we were blessed enough to get out of that. But the problem is, the same God we were praying to on a regular basis, asking Him to get us out of where we were, we stopped praying once shit got too good. We wasn’t as dedicated; at least I wasn’t.

I grew up in the church, sang in choir but here I am living this life…

I ain’t been to church since New Years.”

“So, you wanna go to church?”

“I want to be more mindful of the blessings I do have so I don’t forget where those blessings came from. I’m not sayin we need to be in church on a regular basis, but we should pray more. When was the last time you prayed Nasseem?”

“The day I got shot.” I answered honestly, without hesitation because it rang nothing but the truth. “I prayed to God that he wouldn’t hurt you or my baby and he didn’t answer my prayers.”

“One out of two ain’t so bad.” She replied barely above a whisper. I focused in on her and saw the sadness in her eyes, the pool of tears, the way she tried so hard not to let the tears fall.

“Look, I’m grateful as hell that he kept you on this earth because I don’t know how I’d live without you; but I asked for you and them. I think I’m allowed to be a little mad at God for not keeping my seed here too.”

Three days later, I was on the couch when Jay, my manager, called. I damn near ignored it, but something told me to answer.

“Yo,” I muttered, voice dry.

“You sittin’ down?”

“I’m always sittin’ down now, what you think?”

Jay ignored my bitterness. “Sadiq’s team just called.”

That snapped me to attention. “What? Why?”

“They heard about your recovery window. Said they wanna postpone the fight.”

I sat up. “Wait... they agreed to push it back?”

“Yup. Said Sadiq refuses to fight anybody else. Wants you, and only you.”

I blinked, heart thudding. “You serious?”

“Dead ass. He said—and I quote— ‘I ain’t takin’ no fight ‘til I get in the ring with Walker. I want him at his best.’ ”

Man…

I sat there for a minute, letting it hit me. After everything that went wrong, after the baby, after the bullet, after feeling like life was draggin’ me by the throat, I finally got a win.

“He didn’t have to do that,” I said low.

“Nope. Which tells you what kind of fight this gon’ be.”

I nodded slowly. “A legendary one.”

Jay exhaled. “Exactly.”

That call changed everything.

The next week, I started physical therapy with a new fire under me. I told Egypt I’d take it slow. Lied right to her face. The truth? I was pushing my body every chance I got. I was sore as hell.

Half the time, I walked around like I was eighty, but the second Creed showed up to train with me, it was like my body forgot it was hurt.

Creed wasn’t letting me slack either. He kept tellin’ me “Yo ass gon’ be stronger than ever when this over, I promise you that.

” We worked, together. Side by side. Just like old times.

And when I wasn’t training... I was home. With her.

Me and Egypt, we ain’t talk about the nursery.

We ain’t talk about the box of neutral baby clothes that showed up.

It was sitting in one of her guest rooms, the one that was supposed to be our baby’s nursery.

She hadn’t touched it. I hadn’t touched it.

But we both walked past it like it was a damn tombstone.

Her Nana had sent it. I remember her sayin’ she’d get stuff shipped before we even left Memphis, so I knew it wasn’t a mistake, it was just bad timing.

Real bad. But somehow... even with all that weight. .. we were good. Closer, even.

She made time for me. I made time for her. We talked. We cooked. She rubbed my shoulders after therapy sessions and let me kiss her until her breath caught. We held each other in silence. We existed—no pressure, no expectations—just us.

And the more time passed... the more I knew; I loved her. I always had. But now I loved her in a way that felt permanent. Like, even if we lost everything—we’d still have us.

I needed to do something—something permanent.

Something that would stay with me, even when the world moved on.

That pain? That loss? It didn’t just fade because I got cleared for physical therapy or cause I was finally gettin’ decent sleep.

That shit still sat on my chest every morning when I woke up and turned to see Egypt’s back curled toward me.

I knew she was still grieving. Hell, so was I.

And there was a part of me that hated myself for not protectin’ her the way I was supposed to.

So I hit up my tattoo artist, Juice, told him I needed something done low-key, private.

We’d been talkin’ about linkin’ since I got out the hospital anyway, and he always made room for me no matter what.

I told Egypt I had to meet Creed for a few hours and kissed her goodbye, tryin’ not to look too guilty.