Page 18 of Craving the Edge

I thought of her lips again. The memory was so vivid it temporarily erased the ache in my hand. Her mouth on mine felt more important than the title shot in Tokyo. It was a fucked-up, ridiculous, dangerous, thought.

Tomas was watching me, waiting for an answer I didn’t have. Giving him one felt like admitting a weakness and fighter’s never revealed their weaknesses.

Finally, I ground out, “I don’t know what I’m doing.” It was the most honest thing I could offer. “It’s not what you think.”

“Then what is it?”

I ignored him, my gaze dropping back to my hand. The swollen knuckle was a constant reminder of the lie I was living. Dragging her into it was a dick move, I knew that, but the thought of staying away felt worse.

When I didn’t answer, Tomas snorted. “You better figure it out, mate, and fast. Because the minute some photographer with a long lens works out we’re training at a back-alley gym in Brunswick, she’s not just the girl at the front desk anymore.”

A cold dread coiled in my gut.

“It won’t matter if anything’s actually happening between you two,” he went on, his words blunt. “The tabloids don’t give a shit about the truth. She’ll be the ‘mystery brunette’. They’ll have her name, her photo, and some bullshit story about a secret romance plastered all over the internet before you’ve even had your morning piss.”

My jaw tightened. I imagined the pack of photographers who staked out my apartment building. The reporters who shouted questions at me in airports. The thought of them turning their attention on Char, on her quiet world, sent a spike of rage through me.

“They’ll follow her home,” Tomas went on. “They’ll camp outside the gym. They’ll make her life a living hell just to get a reaction out of you.”

He was right. I’d seen it happen to other fighters. Anonymous faces suddenly thrown into the ugly glare of the limelight, their privacy stripped away for a few clicks and a headline. The idea of Char crumbling under that kind of pressure made something in my chest ache. She wasn’t built for that circus. She deserved better than to become collateral damage in my fucked-up career.

“Who do you think they’ll blame if you can’t make the fight in Sydney? Not your fucking hand because you’re too stubborn to tell anyone about it.”

“They can fuck off,” I snapped. “They won’t find us. They’re looking for a state-of-the-art facility, not some back-alley shithole in Brunswick.”

I sounded stupid. Rhys had found the gym in less than a day. A reporter with a decent incentive could do the same, but the thought of those vultures descending on Char, picking apart her life for sport, was a line I refused to cross. I would burn them all down before I let that happen.

I pushed my plate away, the half-eaten steak suddenly turning my stomach.

“I can keep it separate,” I insisted, more to myself than to him. “This is business. She’s…not.”

She was the one part of this whole mess that felt clean. I could keep her that way. I had to. It was a stupid, reckless plan built on nothing but wishful thinking, the kind of hope a man clings to when he has nothing left to lose. The arson, the hand, the lies—they were my world. She didn’t have to be part of it.

Tomas just watched me, that unimpressed look back on his face. He picked up his glass, drained the last of his beer, and set it down. “Famous last words, mate.”

CHAPTER 7

CHAR

Two weeks.

Two weeks of Declan Walsh arriving at six, training until midday, then leaving. My afternoons were spent cleaning up their mess and placating the regular members who complained about the restricted hours.

At least he didn’t bring an entourage with him. Most days it was just him and Tomas, with a few appearances from a physio, a nutritionist, and strength and conditioning coach.

The more I watched him, the more I began to understand why Declan kept it simple.

I’d made it my job to notice things. Four years of cleaning up after Gary’s messes had turned observation into a survival skill. I could see a frayed cable on the leg press machine before it snapped, spot a leak in the roof before the winter rains set in, and smell a dodgy invoice from twenty paces. It was how I kept the lights on when Gary’s only contribution was another unpaid bill stuffed in a drawer and forgotten.

I stood in the archway, my arms folded across my chest. On the main floor, Tomas held a heavy bag steady while Declan moved around it. The thud of his gloves hitting the leather was a constant beat under the low hum of the cheap, fluorescent lights.

But something was off.

Every morning, he taped his hands himself. The left was wrapped tight and clean, but his right was a bulky, layered construction of gauze and zinc oxide, the tape wound thick and high around his knuckles.

His combinations were different, too. I’d seen some of his fights online to know his power came from his right hand. A brutal, perfect cross that ended fights. Here, he avoided it. He threw a sharp double-jab with his left, followed it with a left hook, and then a switch kick. When he did throw the right, it was with a fraction of his usual force, pulled almost before it landed. A feint.

Then there was his shoulder. Before each round of pad work, he rotated his right arm. A slow, deliberate circle at the joint, a movement I’d only ever seen from fighters nursing an injury. A careful test to see what hurt.