Fighting Silence (On the Ropes #1)(69)

A few seconds later, Slate walked into the room, and I threw up a hand to halt him. Till would have been mortified if the only man he considered a father witnessed his breakdown, no matter how understandable it might have been. Glancing down at Till in my arms, Slate nodded understandingly and backed out of the door.

Sucking in a deep breath, I decided the doomsday pity party needed to be over. It wasn’t helping anyone. The fact was that, while I hated this for Till, it wasn’t the end of the world. No one was dead or dying. Millions of people lived happy lives despite their inability to hear. Till was no different. We would be happy too.

I slid off his lap, and his red-rimmed eyes bounced to mine in question.

“No more,” I announced very slowly so he could read my lips. I took my finger and poked into his chest. “You are okay.” Then I moved it to my own chest. “I am okay.” Then I motioned it between us. “We are okay.” I grabbed the notebook and jotted down the words: Nothing else matters.

He stared at the pad for a few seconds, but eventually, his shoulders relaxed. A second later, they squared, and a second after that, Till was done with the pity party too. He lifted his head and took a deep breath. He was still pale and nervous as hell, but “The Silencer” Till Page had officially shown up to the fight.

His eyes fearlessly held mine, and I gave him a weak grin.

Lifting his hand, I kissed his palm. “I love you.”

He responded with his mouth, but it wasn’t in words.

He snaked a hand out, grabbing the back of my neck, and pulled me in for a hard, closemouthed kiss. As soon as he was done, he settled me back onto his lap, but this time, Till’s strong arms were protectively holding me, not the other way around.

Slate’s here, I wrote. Do you want me to let him in?

He nodded and allowed me off his lap. When I opened the room door, Slate was standing in the hall, talking on the phone.

“It’s okay, Q. He’s gonna be fine. I promise,” he said, holding the back of his neck and pacing the hallway. “Look, Johnson is gonna be there in a few minutes. Let him in. He’s gonna hang with you two until Till gets back. Nah, I know you don’t need a babysitter. Just humor me.” He shook his head and glanced up at me. “Hey, I gotta go, Eliza just came out. I’ll keep you updated.” He hung up and slid the phone back into his pocket. “How is he?”

“Better now.”

“Can he hear anything?”

I had no answer besides to just shake my head.

“Shiiit,” he breathed, raking a hand through his hair.

“He wants you to come in, but we’re not grieving anymore, okay? It’s fight time.”

Slate smiled and squeezed my shoulder before using it to pull me into a side hug. “You’re a good woman, Eliza.”

“Thanks,” I replied, but I embraced the moment of comfort and reassurance his hug provided—feelings that were usually reserved for the man on the other side of the door.

Slate walked into the room first and stopped in front of Till. Then he grabbed the notebook and pencil off the bed and began writing. Till motioned for me to rejoin him. As he kissed the top of my head, I resumed my position on his lap.

For a moment, I thought Slate was writing a novel. Finally, he passed the notebook back and then crossed his thick arms over his chest.

Just so we are on the same page about something, “The Silent Storm” is my nickname. I had it trademarked years ago. I have absolutely no problem suing you for everything you have if you try to steal that shit. No matter how fitting it may be for you now.

Till barked out a laugh as he finished.

Slate watched him warmly before saying, “You’ll be fine.”

Till nodded, once again refusing to speak.

It wasn’t long before the doctor made his way into the room. They swooped Till away for what seemed like a million tests—it at least took long enough to be a million. Slate stepped into the hall and spent most of the time on his phone while I sat awkwardly, alone, and in silence—just like Till. I cried even though I knew I was supposed to be fighting, but I was just so f*cking numb.

Finally, they ushered us into an audiologist’s office on the far side of the hospital. The fact that there was an audiologist in his office at three a.m. led me to believe that Slate had been busy calling more than just Quarry while he had been in the hall. Till settled in the chair next to me, taking hold of my hand to rest it on his thigh. I would have preferred to be back on his lap, but this was neither the time nor the place for comfort. This was the place for the truth about the future.

“Okay, Till is currently hearing at less than five percent.” He looked at Till and pointed to the screen above his desk, where the words were forming as he spoke them.

“Will it come back?” I inquired hopefully.

“No. I’m fairly certain that it won’t be coming back.”

Till cleared his throat and cracked his neck as the doctor’s prognosis appeared on screen.

“Given your history, we didn’t anticipate your hearing to disappear this suddenly. I’ve been told that you are a professional boxer, and while trauma can cause hearing loss, it’s more likely your genetic condition that’s the culprit here. However, like I told you, a cochlear implant is a great solution for your type of hearing loss.”

“Wait. What?” I jumped from my chair.