Page 62 of The Clinch
“Yeah.” Her eyelids droop. “Had a guy come in with his hand half open. He kept apologizing to me, like he was inconveniencing me.”
I make a sound that isn’t quite a laugh. “You want to go to sleep?”
“Not yet. But don’t be mad if I pass out,” she says, voice thick.
“I won’t be.”
“Good.”
On screen, Spartacus takes a blade to the shoulder and keeps moving.
“That’s his deltoid,” she mutters, eyes narrowing. “He’s not lifting that sword for a while.”
I glance over. “And yet, look at him go.”
Her mouth twitches. “He is Spartacus, after all.”
She stretches her legs out along the couch, all ceremony forgotten in her exhaustion. Her feet end up pointed toward me.
I wait a beat, then reach out and lift them with careful, deliberate attention, settling her heels in my lap. Liz’s eyes meet mine before returning to the screen. She doesn’t pull back.
“This okay?” I ask, needing the verbal confirmation, needing to file this under “safe.”
“Mm.” She sinks deeper into the cushion. “This is nice.”
I start at her arches, thumbs working steady lines, the same pressure I use on my own feet after roadwork—practical, helpful.
Except my hands learn her immediately—the curve of her heel, the warm give of her arch, the way her toes curl when I find a tight spot.
The sound she lets out is small, more breath than voice. I fix my eyes on the screen like it’s a corner between rounds, keeping the pressure exactly the same, because the second I let it change, it becomes something else.
“Good?” My voice is even.
“Yeah,” she whispers, then softer, like she doesn’t want to admit it, “Don’t stop.”
I’ve fought men in front of crowds. This should be easier.
And yet.
On TV, a man takes a blade to the ribs and keeps fighting anyway.
“Okay. That’s a stretch.” She winces.
“It could happen.”
She turns her head toward me, curious. “Adrenaline?”
“Buys you a minute. Same way you can finish a race on a hamstring you shouldn’t be running on.”
Her mouth curves. “So the part where he keeps going is real, and the part where he’s invincible is not.”
“Bodies will run on adrenaline for a bit, then they collect the bill.” I keep my eyes on the screen.
She exhales a laugh. “So... athletes.”
“Same principle.”
She sinks deeper, and her calf shifts across my thighs—warm, solid, too much information under my hands.
