Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [68]
The crowd cheers with sweet enthusiasm. The medics rush out and huddle around Uber. I’ve never felt sick to my stomach like this at a match before.
In the great volume of noise, Mark and I can talk aloud.
—He had some moves, he says. —I’ll give him that.
—His face looks really bad.
—Come on, I’ll walk you down to the locker room.
—I thought you didn’t like the guy, I say.
—Those scars are going to be beautiful.
—So he’s cool now?
Mark touches the place on his T-shirt over his tiger tattoo in solidarity.
—I hope Lloyd recorded it. I loved the thing with the scissors. And the little old man, he says. —You look kind of bloodless. You okay?
—I have to sit down.
Mark offers me some water and when I take the bottle my hand shakes.
—I think you drank too much Fire Eater, he says.
—I think I’ve had too much circus.
CHAPTER
24
We make our way toward the locker rooms, the paparazzi hooding us with light, eager to kidnap us if they can. I push against their vests and cameras, determined to get through, Mark in tow. As one guy rushes toward me and another pushes him out of his way, one of their cameras strikes me in the chest.
—Hey! I shout, thrusting a hand in the air for everything to stop. Catching my reflection in the glass pane of the next door, I remind myself never to look like I’m about to raise the dead in front of the media again. I take a deep breath and try to slip into press conference mode.
—I know you have a lot of questions. But at this time I can’t tell you anything more about Uber’s condition than you already know. I’m paying a short visit and I’ll be returning his helmet to him. So I wouldn’t call this a romantic visit unless you consider surgery romantic.
There’s a short spell of laughter and then questions are turned on me like a fire hose. Two Glads who were in tonight’s competition have posted themselves at the door. The tall one has buttery dark skin with a tattoo on his chest of a victorious gladiator, his foot resting on his slain opponent. He helps us get inside the locker room. He tells me the ambulance will be here soon, and that Uber is going for professional stitching, so keep it short.
—Nice tattoo, man, Mark says.
We find Uber flat on his back on a massage table, his breastplate off, and a large bag of ice against the right side of his face. I walk over and stand close to him so he can see me with his visible eye. Mark hangs back for now.
—Thanks for coming, Uber says, wincing as he tries to smile.
He takes the ice pack away and I see that someone has used an ointment over his wounds, and there are enough butterfly bandages to set off a small migration. The eye is shut, the lid badly swollen and cut. I set the helmet down on a table and put the ice back in place. I’m standing in a half inch of water. There are bloody rags in a bucket near my feet, coolers of ice, a table with first-aid gear spread out along the top.
—Are your parents here? I ask.
—They’ve gone back to their hotel room to lie down. My father gets confused about things. Alzheimer’s. My mother will bring him over to the hospital later.
Then he speaks so softly I have to lean in close to hear. The smell of blood and ointment fills my nostrils.
—Thanks for the warning.
—That was terrible, what they did to your folks.
—The worst.
I’m aware of Mark standing by the door, straining to hear, and I gesture for him to come over.
—This is my friend Mark. I think you met his father, Lloyd, of the Ludus Magnus Americus.
—Hey.
—Fine work with the scissors. You knew right where to strike.
—I picked that up from one of your father’s videos, actually.
—The Panther.
—That’s the one.
—I’ll let him know.
It’s clear that Uber is tired.
—Hope you don’t mind. There’s something I have to tell Lyn before they cart me out of here.
Now the awkwardness between them surfaces. Mark bobs his head and says to me, —Call me when you’re ready to go. I’ll . . . check out the urinals.
Mark wanders into the room where I first met Uber. He slumps down on a bench and looks at me with an