Chapter Ten
Brooklyn
I scraped my fork through the buttery garlic sauce on my plate, watching the white lines form and then immediately fill in. Dad and I had already exhausted the topics involving the weather and how delicious our food was, and that left…jackshit.
This is why I wanted Finn and Liam here. We literally have nothing to say to each other, and forcing strained interactions is only going to hurt our relationship more.
For some reason, my brain decided to flash to Shane saying that life was short, but regrets made it feel a lot longer. If that applied to dinner, the regrets must be a doozy, because it’d already felt three years long. I supposed that was…motivating? “So, what’s the schedule looking like? Do your guys have a lot of fights coming up?”
Relief softened Dad’s features and he eagerly caught the bone I’d thrown him. He talked about his roster of fighters, filling me in on weight classes, records, and chances at title fights. Liam and Finn were in the mix, of course, and while I wished Dad and I could connect on other levels besides MMA, I’d been out of that world long enough I didn’t mind hearing all about it.
“Then there’s Shane Knox…”
The tension Dad had lost as he talked about his hopes for his fighters transferred to me, creeping into my shoulders and spine. I wanted to ask if we could avoid talking about Shane Knox almost as much as I wanted to hear everything about him. Acting too aloof or too interested might clue in Dad on my conflicted feelings about the guy, so I went for the statue method and simply froze in place.
“How much do you know about him? Has Liam or Finn filled you in?”
“I…” I twisted the linen napkin on my lap. “Just, um…that, like, you guys are training him and he recently joined the team. And that he’s, you know, pretty good.” Oh my gosh, I’m practically admitting guilt. He’s going to know that I sometimes think things about Shane that I shouldn’t.
Which I do, but private things in my head that need to stay there—and only there—forever.
“He jumped into the fighting circuit right after high school,” Dad said. “Three to four fights a year and he made it all the way up to the title bout without a single loss.”
“Oh, wow. That’s impressive.” Did I sound properly fascinated and surprised, as if it was brand new information? If I knew Dad—and I did—he wanted me to be interested in his new prodigy’s fighting skills, but in a distant, oh-how-great-for-the-team way.
After my last disastrous relationship with a professional fighter, on top of that gem about how I couldn’t just run away because I’d been dumped, Dad made sure to remind me that he’d been against my relationship with Conrad “Croc” Rochenski from the beginning, and that he’d worried it would end up affecting the team. Since he’d hated and low-key threatened every guy who’d ever shown interest, I’d chalked up his dislike for the guy to that. I didn’t want to hear the I-told-you-so lecture ever again, and I had an amazing boyfriend, so I’m not sure why my thoughts even went there.
“The kid hit a rough patch after that first loss, but I’m telling you, if we make the right moves, he’s got a good shot at winning a belt someday. Sooner rather than later, too.”
If Dad vouched for his skills, I had no doubt that Shane would make it back to the top. Even though that’d only make the guy more unbearably cocky, I wanted that for him. As frustrating as he could be, and as hard as I’d tried to deny it, there was just something likeable about him. From how he insisted on walking me out, regardless of assuring him there was no need, to his witty, surprising sense of humor. He’d not only taken my psychopath teasing in stride but also turned it back on me. Then there were the glimpses of the person underneath the showy fighter front…
A confusing swirl of emotions rose up, churning through my stomach and making me question things I didn’t want to question.
I just need to have a good conversation with Trey and make it to the end of the month when he visits, and I’ll snap out of it. Until then, maybe I shouldn’t let myself think about Shane’s good traits.
I know, I’ll list Trey’s instead. He’s calm. Slow to anger, and when we disagree, he’s respectful about it instead of yelling or letting his temper get the best of him. Logical—both in the way he thinks, and that he’s a good, logical choice for me.
“The hardest thing is going to be getting him big enough fights that he doesn’t have to completely start at the bottom,” Dad said. “Because of his fall from grace, I’ve been having some trouble landing him a good fight. Liam, Finn, and I were talking about how great it’d be if we could get him in the octagon with…” He hesitated, and the hair on the back of my neck pricked up.
He waved a hand through the air. “Never mind. We can talk about it later—maybe tomorrow morning?”
“You’ve already opened the can of worms. No use trying to shove them back in.” I was relatively sure who he’d meant by the way he’d brought it up, and my mind wouldn’t stop spinning until I knew if I was right, and if I’d have to see him, and basically wondering all night would be torture, so might as well rip the damn Band-Aid off and get it over with. “Just say it.”
I braced myself.
