Page 99 of The Clinch
“Camp starts in four weeks. Fight date’s locked.”
“Good.”
“Good?” The word comes out rougher than I mean.
She drags her nails down my chest, teasing. “About the same time I’m done at the ER. So I won’t need a chauffeur anymore.”
The words land wrong.
She says it lightly. Like four weeks is a neat little bridge between now and whatever comes after.
In my head, I see early mornings, sparring days that leave bruises under the skin, PT sessions with Eden that keep my body whole. A schedule that eats everything else if you let it.
“I’ll still drive you,” I say.
Her mouth curves. “Control freak.”
“Problem?”
“No.” She stretches against me like a cat. “I like it.”
I stand and hold out my hand. “Come on. You need food if you’re working.”
She looks at my hand long enough to make it a choice. Then takes it.
“You’re showing me how to make the smoothie. I’ll need those mad skills once you disappear into camp.”
My grip tightens around her fingers before I make it loosen.
“Yeah,” I say, because anything else would sound like too much.
She doesn’t catch it. Or pretends not to.
She slides out of bed and heads for the bathroom, hair loose down her back.
I stay where I am.
Then I reach for the phone again.
The screen is still lit with camp dates and sponsor demands, as if the future has been standing outside the room this whole time waiting for me to open the door. Four weeks.
The sheets still smell of her. I set the phone facedown and press my hand flat on the mattress. This is the part nobody warns you about. Not just wanting someone.
Wanting them on a deadline.
25
CUTMAN (LIZ)
The ambulance bay is already alive when I step out of the staff entrance, Leo’s coffee warming my palm.
The morning ran its usual rails—smoothie, shower, Huberman Lab low in the car. The only difference is the part we keep pretending doesn’t count.
Like we’re still faking it.
Which is how I know we aren’t.
“Go save some lives, Flash,” he said at the curb, brushing a loose strand of hair from my face. The kiss he gave me was quick and steady—and dangerous, because it made me want to turn around, climb back into his car, and disappear with him for the day. “See you at five.”
