Page 7 of The Clinch
“You’ll take three days. Light movement only. Then we ease back in.”
“Camp starts in six weeks,” he adds. “Eight if the defense slips. Mandatory’s breathing down our neck.”
“Opponents?”
“Two names in the mix. Both aggressive. Both will try to push you early.”
I picture it automatically. Range. Footwork. Patience.
“You’ll need to stay clean. No noise. We don’t give the commission or sponsors anything to chew on.”
This isn’t new.
“That clip’s already circulating,” he says. “The jump. Nothing we can’t manage, but it’s out there now.”
“Yes.”
He meets my eyes. “This window matters.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“I know you will.”
That’s the trust. Hard-earned and quiet. Camp is coming. Structure is coming. Everything has its place. I run it forward the way I always do.
This is still manageable. Whatever happens tonight happens inside the window—before the discipline tightens again.
One night doesn’t bleed into camp.
One night doesn’t rewrite the schedule.
I stay seatedafter he leaves.
He isn’t wrong. I’ve built my career on knowing exactly where the lines are and when not to cross them.
This doesn’t threaten it.
That’s the truth I settle on.
I didn’t jump the rope because I lost my head. I made a decision. Fast, yes, but deliberate. Post-fight release has always been part of the rhythm. Pressure in. Pressure out. Then back to work.
Sex is easy. Simple. Temporary. It burns off what’s left of the adrenaline and leaves everything else intact. I don’t date. I don’t linger. I don’t blur lines that matter.
Tonight’s no different.
I tell myself what caught my attention wasn’t her—not really—but the timing. The charge in the room. The way a fight sharpens everything.
She knows exactly what this kind of night ends with.
That matters. That makes it simple.
She isn’t special. That’s the point. This is timing, not complication.
I know how to end a night and leave it there.
Camp stays untouched.
I picture it already—the after-party, the noise, the dark corner where the world drops away. Her body warm under my hands.