“Conrad Rochenski. Rumor is, the guy he’s supposed to fight in two months is going to have to drop out because of an injury that requires surgery. It’s one of the bouts before the big middleweight title fight, and a lot of guys are going to be making a play for the spot once it’s official. Landing a fight with Croc would really help Knox shoot up that ladder. It’d help the gym and the team, too. We haven’t had a big fight in a while.”
And it still stung. In spite of my fortification attempt and the fact that I’d had that roundabout thought about how after Conrad and I’d had our ugly breakup, Dad’s I-told-you-so method of consoling me did the exact opposite. “I’m sure you’ve already asked him.”
If Conrad or his manager had said yes, Dad and I wouldn’t be having this conversation, and I instinctively knew the next words out of his mouth would hurt.
“It’s just… Well, while your breakup is largely to blame for his leaving our team, he still has a soft spot for you, and the boys and I thought if you talked to him about taking the fight, he’d be more likely to agree to it.”
My throat tightened. “Is that why you really needed me here this summer? You couldn’t arrange a fight that you needed to happen, one that’d be a big moneymaker and give you great publicity, and you figured parading your daughter out in front of the guy who broke her heart would soften his?”
“Brooklyn, that’s not why. It was just a bonus.” He reached for my hand, and I jerked it back. I’d known better, and I was almost as angry at myself for thinking things might truly be different this time as I was at him for being the exact same.
“I was hoping that I could just be your daughter, no bonus required.” I pushed away from the table and tossed my napkin on my plate. “So much for having changed.”
…
I’d known I would need ice cream after the dinner with Dad, but at the same time, I had no idea how badly. Which was why I was eating rocky road straight from the carton, and I hadn’t bothered with wussy beer. No, it was a tequila night. For the record, chocolate ice cream and tequila wasn’t a good combo, but after a couple of shots, I noticed less.
I was still fuming when Finn walked inside, all lackadaisical-like, which only spiked my outrage.
“Sweet, you got the goods.” My face must’ve been scary, because he held up his hands like he’d stumbled upon a burglar with a gun. “Sooo, how was dinner?”
“You couldn’t have warned me?”
Finn grimaced. “That would require knowing what I was supposed to warn you about, but honestly, I’m too scared to ask.”
“Conrad.”
Genuine confusion flickered across his features, which calmed my anger some. I didn’t want to think he’d been involved in pulling the right strings to get me to turn around and pull on Conrad’s strings.
“Dad said, and I quote”—a glop of ice cream began to drip from my spoon and I caught it with my tongue before powering through with my impression—“‘he still has a soft spot for you, and the boys and I thought if you talked to him about taking the fight, he’d be more likely to agree to it.’”
I stabbed my spoon into the ice cream, lodging it nice and deep so I could use my right hand to flourish my retelling—my left was busy gripping the neck of the tequila bottle. “I’m Conrad’s soft spot? Really? Yeah, that worked out fucking great for me. Why don’t I go over and see if he wants to rip my chest open and take another piece of my heart? If it helps the gym, who cares about what I’m left with?”
Okay, that end part was perhaps a tad overly dramatic. Yes, Conrad had hurt me. Badly. He was my first love, and after putting my life on hold for a year, he cheated on me and it’d sucked. It also left me feeling like I didn’t know who I was anymore. Then everything blew up at the gym, and while it hurt for Dad to heap most of the blame on me, I couldn’t deny that our relationship did make a mess of things, especially between Conrad and my brothers. I didn’t want to be around him—he had a hard time letting go, to the point it’d scared me—and even his move to another team left us traveling in the same circles too often. Another reason I’d moved far away. I was over the breakup and over him, but being over our tumultuous past enough to go make nice…? I wouldn’t go that far.
Finn flopped onto the couch next to me. “I didn’t know Dad was going to ask you to do that over dinner tonight, I swear. Yeah, we discussed it when we found out that Croc’s opponent was pulling out due to an injury, but…” He clenched his jaw. “Liam was the one who spoke up against it first. He told Dad that was crossing a line, and that he wouldn’t use you as a pawn to draw out fights. As soon as I could calm down enough to basically say ‘ditto,’ I made it clear I felt the same way.”
The knot in my chest loosened. Both of my brothers had my back, and I wished Liam was here now so I could hug him, despite his being a regular grouchy pants as of late. For now, I settled on getting my arms around the brother who was here.
“Liam and I will take care of it,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“So, should I get my own spoon and shot glass, or are you going to share?”
I poured a shot, slid it over to him, and kept the bottle for myself. “What do we toast to?”
“To…forgetting. Shitty exes, shitty days, and…”
When he seemed to be struggling for another thing to add, I said, “Shitty, cheap tequila.”
Finn laughed, added a “here, here,” and then we clinked glass and put a serious dent in both the alcohol and the ice cream.
And for a while, we did a great job of forgetting.