Page 84 of On the Ropes
I moved even closer to Dean, feeling weird about my cowardly response. This was not a conversation I usually balked at. Or had ever balked at. This brief, vague exchange wasn’t even close to a boundaries-and-rules conversation.
“You, uh, did snore. Loudly.”
I froze. “I did not.”
“Took all of the blankets. Left me to shiver for hours.”
I poked him in the chest until he looked back up again with barely repressed mirth. “You got jokes all the time now, huh? I bet I was the perfect specimen of sleep loveliness.”
His throat worked. “You were. You could be on your own magazine.”
I preened. “For being lovely?”
“For snoring.”
I burst out laughing. “Dean Knox-Morelli.”
He gathered me back against his chest, and I could feel the wicked shape of his lips as he kissed down my face. “If there was a magazine dedicated to being too beautiful for words,” he said against my skin, “you’d grace every cover, Tabitha.”
I buried my face in the crook of his neck to hide my tomato-red blush. My heart opened another fraction of an inch. I couldn’t have stopped it even if I wanted to.
I settled back against the pillow and brushed a few more wayward curls from his forehead, fingers grazing down his cheekbone. Up close, in the morning light, the toll that boxing had taken on his body was evident. My fingers traced the crisscrossed scars under his left eye, which looked like white, jagged hash marks. I trailed down the rough bump on the bridge of his nose as a flicker of a smile appeared on his face. I touched the indent in his lip.
“I’m sure there are a lot of these I can’t see too,” I said softly. Under the blanket, his palm was heavy on my knee, thumb stroking along my skin.
“Torn rotator cuff, both sides,” he said. “Dislocated right shoulder. Broken collarbone, three times.” I smoothed my hand down the right side of his body. “My ribs have been bruised, fractured, broken. Dozens of times.” His tongue poked in the side of his cheek. “Two missing teeth in the back. Broken off.”
“Eh, you don’t need ’em,” I shrugged. “The teeth you have are perfect.”
Dean kissed me. I played with an especially charming curl while his eyes lingered on my face. I didn’t want to rush him. Speaking up in our support group at the Lavender Center was always a little intimidating, but whenever Dean opened up I felt seen. He didn’t share often, but his words carried a weight that I respected. It’s not having two moms that makes me feel lonely, he’d once said, it’s when the rest of the world judges us that makes me feel that way.
“Sometimes…” he started. I went still. “Sometimes I wonder if people would have accepted my decision to retire if they could see my concussion. I’ve heard other boxers with brain injuries say something similar. Feels like an invisible injury when it’s not. But people don’t believe you if they can’t see it for themselves.”
I stroked my thumb across his forehead and along his temple.
“I got lucky in a lot of ways,” he said. “My concussion was classified as minor, but I still had symptoms for half a year after I got knocked out. My short-term memory felt off and didn’t really feel like it came back until a year had passed. I had these horrific migraines that would incapacitate me for a whole day. Still get them. They come on suddenly, without a warning.”
I pressed my lips to the top of his head.
He smiled. “The first few weeks I was supposed to rest with the lights off. No TV or anything with flashing lights. The whole block…” His smile widened. “The whole block took turns coming by to talk to me so I’d have something to do. Rowan was there every night. He’d do a super detailed, minute-by-minute description of the Phillies game. Crowd reactions and everything.”
I laughed because I could see this so clearly.
“I recovered,” Dean said. “But I was grateful to my doctor. She made it clear about her long-term concerns. Every athlete knows there’s a point where the price is too high to pay. I was twenty-two, still young, with a long career ahead of me. About to compete in a world championship that was already getting heavily televised even when I was set to fight Bobby beforehand. Commercials advertised it. There were already bets taken out that I would win.” He shifted on the bed, tugging me closer. “My doctor talked to me about the reality of sustaining that many concussions over a lifetime.”
My gut twisted. I’d read about this online, curious after Dean talked about brain injuries being a reason why he might not take the commentator job.
“It’s…” He cleared his throat. “It wasn’t a risk I was willing to take. Subjecting my brain and body to something that could lead to early dementia. Depression and mood swings. The doctor said it could even cause me to get aggressive. Angry and paranoid.” He made a sound in the back of his throat. “All these fans, all these analysts… In their minds, it was like I gave up more than they could understand. But it wasn’t for them to understand. It wasn’t their health and memory. Wasn’t their relationships. Like I could keep competing, knowing what it might do to my family?”
I shook my head, no longer shocked at the depth of protectiveness I felt toward Dean. No wonder the whole block showed up to take care of him.
“Thank you for telling me,” I said. “I can’t imagine it’s easy to talk about. And you’re absolutely right. It’s your body to make decisions about. Not theirs. It sounds like you made the right one for you. At the end of the day, you’re a human being, not a literal machine.”
He gave me a tiny smile that felt like a gift. “It’s been nice to start feeling like a human again, with your help. I’m not ashamed of my injuries. Or that I left. But it’s harder to talk about than I thought it would be.”
I brushed my mouth across his forehead, unable to resist. “I’m proud of you.” His fingers flexed against my skin. “I know I wasn’t home at the time. I know I’m…” I swallowed. “Leaving. Soon. But I’m proud to know you, Dean Knox-Morelli. If you ever wanted someone to plan a parade down Passyunk Ave in your honor just because, I’m your girl.”
A lightness came over his expression. “What would you be honoring?”
