My brother Dean and I used to hide under Dad’s desk and play “spy.” Which was to say, Dean would play spy and I’d humor him. That was until the day my parents slipped into the office for a quickie and didn’t know we were under there. Some memories aren’t pretty, but they were mine and they were all I had left. I wasn’t about to lose that too.
Carlos sighed. “You know if you got back into the game, I could set up a match—”
“No.” It wasn’t a shout but it damn near felt like one in my head. A cold sweat broke out on my lower back as I glared at Carlos. He damn well knew I was out of boxing. For good.
His expression was empathetic. “Look, man, I know. But I don’t think Jake would want—”
“I said no.”
Just thinking about Jake opened a hole in my chest. Best friends from the cradle, closer to me than my own meathead brother, we’d had each other’s backs. Both fighters. Both headed for greatness. Hell, we had greatness in our palms. Until an unlucky hit to the temple ended his life.
A greasy lump of horror and shame slid down my throat. Losing him was hard enough; knowing that Dad lost a crap ton of money because he’d bet on Jake and lost tainted every memory I had of both of them, of boxing.
Jake had left behind his wife Marcy and their baby girl, Rose. Hell, I’d grown up with Marcy, and I hadn’t seen her and Rose in months. Every time I did, guilt and grief crippled me for days.
“I’m done with that game,” I told Carlos, though I shouldn’t have to. He knew I was done.
The urge to scrub my skin rode me. I showered two hours ago, but I felt unclean, sticky with regret and rage. Dad’s shame had somehow transferred onto me and I couldn’t rid myself of it.
His smile was weary. “Yeah, I know. But this gym is all I have too. It goes and we all lose our home.”
I couldn’t sit there anymore. Lurching up, I paced the small space. “We need to bring in more business. No, what we need is a sponsor.” And a fucking miracle.
Carlos rubbed his chin and watched me pace. “That could work, but what would the draw be?”
“Fuck if I know.” My chest sagged with a sigh. “Tax write-off? The joys of helping inner-city youths?”
Dark humor lit Carlos’s eyes. “Your lack of enthusiasm isn’t exactly selling me here.”
“Because I’m no good at bullshitting. I’m a shit salesman.”
“That you are, bro,” said a voice from the door.
Dean, my baby brother and expert bullshitter, lounged in the doorway. I honestly didn’t know how the fuck we were related. First off, instead of wearing jeans and a shirt like any other guy here, he was dressed in a three-piece suit that I knew cost more than his rent—rent that I paid. The little pissant.
Secondly, he was too fucking pretty. From grade school on, girls cooed over his blue eyes and sandy hair. Prince fucking Charming. I pushed away the thought that he looked like my ma. I missed her daily.
That was the hell of it. I missed too many people.
“What’s wrong with you?” Dean asked, ambling into my office. He stopped short and gave me a wide, fake-ass smile. “Today, I mean.”
I shot Carlos a quick, do not say a damn word glare. He blinked, and I knew he understood. I kept Dean away from the business troubles. He had potential to be something great—if he ever got his head out of his own ass and got a job.
Carlos stood up and rolled a kink out of his neck. “Rhys has a case of limp dick.”
I elbowed Carlos hard enough to knock him sideways. “Get the fuck outta here with that shit. You want to jinx me or something?”
Carlos snorted and looked to Dean. “Got any advice for that, college boy?”
“Thoughts and prayers?”
“You’re both hilarious.” But our ploy had worked. Dean was distracted.
As soon as Carlos left, I leaned against the edge of my desk and looked Dean over. “What’s with the suit? You going on an interview?”
Please let it be that. The boy had a degree in computer science from BU, had aced his MCATS, and had multiple offers from grad schools across the country, but he was floundering, working as a waiter and spending his free time dicking around with women.
He grinned liked it was Christmas morning. “Something like that.”
This kid. “It either is an interview or it isn’t.”
“Oh, I got the job.” His grin wouldn’t die. “Tonight’s more like a trial run.”
Fighters rely on instinct, and mine kicked into high gear. “Trial run? What the fuck are you talking about, Deanie?”
His smile fell flat. He hated when I called him Deanie.