Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“How’s the shoulder?” he asks as he sits at his desk. I take the seat on the other side. “I peeked in at your session today. Looking strong. Looking better.”
“I’m not feeling too bad. Sick as fuck of the waiting around, though. I just want to be healed up and get back to work.”
He cocks his head back and looks at me down his nose with a smirk. “Don’t act like you don’t like bein’ here. Come on now.”
“I’m starting to wear out my welcome.”
“How are ya gonna do that when I would’ve been out of business without you years ago?”
I wipe my face with my towel, hoping the fabric puts some distance between Alfie and me. He never fails to remind me that I help pay the bills around here, but it’s not something I want to discuss. I’m happy to do it. I want to do it. But I’d rather it just happen and otherwise be ignored. It’s the least I can do.
“Hear anything on your license?” Alfie asks.
I shake my head, taking a steady breath. “No, nothing yet. There was supposed to be a vote on it next week, but John Duckworth had a heart attack and had to step down from the commission. So they’re waiting to fill his spot before they make a decision. My manager—you know Isaac, don’t you?”
Alfie nods. “I know of him, yeah.”
“Well, he looped in another private investigator to do some digging. It’s costing me a fucking fortune.”
“They’ll let you back in. I know it worries you, but they will. Have a little faith.”
That’s hard when you know you were set up from the start.
No one outside of the fight world, and only a few of them, know what’s happening with my license. I told Alfie because there isn’t much you can get by him, and I talked to Gray. Being a professional athlete, I knew he’d understand—and he did.
If you tell anyone unfamiliar with the underworld of pro sports that you have allegations floating around about fight fixing, banned substance violations, and bad behavior, it makes you sound like a terrible person. All of that is said about me, but none of it is true.
But it may cost me my livelihood.
“How are things?” I ask, redirecting the conversation from shit that makes me want to scream.
“Same old shit.” He groans as he sits upright. The lines on his face are those of a man who has been the father figure to a sizable portion of Sugar County over the past thirty years. “Got me a tenderloin at Patsy’s for lunch. That’s always a good day.”
A roar of laughter trickles in from the gym, and Trent’s voice rises above them all.
“Hey, while I’m in here, what do you know about that Trent kid?” I ask. “Who is he?”
A shadow dusts Alfie’s face that says all I need to know. “He’s a Hannigan kid. His granddad is the guy who went to prison years back for killing John Foreman and then leaving him to float in his pool. Remember that?”
How can I forget? That case was vicious and went unsolved for almost a year—an eighty-six-year-old man was killed ruthlessly. It was all Sugar Creek could talk about for months. No females went anywhere alone, and every teenage boy had a plan to kick the shit out of the guy if he broke into their house. It was a wild time. Mom cried in relief when he was caught.
“Well, that’s who this kid comes from,” Alfie says. “I feel sorry for the boy. He’s a shithead, but he’s always got a smile on his face.”
“He needs a mouthguard.”
“Again?”
I chuckle. “He’s afraid to ask you.”
“I don’t know why in the hell he’s afraid now. I’ve given him six or seven this month.”
Six or seven this month? Fuck.
“That’s probably why.” I stand, stretching my shoulder carefully over my head. The muscles fight against me and scream in protest. It’s all I can do not to wince in front of Alfie. “Do you have any lockers open?”
“Probably. Why?”
“Let’s give him one. I’ll pay the rent. Have him leave his mouthguard and shoes there. Maybe it’ll help him keep his shit together.”
Alfie leans back in his chair, grinning. “Remind you of someone you know?”
A little.
As a kid, Dad ensured our home life was in constant turmoil. Whether he was dealing drugs, buying stolen merchandise, or spending all our money on God knows what, nothing was ever calm. Mom busted her ass working two or three jobs a day to ensure I had something to eat, and water would run from the tap. Most of the time, anyway.
I kept a smile on my face, not wanting anyone to know if I’d been up all night or if I had an ulcer from worrying about things that should never cross a kid’s mind. I just wanted to be normal like everyone else. And the only time I could get a reprieve from that was if I were playing sports or at Gray’s.