After the divorce, Doc had spent longer hours at the gym, as involved with the regulars as ever but determined to keep his distance. It was the professional thing to do, he decided, and he had neither needed nor cared to blur that sharply-defined line between the world within the gym's doors and the world outside them. Boxers didn't need to know his problems and he sure as hell didn't need to know theirs. But somewhere along the lines, Louis had forgotten his own rule. And strangely enough, making that mistake wasn't as terrible as he had thought it would be.
Mac was a good kid.
He paid his dues; he observed the rules of the gym; he didn't give anyone any lip or stop to chat on the floor beyond a casual 'hey, doin' ok?' in greeting. He was also an unusual kid aside from his height. Remarkably naïve and guileless and optimistic for someone who eked out a living in a seedy Hunts Point neighbourhood. And no matter how hard Doc worked him he would return, hurting yet eager to pick up where they had left off. That dream to make something of himself as a young man, as a boxer, that hopeful fire burning deep in his heart might have been the only thing that really kept him off the streets and away from drugs, out of a bad life. The gym was a haven to men young and old, a safe space, a place of order amid disorder and urban decay. It did them a world of good for these hungry fighters to burn their energy in good ways. In good, clean ways.
Doc could see how some trainers could have found Mac's fresh-faced enthusiasm irritating, mistaking it as the look of someone ignorant of the long, arduous climb to the top and hoping to make it big and live easy in a short amount of time. Even now, years later, he was perpetually gauging how fiercely Mac hungered to own that WVBA world circuit belt with every fibre of his being, and to what extent he would fight just for a chance to skim his fingers over it, to see it in the mirror, to hoist it up high into the air with the roar of the crowd blasting his ears. Some fighters got lazier and cockier the higher they rose above. He realized he didn't much need to worry about Mac in this regard, but it was his duty nonetheless as his trainer to test his mettle in preparation of the trials ahead. It was one thing to see the kid showing punctuality at the gym (which was always appreciated), but another thing to put him through a grueling training regimen and watch him shudder and break into a sweat, taking it like a champ even as it wrung a few tears from his eyes. He wouldn't ever spare the kid on account of his age and knew the boxer wouldn't have it any other way.
Mac didn't swear in the gym. It would be in violation of the rules, in any case. But sometimes, while keeping himself tremblingly half-raised on a chin-up bar while Doc took a few shots at his gut, he'd come close. Then there were those one-armed push-ups made worse by the fact that they wouldn't count if his form was improper or if he didn't ease himself down until his chest skimmed the floor. The kid knew that cheating on these meant that he would only be hurting himself in the long run. This was just another part of transforming his body into a well-tuned machine.
"C'mon, stay with me." Doc would say, kneeling next to Mac and looking into his taut, flushed face. "Last one, baby, let's go! You can do it. Show me you can do it."
With his breath puffing in and out through gritted teeth, he'd squeeze his eyes shut and groan, just managing to shove his body up off the floor with a shaky thrust of his arm. Supporting himself with everything he had left in him, he'd wait desperately for a moment's reprieve, trembling.
"Time out!"
At those blessed words Mac would always let himself crumple to the mat as if all his muscles and bones turned to jelly. It made Doc tired just looking at him.
"Now that wasn't so bad, was it? " Louis would laugh, arms akimbo as he rose to his feet. "Hey now, don't tell me I gotta drag you home."
He'd never nudge Mac with his shoes, even playfully. It was a matter of respect.
Doc felt the boy sling a tired, heavy arm halfway around his back, clumsily trying to get a good grip on him with his thick glove.
"…You ready?" He asked, looking Mac's way.
A dim nod came first; then: "…Yeah."
With the kid to his right - his injured side against him for some stability – they began to make their way from the ring and down the aisle one hobbling step at a time, their gait made that much more awkward by their height difference. Doc paused to kick aside a few cans and crumpled wrappers, aware of the reporters rushing to catch up. Within seconds, a dozen smartly-dressed men and women had formed a horseshoe around them.
"You just beat Super Macho Man. From the looks of this crowd, this is not what most people expected at all. How do you feel?"
Mac lolled his head up, his face sallow and shining with sweat, his lips parted. At the question, a faint, apologetic smile curled the corners of his mouth and he managed a breathless chuckle, offering an equally listless nod before letting his chin sink to his chest.
Feeling the boxer's hand clutch a little harder at his windbreaker jacket, Doc leveled a look of stern impatience at the reporters. "Now listen here –" He began, "The only kind of attention this kid needs right now is medical attention, and there ain't one of you here who looks like a doctor to me. So if any one of you are hopin' to do us a favour, step aside."
The reporters looked between themselves.
"…Thought so. C'mon, son."
Unconsciously tucking Mac closer to him, he set his jaw and muscled through them as he had through the paparazzi countless times, ignoring the microphones jabbed into their faces. And as they made a beeline to the corridor leading to Mac's dressing room, the howling and hissing and applause of a crowd clamouring for blood, for a rematch, for a replay of the final, crushing blow that had sent Super Macho Man sprawling to the mat faded to a dull roar.
The hallway was empty and painfully quiet by comparison. Doc could hear the squeaking shuffle of their shoes on the lacquered floor, the water-bottle crinkling in his pocket, the kid's half-stifled grunts with every jostling, reluctant step.
"I won…" Mac mumbled, as if testing out the words. "I won, didn't I?" He asked, his voice thin and shaky.
"…Yeah."
As Doc answered him he realized the collar of his jacket was sticking to his neck, his own heart still thumping viciously fast. "Y'sure did."
A beat passed in solemn silence.
"You… ain't mad at me… are you?"
"What –?" Doc stared at him. "Mad?" The man let that sink in before shaking his head incredulously. "Listen, how about you do yourself a favour and save your breath until we get to a cab?"
