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Chapter 10
Cash
Robert “Bob” Falco was a one-time UFC champion almost twenty years ago. Once upon a time, the man was on top of the world. In peak physical condition, a perfect example of a man in his prime.
Now he was a tubby, Adidas tracksuit- wearing, chain- smoking hard ass whose last remaining strands of hair looked greasy enough to fry a burger. The mental image was enough to make me cringe.
My imagination is my worst enemy.
“This place is a dump,” Bob barked as he stomped into Old Marty’s Boxing Gym. It was almost comedic how the floor shook when he walked. It was honestly a miracle that the ground didn’t open and create a sinkhole beneath him.
The fraction of relief I might have felt seeing my coach finally bothering to show up disappeared the second I caught a whiff of the stench of weed on him. Bob reeked like a skunk.
“Where have you been?” Red demanded. “You were supposed to be here weeks ago. Why haven’t you been answering our calls? Patrick’s been trying to get a hold of you.”
Bob stumbled past me with a dismissive wave of the hand. “I’m a very important man, you know. I had business to take care of.”
I crossed my arms. “What business?”
“Business,” was his vague and unhelpful answer. “Look, you two need to relax. I’m here now, aren’t I? Besides, looks like you been handling things fine on your own.”
“That doesn’t mean we should,” I snapped. “If it weren’t for Dylan keeping us on track, we’d be nowhere near ready for our— Are you even listening to me?”
“Yeah, yeah. I heard you. Now go run ten laps around the outside of the building as a warmup.”
“We already finished our warmup,” Red pointed out gruffly.
“Are you arguing with your coach?”
I chewed on the inside of my cheek. Once upon a time, I had nothing but admiration and respect for Bob. In recent years, not so much. But picking a fight with the man didn’t seem like a good idea. Being around him was like walking on eggshells. Even if Red and I wanted to fire him, there was no way we’d be able to find a replacement in time for our fights in Vegas.
“Fine,” Red grumbled.
I cleared my throat, speaking under my breath. “Listen, Bob. My knee has been killing me. Can you recommend an alternative to running laps?”
Bob shrugged. “Pop a couple of aspirin and put some ice on it later. You’ll be right as rain in the morning. You think you’re the only fighter out there dealing with an injury?”
“But—”
“Excuses are for losers, Cash. You either wanna win, or you don’t want it enough. Which is it?”
“You’re not listening to me, Bob. I’m telling you, it’s—”
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Dylan and Julia enter through the gym’s front doors. They were close, speaking to each other in intimate, almost conspiratorial whispers.
What really caught my attention was the fact that they were holding hands, fingers fitted together like a lock and key. When Julia glanced up at me, there was a knowing twinkle in her eye. I couldn’t help but smile back at this new development.
“Hey,” Bob snapped. “We’ve got this whole place reserved. My fighters don’t need any on lookers, so beat it!”
Julia pressed her lips into a thin line. “Excuse me?”
“What? Are you deaf?”
Red frowned. “Don’t talk to her that way.”
I stepped forward, placing myself in front of her. “Bob, this is Julia Thatcher. She’s writing an article about Red and me. Patrick would have told you.”
“She’s with the press?” Bob said, his attitude suddenly shifting. He stuck his hand out to shake, putting on the most charming smile he could manage. It was the creepiest thing I’d ever seen. “Robert Falco, little miss. A pleasure.”
