Page 206 of The Clinch
When I break the kiss, it’s only because breathing has become a logistic issue.
He stays close, eyes on mine, like he’s still braced for me to change my mind.
I smile at that despite myself.
“You’re really going to make me say it again, aren’t you?”
Something almost like a smile touches his mouth. “Probably.”
I laugh once, shaky and soft.
Then I thread my fingers through his and press our joined hands flat against his chest.
“I’m here,” I say. “Because I want to be.”
His eyes close briefly.
When they open again, there is no caution left in them. He kisses me one more time, slow and devastating, and folds me into him in a way that feels less like being taken and more like being let in.
And for the first time in a very long time, staying doesn’t feel like surrender.
EPILOGUE — UNANIMOUS (LEO)
The rope hisses under my shoes and snaps against the concrete in a rhythm that has lived in my body longer than most people in my life.
Backstage at T-Mobile Arena, the room is bright, crowded, and stripped down to function. Tape wrappers litter the table beside the ice bucket. Mickey’s kit sits open and orderly under the lights. My gloves are laced and waiting. The undercard runs silent on the television high in the corner while the arena feed hums through the walls in low waves of bass and crowd noise. Ray stands near the door with his arms folded, watching me work without wasting words. Elliot is on his second phone call in ten minutes, trying to sound calm for other people’s benefit.
My pulse is up. My breathing is even. Sweat gathers between my shoulder blades, enough to loosen the last layer of stiffness without costing me anything.
I turn the rope faster.
This part never changes. The room. The light. The smell of leather, liniment, and nerves. The point in the night when every man in here knows exactly what his job is. This is where I have always felt clearest. The world gets smaller in here. Simpler. Noroom for spiraling. No space for the kind of thinking that turns in on itself and starts eating air. There’s only the next decision, then the one after that. Hands up. Angle out. Jab first. Breathe. Work is coming, and all that matters is whether I am ready.
I am.
The rope kisses the floor, flicks up, and turns again.
What changed is the rest of my life.
This morning Liz stood barefoot in my hotel suite in one of my black T-shirts, drinking coffee by the window while the Strip looked washed out and unreal behind her. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a loose knot that had given up ten minutes after she made it. My ring flashed on her left hand when she lifted the mug, and half her clothes were spread across the dresser with no sign she planned to leave anytime soon.
She has done that in Brooklyn too. A toothbrush on my bathroom counter. Her body wash in the shower. Journals and med school textbooks stacked next to my row of what she calls “brutal men being concise about suffering.” Running shoes in the hallway. Bright hair ties everywhere. Her charger plugged in on my side of the bed because that is the side she reaches first when she climbs in. She moved in the way Liz does everything important—quietly, without fanfare, as if the truth had been there for a while and she had finally stopped arguing with it.
The rope catches my heel.
I stop, reset, and start again.
Ray glances at the clock on the wall. “Five minutes.”
I nod without breaking rhythm. The rope keeps turning.
Eden steps into the doorway, dressed for the arena in a fitted black jumpsuit and a look that says she has opinions about at least three men in this room.
“You’ve got two minutes before security starts getting territorial,” she says.
Elliot glances up from his phone. “Tell them to stay territorial. I love that for us.”
Eden ignores him and looks at me. “You want her in here?”
