With Ronan back in charge, I’m able to focus on the final stretch leading up to my match against Darnell “The Tank” Thompson.
I throw myself into training like never before, spending from sun up to sun down at Malone’s Gym. The fight with The Tank is less than a week away, and I’ve wasted too much time dealing with clan business in recent times.
The war with the Bratva’s still going on, and Seamus is still lying in a hospital bed with doctors who won’t give us a straight answer.
But for now, the upcoming fight takes precedence above all else.
Three days before the fight, I’m headed out for another long day of training when I learn the buttonman I had scheduled to watch Jhene is sick. He’s got fucking food poisoning and there’s nobody else to cover on such short notice.
It means I’m left dragging Jhene with me to Malone’s.
Something neither of us is looking forward to.
What other choice do I have? I can’t leave the girl alone—either she’ll wander off againorthe Bratva could come for her. Both arelikely scenarios.
“Just for the record, I don’t need a babysitter,” she mutters.
We walk through the gym doors together. Her arms are crossed over her chest and her large glasses are perched on her nose. I’ve got my gym bag slung over my shoulders, loaded with everything I need for the next six hours.
“You’re not getting a babysitter,” I answer. “You’re getting a front-row seat to watch me beat the shit out of a punching bag.”
“Aren’t I the luckiest girl in the world.”
We’ve been like this since the homecoming party. Standoffish and distant. Circling each other like we’re unsure how else to proceed.
The argument on the terrace is the giant fucking elephant in the room. The things we said—and almost said—hang between us.
Deep down, we’re both aware of where that conversation was headed. We both know how we feel…
Malone takes one look at the situation I’m in and doesn’t ask questions. He remembers all too well what happened last time Jhene dropped by the gym. He closes off a section of the gym so I can train in private and Jhene doesn’t have to worry about encountering any of the other boxers.
She settles into a folding chair with a puzzle book I bought her and refuses to watch me train. Her way of protesting how I made her come.
It doesn’t matter to me. I’m here to prepare for my fight against The Tank, not worry about why the girl I’ve taken under my wing doesn’t seem impressed by my right hook.
My attention turns to the punching bag, and I visualize Darnell Thompson’s face on it.
The next two hours are nothing but pushing myself to the max. My fist collides with the leather countless times.I lose myself in the motions, executing a series of combinations like it’s second nature to me.
And it is—I was born to be a fighter.
I’ve realized it over time. Nothing else in life has ever come so naturally to me. I’m not the smartest man. I’m not funny or charming or the kind of guy who’s ever been people’s favorite.
But I’ve always been able to throw a punch. I’ve always been just as good taking them too.
When my father used to come home in a drunken rage, I often hid Maeve in the closet. I created a ruckus to gain his attention as he started on Ma. I wanted him to take his temper out on me because I knew I could handle it.
Every punch of his only made me stronger. It served as motivation that one day I’d make him sorry he ever raised a hand to us.
These thoughts and more are on my mind as my fist slams against the punching bag and it jerks back on the chain.
I move onto focusing on footwork. A crucial element of boxing.
I step forward in a straight line, throwing out a two-punch combo. It’s a test of balance and muscle memory. Then it’s back to the start, ducking and diving in between punch combos as I keep the same straight line.
Malone sends a sparring partner for me to battle with. Some young guy with big ambition and a lot of nerve. But he serves his purpose as we spar and he serves as a stand-in for The Tank.
My breathing’s ragged. Sweat drips down my back.
