Page 78 of Main Event

Today is a full session—six rounds of sparring, footwork drills, film review, and then the thing Reyes has been building toward all camp. He stops me at the heavy bag after sparring, makes me stand still, and looks at me the way he looks at things he’s decided to say.

“You remember the first week?” he says.

“Yes.”

“What did I tell you?”

“That I was fighting like I was protecting something instead of taking something.”

“And now?”

I think about the last three rounds with Castillo. About the angles I cut instead of the space I gave. About my right hand landing exactly where it should, because I made him walk into it instead of chasing him with it.

“Now I’m taking something,” I say.

Reyes nods once. “Don’t lose that. Whatever is happening outside this gym—and I know things are happening, I’m not blind—don’t let it make you go back to protecting. Protecting is reactive. Taking is a choice.” He holds my eyes. “You fight from choice in five weeks, you win. You fight from fear, you don’t. It’s that simple.”

It’s not that simple. But the simplification is useful, which is why Reyes does it.

“Understood,” I say.

“Good.” He picks up his clipboard. “Film at four. Get some food.”

I eat alone in the gym’s back room with my phone on the table and the investigation running without me.

This is the discipline I’ve learned over the last few weeks—trusting other people to carry what I can’t carry and be present in the gym at the same time. Bill is managing the documentation assembly. Brandon is building the financial picture for Bill. Andi is running the Evelyn relationship, keeping performance steady and feeding controlled information through the device. Daniel’s attorney is working toward whatever comes next.

I am sparring with Castillo, watching film, and eating a chicken sandwich in a room that smells like liniment and sweat.

It’s the right division of labor. I know that. On the days when I feel the investigation pulling at my focus—when my phone lights up with something significant, and I have to file it and go back to the mitts—those are the days Reyes watches me most closely. He knows the difference between a fighter who’s distracted and one who’s compartmentalizing. He’s been watching me do the latter and hasn’t said anything about it, which means he approves.

I trust Andi with the investigation in the same way she trusted me with the gallery at the legislative committee. Don’t watch me. Watch the room. Read it the way you read fighters.

She’s reading it.

I eat my sandwich, watch a film, and get ready to do it again tomorrow.

I come home at six-thirty to find Andi in the kitchen.

She’s making dinner—real dinner, not the functional meals we’ve been assembling lately from whatever’s in the refrigerator. Something on the stove that needs attention. Music on low. She’s in the gray dress she wears when she’s decided to be home instead of still working, a decision she makes with intention.

I stop in the doorway.

She looks up.

“I talked to Bill,” she says. “Everything is moving. There’s nothing either of us can do tonight that isn’t already being done.” She turns back to the stove. “So I made dinner.”

I set my bag down, wash my hands at the sink, stand behind her, and put my hands on her waist.

“What are we having?” I ask.

“Something your mother gave me the recipe for,” she says. “I’ve been meaning to make it for months.”

I put my chin on her shoulder and look at the pan.

“She’ll be pleased,” I say.

“She sent me three voice memos, walking me through it.” Andi stirs something. “She said you used to ask for it specifically on your birthday.”