Page 177 of The Clinch
He looks at my arm one last time.
“Go home. Ice it.”
It’s the bare edge of care. Nothing more.
“Leo.”
He waits.
“Travis called. Weeks ago, from an unknown number. It had a Louisiana area code.” I keep my eyes on my arm. “I didn’t answer. I didn’t tell you.”
His Adam’s apple rolls.
“And there was a man on Fire Island, in the crowd after the fireworks. He knew my name—the old one.” I finally look up. “I think Travis has been asking around for a while.”
Leo stays silent.
“I should have told you. I know that.”
He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is even.
“I know why you didn’t.”
He doesn’t say it’s okay. He doesn’t say it doesn’t matter. He just stands there with it and absorbs it, letting it be what it is.
He steps back first. That, more than anything else, nearly undoes me. Not the rescue. Not the control. The fact that he gives me back my own movement.
I tighten my grip on the sticky cup and make myself walk.
I don’t look back.
I don’t have to. I can feel him there, holding that line.
42
FEINT (LEO)
The bag doesn’t hit back hard enough.
Ray knows it. I know it. The problem is, I can’t make myself care enough to correct it.
One-two. Hook. Roll. Reset.
The chain rattles overhead. The bag swings out and comes back with that dumb, obedient certainty only inanimate things have. I catch it with my glove, let it settle, and start again.
The gym is quiet this late. Not empty. Never empty. But thin enough that every sound carries. A jump rope is snapping somewhere behind me. A speed bag stutters on the far side. The faint squeak of sneakers over canvas.
Home, in other words.
Ray steps closer. “Again.”
I work.
Jab. Cross. Hook to the body. Pivot out.
The bag jumps. My breath stays steady. My feet stay under me.
That’s what matters.
