Page 207 of The Clinch
“Yes.”
She studies me, reads what she needs. “Got it.”
That is the advantage of having a sister who grew up in the same house and a body team that has watched you bleed for years. They know the difference between wanting calm and wanting one precise thing.
I finish the set, let the rope fall, and roll my shoulders out. Mickey hands me a towel. I wipe down, then sit while Ray checks the wrap on my left hand and gives both gloves one last look.
“He’ll try to crowd you early,” Ray says. His voice stays flat, almost bored. That’s his version of care. “Give him the jab. Give him the body. Keep his feet honest.”
“I know.”
“I know you know.” He meets my eyes. “I’m saying it anyway.”
Mickey rubs a thin layer of Vaseline across my cheekbones and brow. Elliot kills his call and points at me with his phone. “Please don’t scare the sponsor row in the first round.”
“Then stop putting me in rooms with sponsors.”
“That’s not how prizefighting works.”
Ray says, “Get out.”
Elliot lifts both hands and leaves. The room grows quieter after that. I stand. Roll my neck once. Flex my shoulders. The roar from the arena swells through the corridor outside, then flattens again.
A knock lands on the open doorframe.
Not the quick rap of security or the clipped tap of production. This one is slower. Deliberate.
I turn.
Liz is standing in the hallway with Eden half a step behind her.
The room changes temperature.
She’s in black from shoulders to heels. A fitted silk top under a tailored jacket, hair down over one shoulder in a dark wave that catches the overhead light, mouth bare except for gloss, eyes fixed on me with that directness that still cuts through noise better than any punch I’ve ever taken. The ring flashes when she reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
Ray and Mickey move without looking at me. They clear out with the efficiency of men who know when privacy matters more than routine. Eden lingers just long enough to press her lips together at Liz in a silenthave at him, then disappears down the corridor.
Liz steps inside and lets the door swing almost shut behind her.
She takes me in from head to toe. The wraps. The sweat. The gloves waiting on the chair. Her gaze moves back to mine and settles there.
“You look terrifying,” she says softly.
“You’re here anyway.”
“I’m making many excellent life choices lately.”
Her gaze drops to the gloves waiting on the chair. “Also, for the record, if he keeps dropping his right shoulder like that, I expect you to punish him.”
My mouth almost pulls. She crosses the room slowly, stops in front of me, and reaches for the collar of the robe draped over my shoulders, smoothing the satin where it has folded in on itself.
Her fingers are cool. My skin is not.
She draws in a breath, then lets it go through her nose. Her hand slides from the robe to the center of my chest, over my sternum, where my heart is working.
“I know this is your job,” she says. “I know you do not need a pep talk. I know you would hate a pep talk.”
“I would.”
