Page 178 of The Clinch
Not the shape of Liz walking out of the apartment with her weekender in one hand and my ring no longer on her finger. Notthe red mark rising on her arm on York Avenue. Not the way she said she needed the next thing that happened in her life to happen because she chose it.
None of that matters here.
I put another combination together, tighter this time, less anger, more mechanics. Ray grunts once.
“There,” he says. “That one.”
I roll my shoulders loose.
Sweat runs down the center of my back. My wraps are damp under the gloves. My pulse is elevated.
For ten straight seconds, the world almost makes sense.
Then the front door opens.
Nobody pays much attention at first. People come and go. Then the gym registers that something about this entrance is wrong.
Ray looks past me toward the front and doesn’t move, which is its own warning.
I turn.
Drake stands just inside, one hand in his jacket pocket, like he had to work himself up to crossing the threshold and is angry with all of us for noticing.
He’s in jeans and a dark jacket, dressed for the street, not the gym. Wrong silhouette. Wrong energy. The space rejects him on sight.
He scans once, finds me by the bag, and looks at me like a blade.
I peel the gloves and wraps off slowly and drop them on the bench. Don’t rush. Don’t give him the satisfaction of thinking he changed my tempo just by walking in.
Ray moves closer on my left. “Need something?” he asks Drake.
Drake never looks away from me. “Yeah.”
His voice carries more than he means it to. Too much edge. Too much leftover humiliation still riding under the skin.
“I’m here for him.”
Ray says nothing.
“If you’re looking for an autograph,” I say, “you picked the wrong hour.”
Nobody laughs.
That makes it better.
Drake hears the line land in silence, the color in his neck darkening slightly.
“Cute,” he says. “You rehearse that, or does it come free with the belt?”
Same play as the sidewalk. Same cheap little push for heat.
I lean one shoulder against the post by the bag and look at him the way I’d look at a man trying to bluff his way through a weight cut. “You walked into my gym to talk, Drake. So talk.”
His expression sharpens.
“Fine.” He moves farther in, spreading his arms a little as if he’s the reasonable one in the room. “You and me. No sidewalks. No cops. Just us.”
Ray says nothing. Just folds his arms and watches.
