Page 185 of The Clinch
My body doesn’t care how different the intentions were when the shape lands the same. Leo still made the decision without me.
Again.
I step back. Eden is beside me instantly.
I don’t look at Leo again. I can’t afford to.
I turn and walk.
Behind me, the ropes shift. Ray barks a command, sharp as a gunshot.
Then the door slams behind me.
44
UNDISPUTED (LEO)
The crack of the door hitting the frame cuts through the gym harder than any bell.
Nobody moves.
Not Ray at my shoulder. Not Jessica by the camera. Not Lukas near the wall with his jaw locked hard enough to splinter teeth. Not Nate, still planted there like he’s deciding whether to stay or go after them. Even the idiot Drake brought seems to understand the room just changed shape. He stands by the stool in Drake’s corner with a towel over one shoulder and a cut kit at his feet, looking less like a cornerman than a man who wandered into the wrong church.
Drake is still outside the ropes, chest bare, wrist tape peeling at one edge, watching the door she just walked through with that stupid little smile.
As if he thinks that ending belonged to him.
It didn’t.
Ray reaches for my glove, yanks the laces tight, then gives me one hard look. A final check to see whether I’m still in there enough to hear him.
I am.
Barely.
The sound of that door is still in my teeth.
He presses my mouthguard into my palm. “Inside.”
I shove it in, duck through the ropes and step into the ring.
Across from me, Drake climbs in slower, rolling his neck once. He gives the ropes a theatrical bounce, glances toward the cameras, then looks at me with bloodless amusement.
“She always does that. Gets hysterical. Runs out. Comes back when she’s done.”
I say nothing.
He lifts his gloves while his guy fumbles with the second strap. “She’s my wife. You’re just the asshole she climbed on while she threw her tantrum.”
Ray’s voice comes from somewhere beyond my shoulder. “Keep it clean. Keep it short.”
I hear him. I don’t answer.
Drake settles into his stance across from me, chin a little too high, weight too proud over the lead foot. Stronger than average. Better built than most men who run their mouths in bars and call it masculinity. Good shoulders. Good reach. Enough muscle to fool people who don’t know what they’re looking at.
Ray gives the signal.
Drake comes out fast, trying to make a point with the first exchange. Hard jab. Right hand behind it. Too much shoulder. Too much ego.
