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The event doctor—a serious Frenchman with grey stubble, entirely unimpressed by the belt, Ryan, or the rest of us who have crammed in here—slides a needle of local anaesthetic in above Ryan’s eye. He barely winces.
“Keep still, please.”
The room is in full party mode. Champagne has been opened and passed round. The Proclaimers’ “500 Miles” blasts out from a speaker. When the chorus kicks in, Liam and Imran launch into a wee jig, Liam’s champagne sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
Ryan laughs. The doctor tells him not to move, then gets back to work.
There’s champagne in my hand too. I don’t remember who gave it to me, and I’ve been sipping it without really tasting it. I want to be enjoying this. I am happy for Ryan, but I still feel in a bit of a daze, and my heart rate hasn’t come down yet. I keep seeing the bit before the knockout. Ryan’s face pressed against the fence. Vale’s arm round his throat.
I remind myself that the doctor has already checked him over. A suspected fracture in one finger—it’s already been taped to its neighbour, but it’ll need an X-ray tomorrow. Bruising. Two cuts that will need stitches—one above his eye and one on his lip. But other than that, as the doctor put it in his accented English, “He is okay.”
The song finishes, and Imran cracks open a can of Coke. “Where’s James?”
“Setting up the press conference,” Niamh says. “He’ll come back for Ry once the doc’s done wi’ him.” She tilts her head and studies Ryan. “You know, I think the swelling suits you. It’s an improvement.”
“Fuck off.”
Davie gestures at the belt with his champagne glass. “Wait till we take that into the club, eh? The weans will love it.” He shakes his head. “World fucking champion. Knew you’d get there, son.” He coughs, turns away, then busies himself topping up everybody’s champagne.
“Aye, world champion,” Ryan complains, watching the bottle go past, “but I cannae even get a drink.” The doctor has told him no alcohol tonight—not after the knocks he’s taken to the head, and not with the painkillers.
Imran opens another Coke and passes it to him. “Have this for now.”
Ryan looks at the doctor, who sighs. “A quick drink. Then I do the stitches.”
Ryan takes the can in his good hand and has a long glug. When he sets it down, he fixes me with his good eye and holds out his hand. I take it. His knuckles are swollen and his palm is hot. He squeezes my fingers while the doctor goes to work on his eyebrow, and with his hand in mine, my heart finally slows down.
Liam starts up an “Axe King” chant, and everyone promptly joins in, even me. The doctor rolls his eyes.
My phone vibrates in the pocket of my—well, Ryan’s—hoodie. It’s Innes, a video call. I answer, angling the phone so Ryan is in the shot too.
“World champion!” Innes shouts. “Ryan, that was unbelievable!”
“Cheers, mate.”
“Monsieur! Stay still while I stitch you. No talking.”
“Sorry,” I say. “My fault. I’ll take this outside.” I squeeze Ryan’s hand then head out into the corridor.
It’s busy out here too, with staff packing up equipment and people coming and going. I find a bench tucked into a recess and sit down. “Well. It’s been some night.”
“I still can’t believe it.” Innes is in his bedroom, his face filling most of the screen. “That escape. And then the hook! When Vale went down, Mum leapt to her feet and shrieked. I’ve never heard her make so much noise. Penny bolted out of the room.”
“Mum watched it?”
“All of it. Well, some of it through her fingers. She had plenty to say about Vale.”
“I bet she did.”
“And Dad was punching the air like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened. Which it is, by the way. You’re dating a world champion! How’s he doing? He took quite a battering.”
“He did.” I briefly fill him in on Ryan’s injuries but assure him the doctor is happy with him. “It really wasn’t easy to watch, though. There were a few times…” I shake my head. “Anyway. He’s going to be all right.”
Innes smiles. And then, out of nowhere, I hear myself asking, “Innes, do you ever blame me?”
He blinks. “Blame you for what?”
“You know. The accident.”