Quickly deciding that he would pick up Mac's change of clothes tomorrow, he led them on past the dressing room but was forced to stop not far away when the kid bent suddenly, spewing a stream of bile. There was no time to be startled by the abruptness of the convulsions. He just held Mac steady while the rough, semi-wet coughs jolted out of him and he struggled to get a breath in edgewise. He didn't care about the stink of vinegar that hit him strong. The spasms subsided and he rubbed at Mac's back unthinkingly, sensing the boy's slight anxiety over the mess as he did. "Don't worry about it. C'mon now."
There was a vending machine not a dozen feet from the back door. Given his experience in and by the ring, Doc had learned a thing or two about injuries – as well as how to improvise. Digging into his pocket, he jammed a few quarters into the machine and promptly slammed the side of his fist into one of the buttons. After some clanking and rattling inside, a can of pop tumbled out, cold and heavy as a block of ice. He slid his arm from around Mac just long enough to wrap the can in the towel.
"I'll hold onto this 'til we reach a cab, okay?"
Mac nodded faintly.
Using his elbow, Doc pushed through the squeaking back door into thick of night, fresh air chilling the film of sweat on their faces. With street lamps and skyscrapers and billboards aglow, light filling the air like hundreds of Christmas baubles, the place was like Vegas.
In anticipation of all the fans pouring out of the arena, some half-dozen taxis had pulled up on the side. One of the cabbies – a man in his late twenties with a scruffy, sparse beard - was drumming his fingers against the steering wheel with one hand and half-absently toying with a cigarette with the other when Doc and Mac shambled to the rolled-down passenger window. Squinting into the dark at first, he then straightened in his seat as recognition dawned on him, flicking his half-finished cigarette out the window and onto the concrete.
"Hey! Fight's over already?"
Doc couldn't tell if the question had a mocking undertone or not and pried open the seat to the backdoor, encouraging Mac to go in first. Clutching his side, the kid crawled in and cautiously, wincingly eased his way into sitting up, needing his seatbelt to be buckled for him.
There hadn't been the time to unlace his gloves, Doc thought.
Slinging an arm around his seat, the driver twisted around and jerked his chin in the kid's direction. "Who won?" He asked Doc with an expectant grin as the man settled in the back.
"You're lookin' at him."
The cabbie's dark eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. "Oh yeah? Heh. Good for him." Then his admiring smirk fell. "Whoa, hold on - - is that blood? I don't want any blood on the seats, man! I just got this cleaned!"
"There ain't gonna be no problem if you jus' hurry up an' drive." Doc urged.
The man scowled. "Look, man, I don't care who you are. I got a business to run. If you're going to give me shit- -"
"This kid's in bad shape and there ain't a single fight doctor in that stadium. He needs to get to the hospital now."
"I got chronic backaches and you don't hear me giving you a hard time about it."
Doc pinned him with an implacable glare. "Look - if he dies 'cause you ain't gotten us to the hospital fast enough, you're gonna be hearin' hell of a lot about it, I promise you that. An' you won't be worryin' about this car no more. Understand? Now take this twenty an' make it quick."
Flushing, the man snapped his mouth shut and snatched up the money, twisting the jangling car keys that were jammed into the ignition.
The car rumbled to life.
After fastening his own belt, Doc leaned in towards Mac to buckle him up. A chill shot through his spine.
There was a sound. A quiet, but a terrible, persistent sound. Not of panting but of wheezing, a strained, high-pitched wheezing, as if someone were being strangled. Doc felt his throat go dry, wanting to believe that it was just the car doing all the squeaking as it juddered in and out of ruts in the road. Billy Idol's mellow Sweet Sixteen flowed through the car as the cabbie turned up the volume.
"Hey!" Doc barked sharply over his shoulder, "Would you turn that damn thing down?"
Nothing happened.
With his pulse pounding briskly in his throat, Louis fumblingly undid his belt and ducked his head, bringing his ear to Mac's chest. Amid the sharp, uneven flow of air there was the muffled crackling of God-only-knew-what. Bone; cartilage? But shifting his ear a little further to the left, it got worse. He could barely hear anything at all.
He drew back, certain it hadn't been this bad in the hallway.
Pale-faced, Mac pawed at his seatbelt a little with his glove, making a noise between a croak and a dry cough in some half-hearted attempt to speak.
Doc snapped to attention and took the hint, releasing the buckle. "How's that?"
The kid nodded wearily after too long although his relief didn't reach his features. His Adam's apple bobbled and air whistled in and out his throat, his jugular veins bulging tightly against his skin. He closed his eyes.
Louis raced to get the gloves off Mac's hot, trembling hands, and then passed him the pop-can wrapped in a towel to hold against his ribs in lieu of an ice pack. He then unzipped his jacket and shrugged it off, throwing it around the boy's shoulders. With any luck it would help to ease the shock.
"Here – now I want you to squeeze my arm. Go on."
At first, Mac groped for it as if unsure. But steadily, he tightened his quivering grip, knuckles whitening.
"…Not that hard, son, I need this arm." A clumsy, almost desperate attempt at levity. Lord, it was reassuring to know that he still had some strength to him. "That's better. Keep doin' that, and look at me."
Doc met his gaze squarely, holding it steady. Mac's eyes gleamed sharply with pain and fear, mortal fear.
"Now, you're gonna be fine, y'hear me? You're gonna get to the hospital and they gonna fix you. Then I'm gonna get you a real big chocolate bar. We gonna enjoy the sweet, sweet taste of victory, baby."
Flinging his head over his shoulder, he asked, "…Hey, how much longer?"
"Just past this light."
"Hear that? Just hang on, baby. Just a lil' while longer, an' don't you close those eyes on me. ...Hey, c'mon now. Mac?"