Grace for Drowning(20)

It was the right thing to do.





Chapter Eight





Logan





Well, I tried. I really did. I could have kept pushing, but there's a thin line between persistence and just being an asshole. Ultimately, you can't force anyone to change. They have to want it enough to put aside their shame, their anger, or whatever is holding them back and move forward. Apparently Grace wasn't at that point yet. Maybe she never would be.

Perhaps it was better this way. It wasn't like I was exactly a fucking model of mental stability. There was every chance I'd have done more harm than good, or worse, wound up dragging us both down. Besides, I had my own shit to focus on. Training, my upcoming fights; I didn't need the distraction. Despite what I'd said to Grace, I had my concerns about this Caesar guy. He was in a whole other class from the rest of us Final Blow schmucks. Ivy League school, parents richer than sin. He trained at one of those private Chicago gyms with a host of professional UFC fighters plastered across their roster and a panel of experts on staff. Meanwhile, there Tony and I were at Parker's with its patchwork matting and tattered equipment, just trying to get through each training session without breaking something. Throw in my thirty hours a week at Charlie's, and you've got a pretty big deficit to make up. I don't lack self-confidence, but at some point it just becomes a battle of resources. Simple math.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not jealous. I never set out to be a big name. Hell, I don't think I could handle it. Those UFC guys are like fucking show ponies; they spend eighty percent of their time posing for the camera and talking to the press. I couldn't do that. Too much pressure, too much attention. I fight for the rush, the pure physical competition. There's a series of moments in there when you're deep in the zone where everything else fades to black. It's just your body and theirs. Kinetics, power, action and reaction. It's electrifying, terrifying and utterly intoxicating. It's those moments that make me drag myself to the gym, day after day. They're what keep me going, keep me sane. Money, trophies, newspaper articles — I couldn't give a shit about those.

Instead of freaking out, I used his advantages as motivation. I thought about him, holed up there in his swanky Chicago apartment, utterly certain he was going to jet over here and wipe the floor with me. Guys like that never see a loss coming. They've had everything handed to them on a silver platter. They've never experienced anything real, and if it was within my power, I was going to change that for him.

Tony was working me as hard as he ever had, and I ate it up. By the time I got to the bar some days I could barely raise my arms, and even then, I found myself going back and working the bags some more after my shifts, or running the long way home. I told myself it was just extra training, but deep down I knew the truth. I was distracting myself.

To the casual observer, it probably seemed like Grace was fine. A little curt maybe, but nothing noteworthy. But I knew better. Those nights talking together had shown me glimpses of the real her, the one that shone like a lighthouse in the dark, and that girl was nowhere in sight now. Even from across the room, I could feel her slipping further down. The only time I noticed a genuine smile on her face was when she was talking to Joy. I couldn't stop thinking about the way she'd briefly mentioned her ex. I got the sense that he was the source of her problems. Had he hit her? Or worse? The thought set my blood on fire. I would have given anything to know more, but of course that was none of my business. I just wished that ache in the depths of my belly would get the memo.

A few days later, I came into work a little early to meet with Charlie. He wanted to go over some details for my fight against Caesar. It was still weeks away, but big fighters came with big demands, and his team wanted to make sure everything was going to be to his liking. It made me a little wary. On one hand, I was happy that Charlie's business was taking off. The guy had given me so much, and I wished him every success. I just hoped it wouldn't turn Final Blow into another circus.

Caesar's demands were very specific. Everything from locker room contents to which corner he fought in.

"He seriously wants a whole tray of mangoes?" I said, running my eyes down the list. "And 'light bulbs no brighter than thirty watts?'"

Charlie nodded wearily.

"Who is this guy, Mariah Carey? What a prima donna."

"I think some of it is just him fucking with us," Charlie said. "Seeing how far he can push."

"Sounds about right."

"Anyway, what princess wants, princess gets. You good with all that other stuff?" Charlie asked. There were a few demands that affected the fight itself. Shorter breaks between rounds, notes about scoring, that sort of thing. It would be a bit of a departure from the normal Final Blow rules, but this was a marquee event that had been months in the making, and in Charlie's mind, a few alterations were a small price to pay.