Page 107 of The Clinch
I hit the mitt again, harder than I need to.
Ray takes it without flinching. “You’ll do the shoot. You’ll smile. You’ll say the safe things.”
“I’m good at safe. I’m not good at fake.”
Ray’s mouth twitches. “Safe isn’t fake. Safe is repeatable. That’s what I need.”
He drops one mitt. Studies me like he’s checking alignment.
“And your girl.”
I give him nothing.
“Fiancée,” he corrects himself. “Liz.”
I wait.
“You’re letting her into camp territory.”
I don’t answer.
“You don’t get to build your life around her for three weeks and then expect your body not to notice. Not your sleep. Not your timing. Not your head.”
“She’s not a distraction.”
“No. She’s worse.”
I feel that one where it counts. Distraction would be simple. Temporary. Something I could outwork.
This isn’t.
But I don’t give him the reaction he’s looking for.
“Your manager can sell a fantasy. Jessica can manage a story. I don’t care about either one. I care whether your eyes stay in the ring.”
“She can handle the schedule. She can’t handle being watched.”
He didn’t see her dead on her feet after a shift, still sharp enough to clock a room faster than I do. He didn’t see her run me into the ground at dawn.
“Then you don’t improvise. And you don’t turn into her bodyguard and burn your camp down.”
He lifts the pads again.
“Your head stays here. Now show me.”
We work until my shoulders burn and every inhale starts to scrape, until the only thing in my world is contact and correction.
Between rounds, Ray leans in. “Jessica called.”
The combination dies in my shoulders. “Why?”
“Because she’s paid to worry. She says the narrative is shifting. Less threat. More romance.”
“Romance.” The word sits wrong. Too soft. Too public. Too close to something I haven’t said out loud.
Ray shrugs. “You brought her to your parents’ house.”
Before I can answer, the gym door opens behind us.
