Page 8 of The Clinch
Tomorrow, everything slots back into place. That’s how it works.
I flex my fingers, test the pull across my knuckles. Nothing argues.
This isn’t a risk. It’s maintenance.
Tonight stays inside the margins.
I’ve already decided how this goes.
Then I remember the way she looked at me from two rows back, and I stop being certain.
3
RANGEFINDER (LEO)
The club’s screaming “Lionheart” when I walk in.
Seven rounds. Clean knockout.
They hoist me onto shoulders, jostling me through the entrance like I just conquered Rome—women reaching out, men shouting my name, phones flashing like strobes. Bass vibrates through my chest. Someone grabs my arm. Another tries to kiss my neck.
The crowd is electric, and I’m the live wire.
Yeah, I fucking eat it up. Why wouldn’t I? I earned this.
Elliot steers me toward the VIP section, hand clamped on my shoulder. “Smile. Give them the Lionheart.”
So I do.
Tomorrow, I can worry about the politics, the press, the defense schedule. Tonight is for celebrating.
He drops me off at the VIP section, and there they are—my people. Eden rolling her eyes at me. Nate sprawled back, his arm planted around my sister. Finn and Jessica perched at the table, matching smirks locked and loaded.
“Your ego won’t fit through the door if they keep chanting that,” Eden shouts over the noise.
“Good thing I don’t need doors,” I shoot back. “Walls tend to move.”
Nate laughs and claps my shoulder. “He’s not wrong. Thought they were about to crown you on the spot.”
Jessica Novak O’Reilly—brilliant, ruthless, and the reason my career stays clean—lifts her glass. “I’m shocked they skipped the laurel wreath.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Finn drawls, bumping my fist.
Finn O’Reilly, Defenders right wing, built for speed and bad decisions. He sneaks into my gym when the season gets loud. He’s not allowed to spar, so I hold pads and let him take it out on leather instead of someone’s face.
Then I see her.
Liz Adler.
My sister’s best friend. Her roommate. The woman who’s been threading herself into my awareness for months without ever stepping fully into it.
She never fawns. Never pretends not to notice. She’ll call me out, call me hot, call me reckless—like it’s a joke she can throw and walk away from—and then take half a step back, like she’s already decided where the line is and expects me to respect it.
It shouldn’t get under my skin.
It does.
She’s perched at the edge of the table now, hair loose around her shoulders, posture relaxed but alert. Watching me.
