Page 193 of The Clinch
Eden doesn’t flinch. “Yes. He absolutely made a decision for you. And if you want to be furious about that, that’s fair. Be furious.” She pauses, then continues, “Travis decided for you so he could keep you. Leo made that call to get Travis the hell out of your life.”
I shake my head instantly. “You don’t know that.”
Her brows rise. “For real? He was never planning to tell you. If you hadn’t found out, he would’ve just handled it. You never would’ve known.”
I blink at her.
“That’s supposed to make it better?”
“No.” She stays steady. “Just different.”
I start pacing again, because being still feels impossible.
She waits patiently until I stop moving.
“Look,” I say. “I walked into that situation and realized that every single person there knew what was happening except me. Jessica knew. Ray knew. Lukas knew. Nate knew enough to drive me there in total monk silence. Everybody knew except the person whose life was at the center of it all.”
Eden winces a little at that. “You’re right,” she says.
The answer knocks the wind out of me.
“What?”
“You’re right.” She stays steady. “You should’ve known. He should’ve told you. You should have had a choice before any of that was put in motion.”
I stare at her. That is not what I expected.
My anger stutters, not because it’s gone, but because for a second it doesn’t know where to land.
Eden pushes off the chair and comes closer, stopping well short of touching me.
“But that still doesn’t make him Travis.”
The words come in softer, and somehow that makes them worse.
Because they’re not dismissing what I feel. They’re asking me to hold two things at once, and right now I can barely hold one.
I look past her toward the dark kitchen windows. My reflection stares back—pale, wide-eyed, and brittle.
“He set it up,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Jessica. Cameras. Witnesses.”
“Yes.”
I turn back to her. “How is that not control?”
“Because he didn’t do it to trap you.”
The whole place seems to hold. My mind flicks back to the gym. Not to Travis. Not even to Leo. To the setup.
The folding table. The papers in neat rows. Black pens. Clipboards. Waivers. Legal waivers for a documented fight. The cameras. One on a tripod. One from the rafters. Jessica with her legal pad. Ray. Another man I assume was the referee. The cutman with a full medical kit.
Not a street brawl.
Evidence.
