"Do you want to talk?" I ask.
"Not right now," he says, and I could crack and break into a million pieces on his threshold. "I have to focus on getting better, and hopefully, on winning this fight."
I lift my head, remembering the conversation with Cameron.
Athletes are wired differently. He needs this win. He needs his space.
It was like that before the Eoghan Doherty fight, and it's like that right now.
"Okay. Good luck." I try to smile at him. "You know where to find me."
He nods wordlessly, which makes my heart split in two.
When I reach my car, I peek over my shoulder to see Ty still holding the door ajar for his mother. She limps into his place, but before she enters the house completely, stops and looks him in the eyes. I can’t read their expressions from this distance, but I hope they can work it out. I hope she can be there for him when he picks up the pieces and rebuilds himself.
And I hope Ty and I can get over ourselves and do the same one day.
Chapter Twenty
November 10th.
It’s almost time for Ty’s fight. This is the date when he’s scheduled to walk into the Vegas cage and face the biggest challenge of his career, the biggest fight of the year.
The past three months have gone by excruciatingly slowly without him. Days melded into each other, sticking together like glued chunks of paper in a new book. I offer myself the dumbest excuses for Ty not contacting me. He doesn’t have my new phone number. He’s busy preparing for his fight with Jesus Vasquez. He’s waiting for our anger to blow over. Or maybe he still hasn’t gotten out of his binge-drinking phase.
No. I know that’s not true. I know for a fact that he’s doing better.
Mary visits Ty every weekend. She takes two buses to get to his house. She cleans, cooks and yells at him that he’s an unbearable slob. (A bit rich coming from her, I know.) She rants when she washes his dishes and cusses at him when she does his laundry. But she’s taking care of him, and I know that because I talk to her whenever I can.
Mary never brings up the subject of my relationship with Ty, and I never volunteer anything about how I’m feeling.
Career-wise, I'm doing better at least. Or at least I’m doing better than Shane, who continuously reports to me about his days serving coffee and being bossed around by people who are only slightly older than us.
Me, I spend the first week at my new job sitting in front of a dead computer (the tech guy didn’t have time to sort it out before my arrival) and trying not to cry out loud. I miss Ned’s so much. But then at the start of week two, when I stare at the black screen like an idiot through blurry eyes, I feel a hand resting on my shoulder. I look up and see Cam's knowing smile.
“Don’t worry about it. I know what it’s like to leave a safe job. I was a butcher at my local big box store all through high school. Out of state tuition fee.”
I duck my head in embarrassment, annoyed that he’s seen me cry. “Where are you from?” I sniff.
“Promise you won’t laugh.”
I shake my head. “I can’t do that. I suck at hiding my feelings.” I point at a damp trail on my cheek left by one of my tears to prove the point.
“Fair enough.” He offers me his hand and when I grab it, he yanks me up so he can go and have a smoke. “Arkansas. I’d barely left the state before I came here for school.”
I laugh, of course I do, because it's so out of the blue.
"What made you stay in San Fran? I'm sure it wasn't the high rent and crazy people the city has to offer."
"Too lazy to move again, I guess." Cam runs a hand through his hair. "Then there's this ex back home I dread seeing. There's always an ex, isn't there?"
I guess there is. I'm just not sure I need to hear about one from my new boss.
"Let's get you started and give you something to do," he says.
And that is how my journalism career officially started.
The first month was brutal.
Trying to catch up on years of history attached to the local football, baseball and basketball teams is a real bitch. Each team has so much legacy and its own little quirky traditions and important statistics. It's funny how I thought I'd get rid of homework once and for all after I graduated, but for weeks, all I seem to do is memorize more and more info about the Golden State Warriors, San Francisco Giants, San Jose Sharks and San Francisco 49ers.
By the fifth week, I already have all the coaches' phone numbers on speed dial, and quite a few of those basketball, baseball and hockey players even know my name. I also realize that I love basketball and hate hockey. Same problem as I had with MMA—hockey is way too aggressive for me. The injuries, broken noses and the way players crash into each other intentionally…Ouch.
By the time October swallows up summer, I'm a sports expert who knows which college football players are injured this year and which ones are draft prospects for the spring. I now the name of every coach in the NFL, the NBA and MLB. I even know who Floyd Mayweather is, which impresses Shane. Not to mention that I’ve already written two articles for Diablo Hill magazine and contributed to the website, which updates on a daily basis.
And the best part? I know I'm good. To begin with, I suspected that my success on my journalism assignment was purely a fluke. Now? Now I'm even starting to like writing about sports, which is something I never thought I'd enjoy.