Page 4 of The Clinch
She beams. “Always.”
The tenderness of the moment cracks something in my chest. He’s not just swagger and violence; he’s this too.
He bumps fists with Nate, who mutters under his breath and grins. Then he turns to me.
Everything else falls away.
Sweat tracks down his jaw. His chest heaves, his breathing raw and uneven. Adrenaline rolls off him in waves—sharp, metallic, alive. I can taste it in the air between us.
“Schimanski.” His voice is low and certain. “VIP after-party. You’ll be on the list.”
The invitation lands with all the subtlety of a punch.
He steps back as handlers finally reach him, cameras swarming, but his last glance is for me alone—smoldering, clear in its intent.
Next to me, Eden exhales. “Liz, he’s high on adrenaline. Even if you think you know what you’re doing, be careful.”
“I’m a nurse,” I say calmly. “I know exactly what adrenaline does to a body.”
What it’s doing to mine right now.
Leo Carver is dangerous, but not the kind I need protecting from. He’s the kind I’m choosing.
One night. My terms. My rules. If I’m doing this, I’m doing it with my eyes open.
The smart move would be to stay in my seat.
I’m not staying in my seat.
2
FEELING OUT (LEO)
The curtain swallows the sound. One step and the Armory disappears, the roar collapsing behind my ears. The lights go clinical. White. Too bright. Sweat cools fast as adrenaline drains.
I keep moving. Boots on concrete. A hand at my elbow. Someone shouts congratulations. Someone slaps my shoulder.
I register it without turning.
The bout is over. The work starts now.
By the time I reach the dressing room, it already feels contained. Finished. Filed.
Inside, the air smells of antiseptic and metal. It’s familiar. The room hums quietly—voices low, movements efficient.
I drop onto the bench, forearms braced on my thighs. This is where everything slows down.
A towel settles around my shoulders. Cold water splashes my chest. I exhale, long and steady, as my pulse finds rhythm.
My left rib lights up when I twist—sharp, then manageable. I clock it automatically. Ice will take care of it.
Hands reach for my wrists. Tape peels away. Antiseptic stings the splits across my knuckles. I don’t flinch. Pain isn’t the point. Information is.
Someone drapes a fresh towel over my shoulders. Ice presses into my ribs. The ache settles into something dull.
Good match. Clean. I did what I came to do.
Fight nights always end the same way. Control stripped to essentials. Body checked. Damage assessed. Balance restored.
