“It feels amazing. I’d like to thank Romilly Westfall for supporting me tonight, I’d like to thank my sister, Ingrid, for believing in me, and most of all, I’d like to thank God.”
“What’s next for you, Bash?”
My gaze scans the audience before I answer. When I still don’t see Romilly in the crowd, a nervous knot forms in my chest. I nod absently at the interviewer. “I’ll be training hard for my next fight.” But inside, all I can think is,where is she? Where has she gone off to?The question repeats itself in my head as I finish the rest of the interview, drowning out the buzz of the reporters’ questions and the flashes from cameras.
Maybe the fight was too much for her and she left early.
The idea disappoints me, but I know it’s possible. And worse is the knowledge that this is only the beginning of my career. Deep down, I’ve been hoping she’ll be here for every step. I want her at every fight, right up front, just like this time.
Every interview, every endorsement, every media coverage I’ll get in the coming week are all steps toward being the man I need to be for her. Towards being someone who can offer her more than my parents’ money, or an extra set of hands at her pet salon and a risky, long-distance future. I’m going to be here with her, and little by little, show her I’m worthy of her trust, and eventually,hopefully,her love. But I can’t deny a small part ofme will crumble if she decides she hates me fighting as much as my parents do.
My winning set of moves replays on the Jumbotron, but I hardly notice. Because a small crowd in the audience captures my attention. Through the tightly-packed bodies, I catch sight of Romilly’s green dress, and then finally, her face.
She’shere.
And then, just as quickly, my relief shatters.
The sight of the paramedics lifting Romilly onto a stretcher cuts through me like a knife. The world goes still as my blood turns to ice.
I can’t breathe.
The stretcher moves through the crowd as the paramedics push it toward the exit. Romilly’s head is tilted back, her face ashen, a trail of blood staining the side of her temple.
It feels like the ground has been yanked out from under me.
I don’t even hear the words the reporter is still saying into the mic. I don’tcare. She’s hurt. Or worse.
No. Don’t go there, Bash.
My body moves before my brain can process what’s happening. I push past reporters, fans, security, and anyone standing between me and her. I need to get to her, need to know what happened and make sure she’s okay. I need to hear her voice, to see her eyes focus on me, to feel her hand in mine.
“Romilly!” Her name tears out of me as soon as I’m at her side. I sound desperate, panicked, even to my own ears.
The paramedics stop pushing when she stirs and gently adjust her position on the stretcher.
As soon as I reach her side, I gently cradle her face in my hands. “What happened? Who did this to you?” I can barely get the words out.
Her eyes flutter open, but it’s clear she’s not fully with me. Her lips part like she’s trying to speak, but nothing comes out. Just a faint breath, a whisper of confusion I can’t decipher.
“Talk to me. What happened?” I brush a hand against her face, comforted by the warmth, despite the panic suffocating me. “Please, talk to me.”
"There was a fight and she got knocked down," says a paramedic.
Romilly blinks slowly. Her gaze wanders, refusing to focus on anything. I’ve never seen her like this before, and it terrifies me. Getting choked out feels like nothing compared to this.
“I’m here,” I whisper into her hair. “I’m here. I won’t leave you.” I thread my fingers firmly into hers.
“We need to move her.” A paramedic ushers me backward so he can continue pushing the stretcher forward.
I don’t let go but speed-walk alongside it, outside to the parking lot. I follow the entire way, holding her hand, until they shut her into the ambulance.
The gasps and murmurs from a few people who notice me barely even register. I practically black out as I find my car and get inside, following behind on the way to the hospital. It takes me much too long to find a parking spot, and I’m about to give up and leave my car in the middle of the road when I finally find one. Hysteria claws up my throat when I think about what could be happening to Romilly without me there.
I throw myself at the check-in desk. “Romilly Westfall. I’m here to see Romilly Westfall. Right now.”
The nurse at the computer widens her eyes at my tone and takes in my appearance. I’m shirtless, still in my fight shorts and gloves, and most likely have blood on my face. The nurse grimaces, but types away to find the room number. When she sees it, her fingers pause and she ticks. “Are you family?”
“No,” I grit out. “No, but I’m her boyfriend.” The word sounds so stupid. So insignificant, especially at a time like this. I hate it.
