He looks into my eyes for a moment, as if searching them.
“What are you doing?”
His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and he tells me, “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck.”
He nods.
“Kick his ass.”
Duncan’s face hardens, all emotion and softness drain from his features. He becomes an iron statue, almost lifeless.
He turns around, leaves the changing room a charging hurricane.
I watch from the doorway of the changing room as he climbs into the cage. The referee starts the fight, and this time his opponent immediately gets up on him, throws a quick punch and Duncan takes one above the eye.
I see the spill of crimson, but the ref doesn’t stop the fight. I turn my eyes to Dad and he just shrugs.
They dance for a while, tip-toe around each other, size each other up, but again, in a flurry of fast and hard movement, Duncan lands hit after hit, thumps the wind out of his opponent before going for a mid-waist takedown and locking his knee.
The guy taps out just when I think his lower leg is going to separate from his upper leg.
Duncan stands, doesn’t gloat, doesn’t show off. He just throws open the door to the cage, storms back into the changing room past a once-again silenced crowd, and hops on the bike.
I lock the door behind him.
“I feel like your trainer or something,” I say, offering him a smile.
He returns it, and warmth floods back into his features.
It’s like he’s a different person in the cage. I guess he has to be.
“Two down,” he grunts at me. “Three to go.”
“Is this how you always fight?”
He stops, then, stops pedaling. I feel like I’ve touched a nerve or something, but I don’t know what.
“I’ve never fought like this before,” he says slowly.
“What do you mean?”
“Organized, pitted against someone like a fucking dog.”
I hear some anger in his voice, feel its sting. Is he regretting this?
“You don’t have to fight, you know.”
Duncan shrugs. “What the fuck else can I do?”
He lowers his eyes to the digital readout on his stationary bike, and starts pedaling harder.
Another knock at the door: Dad’s voice floats through.
I slide open the deadbolt, and Dad pushes in, looks at me. “Why the hell did you come if you’re just going to spend all night hiding in here?”
I’m taken aback, don’t know what to say, but Duncan is off the bike, walking toward us.
“Get out,” he says to Dad.
“You’re winning too quickly,” Dad protests.
“Get the fuck out, Glass, I need to concentrate.”
Dad looks between him and me. “What about her?” he asks.
I’m surprised by the tone of his voice. It was almost… petulant.
“She’s helping me.”
“How?”
“You want me to win these fucking fights for you or not?”
“Yes, of course, but—”
“Then I do it my way. I’m not here to put on a fucking show for you.”
“Yes, you are, boy,” Dad says, his voice rising.
Duncan immediately starts to unwrap his wrists. “Then I’m done.”
“Wait, wait, wait no. That’s not what I meant.”
“I fight my way, or I don’t fight.”
There’s a standoff between them. Duncan’s so deftly turned Dad’s anger that was once originally aimed at me straight onto him.
It’s not like I don’t know how to handle Dad, but I appreciate it.
Dad puts on a stony front, but slowly he retreats.
The only person I’ve ever seen Dad retreat from is Duncan. It’s honestly shocking, and a little confusing.
Duncan slams the door shut, slides the deadbolt across, then looks at me. His Adam’s apple jumps up and down as he swallows.
“I don’t need you to protect me from him,” I say to him. I add, “He’s such an asshole, but I can handle him.”
“I don’t like the way he treats you.”
“Neither do I.”
“Then you and I are on the same side.”
“I don’t want to take sides against my Dad,” I tell him truthfully. “Not really, anyway.”
“It’s too late for that, Dee. Protect yourself, first and foremost.”
“You don’t need to get in between us.”
He shrugs. “I do what feels right.”
There’s a pause, and we look at each other.
“We’re a team now, Dee.”
“What, like brother and sister? Ganging up on Dad?”
“Maybe. You want to come outside and watch the next round? Be where I can see you.”
“I do,” I say truthfully. “It’s a little exciting. But…”