I went over to the wall, where there were some hand-held foam shields that we used sometimes, and grabbed one, bringing it over and sitting down. Even in summer, the mats we used were cold at night, and I was wearing thin silk pajamas. "You know you're full of shit," I said softly, "and Sophie's going to tell you the same thing when she sees your knuckles in the morning."
Mark couldn't reply, so I wrapped my blanket around me and looked at him evenly. "Tell me about it."
He shook his head, his hair tossing from side to side. He'd grown it out as part of his disguise as Matt Bylur, and it looked good on him. The chestnut brown mane was regal on him, and I know Sophie enjoyed it. She'd told me so herself. "There's some things that you don't need to be burdened with," he replied to my question, "some dark corners that you don't need to look into."
I nodded, not arguing. There were some things that Mark had done, that he knew about, so dark that I couldn't disagree with his statement. He'd once told me during a lighter moment when I'd pressed him about his past, that he had his own little timeshare in hell all laid out for him when he passed on.
Perhaps that was the difference between me and Sophie. She’d be willing to go to those places with him, maybe all the way to hell itself. I guess I would too, if Sophie asked me to. For Mark however, no. I loved him as a brother, and as Sophie's husband, but not that much. Instead, I offered what comfort I could. "It must have been very bad, for you to send Sophie to bed alone."
"It was," he replied, grabbing a towel and wiping his face. For the first time, he winced and noticed the damage to his hands. "Shit. Think you can help me with the peroxide?"
In the gym we kept a small medical kit, not much really, just some Band-Aids, cotton balls, and a large bottle of hydrogen peroxide. It was useful with the training that Mark and Sophie did, where small cuts were common. Holding his hand over the tiny bar style sink he'd had installed, I poured the liquid. We watched silently as it bubbled and fizzed angrily, like it was upset with him for causing such damage to his body as well. "You sure this is all you need?"
"I'll wrap them in gauze before I go to bed, keep the sheets clean," Mark replied. He looked at the ruined pulpy mass that was his knuckles and sighed. "I wish it didn't have to be this way."
"I know," I said. "I wish there was a way I could help you more."
"You do a lot," Mark said with a rueful smirk. "You free up my time to do what I really need to do, and you help by being the public face. Although Sophie and I both wish we could have been there when you took down Traylor yesterday."
He had a point there. For all of Mark's direct action, my role did some good as well. "It was quite satisfying. You sure you don't want to tag along for the press conference tomorrow? You could be my driver, my maintenance man and my personal chef."
"There are a lot of roles I fill, but no thanks. I think tomorrow will be all about Sophie and I. Maybe after a night's sleep and some thinking, making love with my wife won't feel so damn dirty."
I patted him on the shoulder. "I don't know all the details of what you guys do, but I can tell you one thing from looking at my best friend's face. Nothing you two do can ever be considered dirty. If anything, you guys elevate the whole idea. Now go get some sleep."
Maybe Mark drew strength from my words. Maybe he was just tired and the punches had let him drain the worst of the poison from his soul. I didn't know. But some of the pained look was gone from his face, and he was even able to muster a ghost of a smile. "You too. Unless you plan on sucking down a gallon of yerba mate with your breakfast."
* * *
Mark's prediction of me being sleepy was dead on, even after he had made me a super strong green tea protein smoothie before he went to bed, chilling in the fridge for me in the morning with a note attached. "Thanks. Sorry there's no hot breakfast, but if you want, there are Pop Tarts in the cupboard."
Eight hours later, I was running on fumes standing outside the first of the community centers that MJT was opening. Rubbing my eyes, I smiled wanly at the General Manager of the Spartans, who along with three of his players, were dressed in jerseys. He smiled back with an understanding expression. "You doing all right, Miss Williams?"
I nodded, shrugging. "Long night, you know how it is. I'm sure your head coach feels the same way the week of a hard game."
"Why do you think he's not here?" the GM said with a chuckle. "He's getting an hour of sleep before the team starts film and practice this afternoon. Man spends five months a year running on three hours of sleep a night. I'm surprised he doesn't have a mental episode once a season."