Fighting Silence (14 page)

“Yeah. That must be it,” I bit out as I turned to face the locker.

Derrick was a decent boxer, but he wasn’t a champion.

There are two types of boxers: the opponents and the champs. Opponents are often less-than-kindly referred to as bums. Sure, they can be good boxers, but not great. Everyone starts as an opponent, but the ones who fall become bums, and those who rise and separate themselves from the pack are your champs.

Really, it all boiled down to good versus great.

Derrick was good in the amateur ring, but there was no doubt he would be outclassed in the sea of professionals. So it boggled my mind—and, quite honestly, pissed me off—that Slate would even agree to transition him.

“Page!” Slate boomed into the locker room.

“Yes, sir,” Flint and Quarry answered at the same time.

“Shit, there are a lot of you now. Sorry. I meant Till.”

“I’m here.”

“Listen, we’re switching up the order of the fights tonight. The bus carrying the lightweights from one of the other gyms got a flat. We’re starting heavy and working backwards to give them time to get here. We’re pushing back the first bell a half hour to give you guys time to finish warming up. Meet me in the dressing room. I need to get you taped up.” Then he turned and walked out, leaving me once again staring at Derrick Bailey’s shit-eating smirk.

“Okay. I’m gonna go grab a seat. Give ’em hell. I hear the guy you got tonight is a beast. Keep your left up, and get a few more wins. Maybe Slate will take you pro too.”

I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to keep my left up, all right. Preferably up around the level of his fucking mouth.

Just as the door closed behind him, Flint whispered, “What a prick! Did Slate really take him pro? He’s going to embarrass the entire gym.”

“I don’t know. Something’s not right though.”

“You’re the best fighter here. Why would he pick Derrick?”

That was a good fucking question, and I fully intended to find out.

“Just get dressed and worry about your fight,” I said, striding out of the locker room.

I found Slate laughing with one of the other trainers in the dressing room.

“You ready for me?” I asked.

“Yeah. Have a seat on the table.” He finished up chatting then grabbed a roll of gauze and tape from the cabinet. “How you feeling?” he asked as he started wrapping my hand.

“Um, Honestly? I’m a little confused.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” He looked up but continued methodically moving the gauze around my hands while holding my eyes.

“I heard you’re taking Derrick pro. That true?”

“Yep. I got him his first fight scheduled for next month. It’s nothing big, but it will get a little money in his pocket and start people talking while we work him up.”

“I thought you didn’t do pro. You sent Hutchins to a whole new gym when he wanted to transition.”

He shrugged. “Things change. I miss it, I guess. I love the amateur stuff, but the true talent makes the leap.”

“Exactly. And you choose to start with fucking Bailey?” I snapped.

His eyes shot up to mine. “Excuse me? You got a problem, then spit it out, but don’t you dare catch an attitude with me.”

“Yeah. I got a problem. How much is he gonna make on that fight next month?” I was still pissed, but I dropped the majority of my attitude.

“Not much. Four or five hundred bucks.”

“Right. Not much,” I scoffed. “I’m easily your best fighter. If this was just something you were itching to do, why the hell wouldn’t you ask me? I need the money. Bailey’s a bum and you know it.”

“Till, you have more than enough on your plate right now without adding something else on top of it. Derrick’s chasing a dream. I’m not stupid. I realize that. Do I think you’re more talented than he is? Absolutely. But you have a family and responsibility outside of that ring.

“Do you have any idea how much time goes into fighting professionally? It’s not something you do for an hour or two every night after you get off work. At least it won’t be for any of my fighters. It’s a full-time fucking job. Forty-plus hours a week. In this gym. Working out, sparing, studying, working out some more. You
cannot
afford to do that.”

“You managed, didn’t you? You’ve told me at least a dozen times how you had nothing except for your talent when you crossed over. You were just as broke as I am when you started. How the hell did you manage it?”

He finished wrapping my first hand, and I jumped up from the table, physically unable to sit still any longer.

“You’re right. I had
nothing
when I started. But you have
something
. . . in the form of two little brothers who depend on you to eat and keep a roof over their head.”

I hated every single word that came from his mouth, but I knew he was right.

I would have given anything to become a professional boxer. I’d shadowboxed that championship fight in the mirror a million times. It wasn’t just the money either. I knew that boxers didn’t make much in the beginning. But I was already broke, so it wasn’t like I’d have to get used to the struggle. No. This was about finally getting to do something that could really better my future. However, like most things, that wasn’t my life.

This was reality.

And I couldn’t even afford to dream.

“This is bullshit,” I mumbled to myself but settled back down on the table.

“Look, how about you increase your hours at the gym and we’ll reevaluate in a few months?”

“Increase my hours? I work close to sixty hours a week. Then I spend another twenty at the gym either cleaning shit to pay my dues or training. Where exactly would you like me to pull these extra hours from? I barely even have enough time to sleep as it is.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. You know I’d do damn near anything for you. But putting you into a professional ring without the proper training and watching you fail is not one of those things.”

“Right. I guess I just wasn’t aware Bailey was the next Muhammad Ali.” I was acting like a petulant child, but I was pissed and frustrated.

“That he is definitely not. But his daddy is funding his grand pursuit at going pro. It won’t hurt me one bit to watch him lose.”

