Page 38 of Craving the Edge

“Isn’t it?” Tomas pushed off the counter. He walked over and stood in front of me, dropping the usual wise-arse banter. “Listen. For what it’s worth, she’s the first person I’ve seen you actually talk to in years.”

I looked up at him.

“I’m serious,” he said. “With everyone else, you perform. You’re a fuck boy fighter everyone wants to either fuck or wipe the floor with. But with her, you’re just Declan. That’s worth something, mate. Don’t be an idiot about it.”

“I’m trying not to be,” I said. “Believe me, mate. I’m trying.”

I dragged my good hand through my hair, the quiet of the apartment pressing in now that Rhys’s chaos had gone. Tomas watched me, waiting. He never pushed, just let the silence do the work.

“Yesterday,” I started, looking at the city skyline. “I told her everything.” I brought my gaze back to him. “No bullshit. I told her about my hand, but she already knew. She saw right fucking through me.”

Tomas’s eyebrows lifted, the usual humour in his eyes replaced by something that looked a lot like respect. “And?”

“And I told her how I felt,” I admitted. “Left it up to her. If she wants me to leave her alone, I will.”

Tomas let out a low whistle, a slow smile spreading across his face. He shook his head and took another swig of his beer. “I’m proud of you, mate. Look at you, finally growing up.”

The joke was meant to cut the tension, but it did little to settle the churning in my gut. My mind was stuck on the night before.

The faint vanilla scent of her perfume, mixed with something else, some light, flowery thing that was just her.

I lifted the beer to my mouth, but the memory was stronger than the taste. Kissing Char wasn’t like anything I’d known. I’d kissed a lot of women. It was part of the performance. The bit that came before the fuck, but last night hadn’t been anything like that.

The press of her mouth against mine was a question, an answer, an argument, all at once. She’d kissed me, not the fighter. The raw honesty of it hit me harder than any punch.

This was a deep, unshakeable wanting. A desperate need to drive back to her place, knock on her door, and finish what we started. The thought was a pull so strong it made the impending scan, the furious press, the death of the Sydney fight, all seem like a distant problem for some other poor bastard to deal with. It made staying put almost impossible.

I flexed my right hand, the throb the only honest thing in the room before I’d told the truth. I stared out at the Melbourne skyline, the sharp angles of the skyscrapers clear against the morning sun.

My rational mind knew I had to give Char space. The last few days had been a lot. Her world turned upside down by cameras, Rhys’ bullshit, then me dropping everything in her lap. My hand. My feelings. The whole mess.

But she was a current dragging me under. An itch under my skin that made it hard to focus on the burning wreckage of my career.

I’d spent years chasing a future I wasn’t sure I even wanted anymore. The title shot in Tokyo, the money, the fame. Losing it all felt less like a disaster and more like a fresh start. The panic I should’ve felt never arrived. In its place was a stillness that was all about her.

It was a strange thought, but as I stood there, watching the city wake up, I wondered if things were finally looking up.

The door clicked shut behind Tomas, leaving me alone to wait for the car. I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, my phone heavy in my good hand.

The only person I wanted to talk to, was Char.

I wanted to hear her voice. I needed to know if last night was real, if that moment in my car meant the same thing to her that it did to me. I scrolled through my contacts and found the number for Fighter’s Edge. Before my rational mind could list all the reasons this was a spectacularly bad idea, I pressed call.

The phone rang twice, then connected.

“Fighter’s Edge, Charlotte speaking.”

“It’s me.”

Silence. A long beat where I thought she might just hang up. Behind her, I heard the rhythmic thud of a heavy bag taking punishment. The scrape of something solid dragging across the mats. Her world, still turning without me in it.

“Hey,” she said finally. The word was careful.

“You got a minute?” I asked.

“Yeah. One.”

I gripped the phone a little tighter, forcing myself to find the right words.