Fighting Silence (On the Ropes #1)(29)

Flint became the first kid hired at On The Ropes to be paid in actual cash. He still had to earn his keep around the gym, but for two hours every afternoon, Slate paid him to tutor the kids who were struggling in school. Flint loved it, and every week, he signed his paycheck over to me. I’d be lying if I said that it didn’t help. It did, but we weren’t exactly eating steak and lobster every night. Kids were f*cking expensive. Especially two growing boys. Jesus, they could eat.

I loved having them around. We felt like an actual family for the first time ever. We still fought over bullshit things, and Quarry wouldn’t stop cussing no matter what I did, but they were good, honest, and respectful kids. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how that had happened when they had been raised by two wheeling-and-dealing scumbags like our parents. I had Eliza to thank for the way I’d turned out . . . but they had figured out how to be decent people all on their own.

It was Saturday night and we were headed to a league fight at On The Ropes. I loved fight nights, but this one in particular had us all buzzing—especially Eliza. It was the night Quarry would debut in the ring. He’d only been boxing for a few weeks, but Jesus, he was a natural. I knew I was good, but I’d never seen someone take to a pair of gloves like Quarry “The Stone Fist” Page. (He announced the nickname approximately twelve seconds after Slate agreed to let him fight.)

“Yo, Till!” Derrick Bailey strutted into the locker room in a pair of khaki slacks and a teal button-down. He was such a tool.

“’Sup. You not fighting tonight?” I asked only so I didn’t look like a dick when I ignored him.

“Nah, man. Slate didn’t tell you? He’s taking me pro!”

I tilted my head questioningly. Not only were my ears failing me but they were now making up words just to f*ck with me on their way out.

“I’m sorry. What?”

“Yep. I’m going professional. My first fight is next month.” He bounced on his toes and put his hands up triumphantly. “I’m gonna get paid to f*ck people up in the ring.” He threw a slow-motion uppercut under my chin.

I was too stunned to even play along with his little game. “Slate doesn’t do pro,” I stated, confused.

“Well, he does now. I guess he decided he couldn’t just pass up talent like mine.” He dusted off his shoulder playfully, but he was wearing at least a hundred-dollar shirt, so he just looked like a douchebag.

“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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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.”