Page 210 of The Clinch
117-111.
The third.
119-109.
“By unanimous decision…”
The rest disappears under the roar.
My hand is raised. Cameras flash white in every direction. The belt is brought in. The crowd gives back noise in waves big enough to shake the canvas.
I don’t jump the ropes or pound my chest. I give them what they paid for, nothing more.
I turn my head and look for her.
Liz is on her feet with Eden beside her, both of them clapping, both of them laughing now with the release of it. The light catches the ring again when she lifts her hand to her mouth for one brief second before she catches herself and lowers it.
The rest of the official machinery takes time. Gloves off. Mandatory interview in the ring. Medical check. Another interview in the corridor because no one in this sport ever believes one answer is enough. By the time I get back to the locker room, I’m scrubbed raw with fatigue and still lit from the inside.
This is the part Liz meant.
The adrenaline from the fight has nowhere to go. It moves under the skin, along the spine, into my hands. My body is still built for impact. My head is clear enough to be dangerous, and my restraint is one layer thinner than it was an hour ago.
After a quick shower, I drop on the bench. Mickey tapes an ice pack under my right eye. Ray tells me I boxed smart. Elliot is halfway through a lecture about post-fight media obligations when the door opens.
He stops talking, and Liz steps into the room. Ray takes one look at me, one look at her, and says, “We’re done here.”
Thirty seconds later, it’s just us.
She closes the door behind her and leans there for one second, looking at me with a heat that wipes out the rest of the room.
Then she walks toward me.
Up close, she smells of jasmine, warm skin, and the faint trace of coconut in her hair. I know the scent so well now, I could find her blind in a crowd.
She stops between my knees and lifts her hand to my jaw. The ring glints when her fingers brush the swelling under my eye. Her touch is light and precise, nurse hands with no softness wasted where it would not help.
“You split your lip,” she says.
“He clipped me in the fourth.”
“I noticed. I had several thoughts.”
“Useful ones?”
“Not even remotely. Most of them involved getting everyone in this building out of my way.”
That gets a real smile out of me.
Her thumb slides once across my lower lip, careful around the cut. My body responds all at once. Every live wire from the last half hour tightens.
Her gaze drops to my mouth. Then lower, to my chest, where bruises are already starting to bloom.
“You’re still buzzing,” she says quietly.
I lean forward enough to bring us closer without touching more than her hand. “You started it.”
Color rises under her skin, but she doesn’t look away. Six months ago, she might have. Even three months ago, maybe. Now she holds my gaze and lets me see exactly what she means to say before she says it.
