Page 106 of The Clinch
Then, “Liz, are you okay with that?”
I glance at Leo, expecting him to jump in, to manage it. He doesn’t. He keeps driving, giving me the space to answer.
“Yeah,” I manage. “I’m fine.”
“Good,” Jessica says, back to business. “I’ll text you options. Leo, don’t agree to anything Elliot throws at you until we talk.”
Leo’s focus stays on the road. “Noted.”
“Great. Enjoy your evening.”
The call ends. The car is quiet again.
Leo’s thumb strokes once over my knee, absent and grounding.
“We’ll handle it.” Not a promise to the universe. A decision.
The certainty in him is exactly what scares me.
Because he’s not pretending anymore.
And neither am I.
26
OPEN WORKOUT (LEO)
I’m wrapped up, hands taped, shoulders loose. Ray Calderone has me on the mats in front of the mirrors, mitts up, eyes sharp, mouth set like the session’s already running behind.
“You’re thinking,” he says.
“I’m breathing.”
He snorts. “Worse.”
He fires the first combination. I slip, step, snap a jab into the mitt, and drive a right hand home. The pop is tight. Clean.
“Again,” he says.
We go again. And again—footwork squeaking on rubber, jump ropes slapping somewhere behind us. The work is familiar. It strips my world down to timing, distance, the next decision.
My phone buzzes on the bench behind me. Ray doesn’t look. Pads stay up.
“You’re not checking it.”
“It could be Liz.”
Ray gives me a look. “You hear yourself?”
I do. That’s the problem.
I let the buzz die.
“Camp in three weeks.” Ray shifts his stance. “We build now. We sharpen later. You keep your hands intact.”
“I know.”
“Your manager doesn’t. Sponsors don’t. Fans don’t. They’ll turn you into whatever they need—hero, villain, fantasy—and punish you when you don’t fit.”
