Page 152 of The Clinch
I take another bite and look around the kitchen. The labeled containers. The supplement packets lined up beside the coffee machine. His schedule written in clipped black marker on the whiteboard by the fridge—training, rest, meals, recovery, all of it blocked out with military neatness.
“You know,” I say, setting my fork down, “this place is starting to feel less like an apartment and more like a high-functioning hostage situation.”
His eyes lift to mine. “How so?”
I tip my head toward the fridge. “The labels. The schedule. The pre-portioned food. I’m half expecting your water intake to be monitored by satellite.”
“It is.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
His mouth twitches. “Kidding.”
“Only because the technology doesn’t exist yet.”
“It absolutely exists.”
I laugh, but the sound fades quickly. My gaze drops to the whiteboard again, then back to him. “Does this help?”
He follows the direction of my eyes without turning his head. He knows what I’m asking.
“With camp, you mean?”
“With everything.”
He leaves the question there a second before answering. Then he sets down his fork.
“When it gets close to a fight, I don’t want extra decisions. I don’t want noise. I want the next thing in front of me, and I want to do that one right.”
I lean my forearms on the island. “It keeps you focused?”
“It keeps my head quiet.”
The answer lands between us and stays there.
“My father,” he continues after a moment, “thought I’d do something else.”
“Your parents seemed very cerebral. Not exactly the family people picture when they think of a professional boxer.”
A faint, tired amusement moves across his face. “That’s fair.”
He picks up his water, takes a slow drink, then sets it down again. “Boxing was part of the athletic program growing up. It was always there. It just was never supposed to become the whole plan.”
“What was the plan?”
His thumb drags once along the side of the glass. “Something respectable. My brother Ryan is in Washington teaching neurobiology. I think my father assumed I’d end up in some version of that lane.”
“That sounds...” I glance toward the living room, toward the books lining the shelves, then back at him. “Not entirely impossible for you.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “I was smart enough. That was part of the problem.”
I smile faintly. “It explains the library.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, then his gaze shifts toward the windows.
“I got into Stanford and went because that was the move. It kept everybody calm. It kept me on the path.” His mouth flattens a little. “And for a while, I managed both. Classes. Training. The version of my life that looked right on paper.”
I let that sit. “But?”
