Chapter 20
I’ve begged to lay the blame on anything I can grasp at, that I’ve fucked up in so many ways.
My asinine ways of thinking. I’ll admit it.
Fuck.
I make my way up the concrete stairs, across the wood boards, and pause, taking a deep breath before knocking on the door.
He answers the door—black, blue, and purple. An ugly gash is torn on his left eyebrow, another cut sliced under the left eye. Both eyes are swollen. And although he’s cleaned up, he looks like hell.
Kyce sets his jaw.
I tip my chin. “You’re gonna need to ice that.”
His eyes deepen at me.
I clench my jaw, conflicted by my actions. “I can’t forgive you, Kyce. I can’t find it in my fucking bones to do it. But I’m done with the animosity. I’m fucking over it.”
Kyce gazes at me for several long seconds, working things through his mind, but then sticks his hand out in front of him. “Brothers?”
I grab it intending to shake it, but he pulls me in for a hug.
He leans back and shakes his head. “I’m sorry I let you down. I fucked up, man. And I’m sorry. I wish to fuck I could take it back.”
“I’m done talking about this shit.” And I mean it. “It’s done, it’s dealt with, and it’s over.”
He drops his head and I know he’s hiding his emotions. Any other day, I’d tease him about being so much like mom. Today is no different.
“Suck it up, pansy,” I say with humor.
He laughs, keeping his head down.
“I’ve got some cleaning up at home to do. I’ll catch up with you later.” I start down the sidewalk. “Clean it and ice it,” I call over my shoulder without looking back.
Boy, did I fuck up. How exactly do I know? Whitney’s on the couch, curled up under a blanket, hugging the pillow. I go to the bedroom, lower the covers and come back for her. Easily, I scoop her up, but two steps away from the couch, she stirs.
“What are you doing?” she asks sleepily.
“I’ll be damned if you’re gonna sleep away from me. Not if I can help it,” I tell her.
“I won’t sleep in the same bed with you until you get the hell over yourself,” she says squirming.
I chuckle because although wiggling, she tightens her grip around my neck. I kiss her forehead. “I’m over it. Kyce and me…we’re good.”
She blinks up to me all doey-eyed and shit. “Seriously?”
I place her in the bed and kiss her forehead again. “Seriously.”
I leave her and head for the shower.
When I return, she’s sitting there eyeing me like a hawk. “You didn’t murder him, did you?”
Her question surprises a laugh from me. I move in beside her and prop my head up on my elbow. “No.” I state simply. “I’m ready to move past it. It’s made me a miserable bastard and I’m tired of the bad blood.” I scoot her down and into me by her waist. “We good?”
“As long as you didn’t kill him,” she says.
I shake my head, resting it on hers. “Then we’re good.”
She exhales and snuggles into me. “That was disgusting.”
I close my eyes. “Yeah.”
I came to the gym early to clean up the mess from last night. I’m on my hands and knees when the door swings open and Carter steps in. He’s in black gym shorts with a neon green stripe, a gray t-shirt, and he’s cut his hair. It’s not a wild, tousled mess any longer. Instead, the sides are cut short, the top kept long, textured and casually messy.
I rest back on my knees and eye him.
“You like?” he points to his hair.
“Are we dating now?” I jest.
He shakes his head. “Figured I’d clean up a bit.” Glancing down at the blood stains on the cloth floor, his brows draw together. “What the hell did I miss?”
I clear my throat. “Brotherly love.” I take back to scrubbing. “Go warm up.”
I decide to keep him out of the ring today and have him work on stamina. Mainly because I’m too fucking exhausted to care right now. I’d say it isn’t fair, but he needs to work on endurance anyway.
I work him over for several hours between the treadmill, jumping rope, punching the heavy bag, and weights. Oddly, I’m still not feeling it. I call it a day, but not without a strange look from Carter.
“I’ll make it up tomorrow,” I promise.
Sensing my mood, he nods and steps off as I head for the shower.
Changed, tired, and ready to go the fuck home, I grab my bag just as my phone begins to ring.
“Yeah?” I answer, unsure of the number.
“Mr. Hayes?” a man’s voice questions.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“I’m Jameson Reece, call me JR for short. I appoint the lineups for the MMAT. Are you Carter Sharpe’s manager?”
I grin. “Yeah?”
“Good. You have him down as a welterweight. Is that still correct?”
“Yeah.”
“You think you can raise him to middleweight in a few months?”
“He’s not too far off, so yeah. Why?” I ask.
“I’ve got him on the roster in three months in Houston against Hugh Walsh,” he tells me. “It’ll be Mr. Walsh’s second bout.”
“Three months? You fuckers move fast,” I say.
He chuckles. “If he’s not ready—”
“We’ll be there,” I grumble. “He’s ready.”
We hang up and I go in search of Carter. He’s up front cleaning the lobby when I approach. He stops mopping and props up on the handle, eyeing me curiously.
“How ready do you feel you are?” I ask.
“For what?”
I spread my hands to the side. “What the fuck do you think I mean?”
He beams, standing straighter. “I got a fight?” He drops the mop and I swear he’s about to start dancing the fuck around.
“You got a fight,” I agree.
He slams his fist into his palm in celebration. “Who against?”
“Some cat named Walsh. He’s middleweight.”
He springs from foot to foot and I know he’s trying to conceal his need to dance. The kid likes to fucking dance.
“Hell yes. I’m fucking ready.” He beams.
“We’ve got a lot of work to do to get your weight up. I’ll do you like my coaches did me. Training will get difficult, more intense closer to the match,” I tell him.
He nods, grinning like crazy. “I can’t believe this.”
“Believe it. It’s happening.” I walk off, saying over my shoulder.