“Well, maybe it should. He’s going to make you look like a fool as a trainer,” I bit out just as he finished wrapping my second hand.

I stomped to the door, and just as I pulled it open, I heard him say something else behind me that I couldn’t make out.

“What?” I let out an exasperated sigh and turned to face him, but he was already storming in my direction.

When he reached me, Slate used the heel of his hand to slam the door shut. Leaning into my face, he growled, “And that’s another thing. You would have to go to the fucking ear doctor for your new physical. I set you up with a doctor and even prepaid for the appointment, but you still couldn’t seem drag your ass in to get your hearing checked.”

I blatantly rolled my eyes at his concern.

Stepping up, Slate bumped his chest with mine as he leveled me with a glare. “You know what? I’m done. I’ve let you throw a fit. You’re pissed. I got it. But I am not going to stand here and watch you act like a punk-ass kid. Remember who the fuck you are talking to or march your ass out of my gym for good.”

We stood nose to nose staring at each other.

He was wrong. I wasn’t just pissed. I was
jealous.
Of him. Of Bailey. Of anyone who got to follow their dreams. Of the people who had money. And most of all, the people who didn’t have to crawl through fucking windows just to feel a single minute of contentment in their lives.

But none of that was Slate’s fault. He might very well have been the closest thing to a father I’d ever had. But what blew my mind was why he did it. He was good to all the kids at the gym, but he had gone out of his way since day one to help me, then Flint, and now Quarry too.

“I’ll go to the doctor next week,” I promised.

“That’d be a good start.” He took a step away.

“And I’ll add a few hours on Sundays in the ring.”

“Another good answer.”

“Sorry,” I finally mumbled.

Slate reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “I get it, Till. I fucking know how you feel. You’re hungry for more in life, and that’s a good quality for a man to have. Don’t ever lose that. Stay hungry. Stay driven. Stay focused. But you need to remember that I’m looking out for what’s in your best interest. Always.”

“I know. I appreciate it all. I really do.”

“I know you do, son. So before you go and get soft on me, let’s keep that adrenaline going and get you warmed up. Let’s make a deal. You take him two rounds, then you have my full permission to knock him the fuck out in the third.”

My eyes grew wide. “Seriously?”

Slate always encouraged us to take it the full three rounds. He drilled into us all that the local league was there for practice and experience, not for laying your opponent out. It still happened sometimes, but it was never the goal.

“His trainer is talking all kinds of shit today. This guy’s apparently the new golden boy over at Three Minutes. I saw a video of him fight a few weeks ago, and I swear he’s just a fat kid who can take a punch. But to hear them tell it, he could go ten rounds with Holyfield.”

I laughed at his assessment. “You know, most people would end that sentence with your name.”

It was Slate’s turn to laugh. “Go on. Get out of here. I’ll meet you out there.”

“Thanks, Slate,” I responded, and we both knew it was for more than just taping my hands. It wasn’t enough. But it was all I had.

“HERE WE GO! HE’S UP!” I stood from my metal folding chair to clap.

“So, how long have you known Till?” Derrick asked beside me.

I had been drawing in one of the notebooks I kept stashed in my purse when he’d surprised me by sitting next to me. I’d met him briefly a few times over the years of watching Till fight. There had been a half-hour delay, so we’d had plenty of time to chat while we’d waited for the fights to start.

“Jeez, um . . . eight years. We grew up together,” I answered with a smile.

Derrick was a good-looking guy—I couldn’t deny that. He was a little preppy for my tastes, but he didn’t seem snobby, so I could overlook the slacks. His hair was sandy brown and perfectly styled. He had sparkling, blue eyes. His bright, white smile was blinding, but not in the heart-stopping way Till’s was.

“So, you two . . . together?” he bumbled out uncomfortably.

“No. We’re just friends.”

“Good,” he whispered, and my cheeks heated to pink.

About that time, Till “The Kill” Page entered through a side aisle. I freaking loved watching the guys fight. It was such a rush.

I glanced to the other side of the ring, just as Till’s hulking opponent stepped inside.

“Fuuuck!” I breathed. “He’s huge!”

Till was big, but this guy had him by at least two inches and fifty pounds. Where Till was hard and defined, the man across the ring had a thick layer of fat over muscles I could barely make out.

“They call him the ‘The Brick Wall’ for a reason,” Derrick chimed in.

“Is he any good? Till didn’t mention anything about this guy.”

“They only added him to the card last week. I’m not sure Till even knew who he was. I’ve heard this will be his only amateur fight before he goes pro.”

“Shit! He’s going pro?” I gasped, never dragging my eyes off the ring.

“Yep. Just like me.” He tossed me a toothy grin.

“You’re going pro? That’s awesome! Congrats,” I responded as everyone started sitting back down.

“Thanks. I’m pumped about it. Being able to make a career out of something you love . . .”

He continued to ramble, but I lost my focus when, just as I found my chair, Derrick’s arm slid around the back. It wasn’t touching me, but I was all too aware that it was there. He reclined in his seat and crossed his legs knee to ankle. I took a second to turn away and bite my lip before looking back to the ring.

I was met with a hard glare from hazel eyes.

Till was standing in his corner, shaking out his arms, but his eyes were not homed in on his opponent like they should have been. They were narrowed on me—or, more accurately, the arm Derrick had draped around the back of my chair.