Fighting Solitude (On The Ropes #3)(21)

“I c-can’t go in there,” she stuttered through sobs. “She’s supposed to be in there.”

“Shh,” I whispered into her hair. “I know.”

“I can’t do this. Please just tell me she’ll be here when I wake up tomorrow. Please,” she cried into my neck.

My heart sank. “I’d give anything to make that happen.”

“I…I…can’t stay in that apartment without her.”

“Okay. Okay. I’ve got you, Rocky. Let’s go home.”

She didn’t offer the first complaint as I settled her in the front seat or when I carried her up to my apartment after we arrived.

She didn’t actually say anything at all.

Lost in my own grief, I didn’t have much compassion to offer anyone.

But it was Liv.

I dredged up what little I could muster, knowing she’d have done the same for me—more, actually.

After snagging a blanket and a pillow off my couch, I placed her on the futon in my messy spare bedroom that doubled as a computer-slash-weight room. Then, using my laptop, I clicked on one of the playlists Mia had made, setting it to repeat before turning sleep mode off so the screen would stay lit all night. Once all of that had been set, I made a beeline out, ready to lock myself away in my own room and break down in private.

Just as I made it to the door, she called my name to catch my attention.

She stammered several times before giving up on her voice. Lifting her hands in the air, she signed, I’m mad at her too. Really f*cking mad. I don’t want to read her letter, either. At least, not yet. But I swear I understand how you feel. I loved her too. You can’t forget that we’re both struggling here. You don’t get to be mad at me for how I’m handling this. And I shouldn’t have gotten mad at you, either. I’m sorry.

Locking my fingers together, I rested them on the top of my head and sighed. “Don’t be sorry. You’re right. I’m a f*cking mess right now. I just don’t know any other way to deal with all of this. I’ll get my shit together before the funeral tomorrow. I promise, okay?”

“Okay,” she squeaked back.

“Get some sleep.”

“Later, Q.”

The corner of my mouth tipped up a fraction of an inch as I stepped out, shutting the door. “Later, Rocky.”





One Year Later…

LIV NEVER WENT BACK TO her apartment. A few days after the funeral, her parents showed up at my place to get her. She all but lost her mind when her dad said that she wasn’t allowed to stay with me anymore. Liv didn’t bat her eyelashes at her father that day. Nor did she plaster on the sweet and cry crocodile tears until he caved to her demands. No. That night, she squared her shoulders, looked him directly in the eyes, and showed him the real Liv James.

My Rocky.

Her mom and I watched with gaping mouths as Liv boldly stood her ground and informed Leo that she was moving in with me. I think Sarah was in awe to see Liv talking to him like that. However, I was shocked because never once had we discussed her moving in. Though, as I watched that crazy woman go toe-to-toe with her even crazier dad, I wasn’t about to wade into the middle.

I could stand the company.

Two days later, Leo and his army of bodyguards moved all of Liv’s stuff into my guest room. After attempting to intimidate me for most of the afternoon, each one of her father’s grunts pulled me aside for a lecture on watching out for her and keeping my hands and my eyes to myself. The latter wasn’t going to be a problem. However, failing women I cared about seemed to be a skill of mine, so I made no promises on the former.

After we’d lost Mia, Liv and I grew even closer. Everyone around us was affected by her death, but no one truly understood the vacancy she’d left behind in our everyday lives.

I’d heard of phantom pains when a person loses a limb. That’s the only way I could describe the first few months without Mia. I’d wake up each morning with a smile on my face only for the jagged edge of reality to demolish it. I couldn’t count how many times I picked up my phone to text her something funny only to hurl it across the room when I remembered the cold, hard truth. And, each time my glove was lifted in the air, my eyes would automatically scan the crowd, searching for Mia’s beaming face. It was a knockout blow when my mind reminded me that I’d never experience that again.

Liv was always there though, smiling proudly from the front row—the hollowness in her eyes matching my own.

Despite the turmoil in my personal life, my career couldn’t have been going better. The transition to professional boxing was easy for me. The opponents were bigger, stronger, and more talented than ever before, but I was a vortex in the ring. On the outside, I was a whirling force to be reckoned with, unable to slow down. But, on the inside, I was completely empty. I funneled the anger and debilitating pain of having lost her into every punch I threw. With a never-ending supply of anguish fueling me, I became unstoppable.

I was in the ring, sparring with Slate, when Liv came stomping through the ropes. Panic built in my chest when I saw the tears streaming down her cheeks and the storm brewing in her eyes.

Dropping my hands, I started toward her, but Slate’s glove caught me on the chin, sending me stumbling back against the ropes.

“Fuck!” I gritted before spitting my mouthpiece out and tearing my headgear off. Being clipped by the former heavyweight champion was no small blow—headgear or not.