Page 47 of The Clinch
“They’re building a narrative,” I say.
“They’re reinforcing one,” Jessica corrects. “Subtle difference.”
There’s movement near the door. Finn slings his bag over his shoulder, gives me a look that sayscall me later.
“Does she know?” I ask.
“I’ll talk to her today,” Jessica says. “Her phone’s off. I assume she’s at work.”
“Good.”
A pause. Then, lighter, “Also, for the record, you two look good together.”
I don’t respond.
Not because she’s wrong. Because she isn’t.
That’s the problem.
“That silence?” she says. “That’s the tell. You’re already thinking about consequences.”
“I’m thinking about walking it back.”
Jessica exhales. “If you do it now, it looks like you used her. Or that something went wrong behind closed doors. That’s the version people will invent.”
“If I don’t?”
“Then it stabilizes. For everyone.”
Everyone. Not just me.
After the call ends, I stay there for a moment, phone in my hand, the gym suddenly too quiet.
The lie worked. Too well.
I stand, sling my bag over my shoulder, and head for the door. Outside, Red Hook air is thick with heat. Trucks idle at the corner. Somewhere down the block, metal clatters against metal.
When I step onto the sidewalk, Travis Drake is leaning against a parked sedan, arms crossed, watching the gym. The kind of handsome that comes from knowing his body can do damage—and liking that it can.
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
I stop a few feet short of him. Close enough to register posture and balance. The way his weight favors one leg like he’s ready to move if he needs to.
“Carver,” he says, like we’re old buddies. We’re not.
“Drake.”
His smile widens. “I figured this was where you trained. Men like you always have a place like this.” His eyes move over the brick, the roll-up doors, the quiet block. “Somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one asks questions.”
I glance past him, down the street. A delivery truck idling at the corner. A man unloading crates two buildings down. No one looking at us. No one obviously listening.
He chose the timing right.
“You waiting for someone,” I ask, “or just enjoying the neighborhood?”
He chuckles under his breath. “Funny.” Then his gaze hardens. “I’m waiting for my wife.”
I don’t react. If I touch him first, I lose. If I make him show himself, he loses. This isn’t the ring. Out here, the win is proof.
