Page 5 of The Clinch
I like the predictability of it.
Then a face cuts through the quiet.
Calm and assessing. Like she’s already decided what I am—and isn’t impressed by it.
The kind of look that names the problem and doesn’t step closer.
I shove it away.
Later.
A familiar presence enters the room. I don’t need to look to know who it is. The rhythm changes when he’s here.
Ray Calderone.
He steps into my line of sight without announcing himself. I lift my head and meet his eyes.
“Sit up,” he says.
I do.
His gaze moves slow and precise—face, shoulders, ribs, hands. He’s not looking at me as a champion. He’s looking at me as a body that just absorbed damage.
“You controlled the center. Didn’t let him push you back. You read him early. Adjusted fast. But….” There’s always a ‘but.’ “You dropped your left hand in the sixth. He tagged your ribs twice because of it.”
“I felt that.”
“Didn’t cost you. But it could have.”
He gestures toward my hands. “Your combinations were good. You didn’t chase the finish. You waited. That’s why you’re the champion.”
I let the win register, no more than that. Then his eyes sharpen.
“Explain the rope,” he says.
The room doesn’t change. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.
“I made a call.”
“Why?”
I could say adrenaline. I could say the crowd. I could say instinct. None of those are answers he’ll accept.
“Because I want her.” The words land flat.
Ray waits me out. Then, “Who?”
I don’t like how quickly he goes there. Names turn impulses into problems.
“Not someone you need to worry about,” I say.
Whatever patience he had thins. “It does when you do it in front of cameras.”
I don’t argue. I don’t apologize either.
He weighs that, then moves on.
“Everyone’s watching the fights. I’m watching your decisions.”
