Page 22 of Craving the Edge

Billie didn’t look triumphant. She said nothing, her silence prodding me for more.

“I don’t get it,” I muttered. “I should hate him. I don’t get why it’s him. I loathe everything the man represents. His flashy endorsements, the womanising, the media circus.” I waved a hand in the air. “It’s shallower than a toddler’s wading pool.”

“Maybe you don’t hate him at all,” Billie said. “Maybe you just hate the world he has to live in.”

I snorted. “Same difference.”

“Is it?” She tilted her head. “That whole Declan Walsh brand, the guy on the posters who says all the right things for the sponsors? That’s not a person, Char. It’s a performance.” She gestured around the empty gym. “You reckon anyone survives at that level without a suit of armour? You, of all people, should get that.”

I hesitated. An act to survive a world that’d otherwise hollow him out. It was too close to home. I’d spent years shaping my own shield that kept people from looking too close.

“Speaking of,” Billie said, reaching for the grubby remote that lived on top of the first aid box. She aimed it at the old television mounted in the corner, a relic from Gary’s brief attempt to get a Foxtel subscription for fight nights.

The screen flickered to life and Billie scrolled through the channels until she landed on pay dirt.

There, pinned under white lights and against a media wall plastered with logos for energy drinks and betting companies, was Declan.

He wore a dark, tailored shirt that strained across his shoulders, making his body look dense and built. The lights carved out the sharp angles of his jaw and the bump on his nose, his green eyes focused and intense.

A jolt went through me, seeing him so packaged. He looked like a different species from the man who’d been training here. From the man who’d kissed me in the back office.

He’d been wrapped up like a product on a shelf.

Beside me, Billie crossed her arms. “See? Case in point.”

On the screen, a reporter asked a question. “Declan, you look to be in phenomenal shape. Can we expect a classic Declan Walsh performance against Miller in Sydney?”

Declan leant into the bank of microphones, a slow smile spreading across his face. “You know I always give the fans what they want.” His voice was deeper, amplified by the speakers into a low rumble. “Sydney’s gonna get its money’s worth and then some.”

The answer was slick. A practised-to-death sound bite designed to be played on a loop. It was a promise and a threat wrapped in the showmanship that was expected from the sport.

Another hand shot up in the crowd of journalists. “Mr Walsh, police sources are linking the fire at Ironbound Performance to organised crime. Any comment on the ongoing investigation?”

The change in Declan was instant. His arrogant smirk didn’t vanish, but it hardened as he sat back in his chair. “I’m a fighter,” he said smoothly. “My job is to look to the next opponent. I don’t look back.”

My breath caught. The absolute separation from the man who stood in the office and listened to me, who kissed me, who… It wasn’t the same man.

His confidence in front of the cameras was a wall so high I’d never guess there was anything fragile behind it at all.

I squinted, searching the image for the man I knew. I found myself watching his hands. He used his left to drive a point home, a sharp slice through the air. His right rested below the edge of the table, hidden from the cameras.

A reporter in the front row stood up. “Declan, you’re known for your explosive power, but some commentators speculate you’re carrying hidden baggage into the Sydney fight. How do you respond to that?”

His smile stayed locked in place, but a flicker of tension crossed his face. It was the same thing I’d seen when he was pulling the tape off his hands yesterday, thinking he was alone. It was the same tightness in his shoulder as he warmed up.

He was hurt…and he was hiding it from the entire world.

Declan leant into the microphone. “The only baggage I’m carrying into Sydney is an extra pair of gloves for when I wear the first ones out on Miller’s face.”

A wave of sycophantic laughter rippled through the press pit.

“And we hear you’ve been training at a secure, high-tech private facility to prepare?” another journalist called out.

Declan’s gaze held steady, utterly sincere. “That’s right. State-of-the-art. Everything a fighter needs to be at his peak.”

Billie snorted beside me. She cast a look around our gritty, sweat-stained warehouse. “State-of-the-art, my arse.”

An abrupt laugh escaped me, cutting through the heavy silence of the gym.