Page 45 of The Clinch
Inside, it smells the same as it always has—bleach, leather, metal that’s been hit too many times to care.
I start with the rope. Slow, measured. The rhythm you fall into when you’re pacing yourself. Footwork along the taped lines on the concrete.
Last night still hasn’t let go of me. One kiss on the Met steps shouldn’t still be sitting this high under my skin. The way she looked at me after. The way her hand smoothed over my lapel like she had every right.
None of that belongs in a gym.
It shows up anyway.
Ray watches from the corner, arms folded, stopwatch idle. He lets me work.
“Recovery week,” he says eventually. I keep moving. “Cleared for movement. No torque. No contact.”
We go through it together. Adjustments called low and precise. Shorter steps. Don’t chase. Control the center. I listen. Correct. My breath stays even.
“You came in later than usual,” Ray says, casual.
I slow, let the rope still. “Driving someone.”
His eyes lift. Sharp without being curious. “Same girl?”
“Yeah.”
Same girl.
Nothing about her feels simple anymore. Not after watching a stranger light up at the sight of her. Not after hearing the kind of admiration people only use for someone who used to walk into a room and change it.
I knew she was fast. I knew she’d once been headed somewhere huge. I just hadn’t felt the weight of what it meant that the world had already seen her—and remembered.
“Just don’t rearrange your life around camp.”
“I won’t.”
That’s it. Conversation over. Lines drawn.
I go back to movement. Shadowboxing now. Every punch pulled short. Restraint sits in my shoulders like a live wire.
The door bangs open behind me.
“Ain’t this a cheerful little dungeon.” Finn’s voice carries before he appears. Hoodie, gym bag slung over one shoulder.
Ray doesn’t even turn around. He checks his watch, clicks the stopwatch, and nods once in Finn’s direction.
“Play spar. I see you loading up, you’re done.” Then he’s gone, disappearing into the office without another word. He trusts me to know the line.
Finn grins. “See? Even your coach likes me.”
“He tolerates you,” I correct. “That’s different.”
Finn drops his bag and rolls his shoulders. “Lord, so this is recovery, huh? You look like you’re fixin’ to die of boredom.”
I face him. “You here to move or talk?”
“Oh, I’m here to talk,” he says. “Movin’s optional.”
We square up anyway. Light. Hands only. He throws a lazy jab. I slip it without thinking, angle off, keep it light.
“You headin’ out East next weekend?” he asks. “Fourth of July’s already turning into a whole thing.”
