He went to the freezer and pulled out a flat full of strawberries. “We have to hull and chop these by hand.”
“So you run this place?” I asked.
“No, but the owner is thinking of selling and said I’d have an opportunity to buy it,” Noah replied, methodically and quickly working through the flat of strawberries.
“Will you do it?” This fit into Noah’s empire-building scheme. I loved frozen yogurt and likely would eat all the profits if I worked here. I chopped, but my pieces weren’t as precisely cut as Noah’s. He didn’t seem to care however, scooping my diced strawberries into a stainless steel container with his. We silently moved through the fruit, cutting and hulling.
“I will, but I don’t have all the cash I need yet.”
I thought of my trust fund that I couldn’t access until I was twenty-five. I wondered if Uncle Louis would give me an advance against it. “Maybe I could—”
He cut me off with a quick flick of his wrist. “No. Bo already offered,” He put down his knife. “I’m doing this myself. The stupid thing is that if I hadn’t bought the truck before I came here, I’d have enough.” He sounded bitter again.
“When do you have time to train?”
“I train about two hours in the morning. Go to classes. Come here. Keep moving. Train again at night.”
“Is that what the person you talked with told you to do?” I avoided using the word counselor since Noah himself seemed averse to it. I wondered if I should tell him how much therapy went on in the Sullivan family, but decided I didn’t want to terrify him. Hey, Noah, my entire family props up the antidepressant-drug industry. You fit right in.
He laughed, a short, humorless sound. “Not really. He said I should learn to start taking it easy. But then I caught him smoking outside the VA, and when he was stubbing his cigarette out, he told me everyone has a vice. Overworking is mine, I guess.”
“Fighting seems dangerous,” I said hesitantly. It wasn’t like I hated the idea of Noah fighting, just the idea of him getting hurt.
“Not any more so than what Josh does,” Noah replied with some mild exasperation.
“He’s not in a metal cage with people kicking at his head. And he never broke anyone’s eye socket.” But I did worry about Josh quite a bit. A defenseless receiver across the middle of the field could receive crushing blows.
Noah just shook his head. “Let me guess. Mike told you that.”
I nodded, and Noah looked like he wanted to drive to the library and break something on Mike’s face. “I didn’t break anyone’s eye socket. I punched the guy in the eye. He was a bleeder and shed all over the floor. It was a fucking mess, and I guess he wore an eye patch for a few days. I think he made up the story to impress some girl and it got out of hand.”
“I just would hate for you to get hurt if it wasn’t something you truly loved doing,” I said, trying to keep the worry out of my voice and be more matter-of-fact.
“The incidences of injury increased in boxing when gloves were introduced. Fists rarely cause the type of injury you’re worried about,” Noah said, sounding a little annoyed. This was definitely not the first time he had said this.
“Do you do any illegal fighting?” I asked, wanting to know everything I could.
“Is that what Mike told you?” I’d have to make sure that I always stood next to Mike when Noah was around. I could tell he was getting increasingly disgusted with Mike.
“He said something that hinted at it,” I mumbled.
“There is a lot of good money in unsanctioned events. They’re run by shady promoters but probably still legal. They’re just not approved by any of the mainstream management bodies. Then there are the underground fights. Those are all cash and you can pull in a few hundred every night, easy. Sometimes more,” Noah admitted.
“So yes?” I pressed.
“Have I? Yes. How do you think I’m going to fund this thing?” He waived his knife around the room.
“But if I or Bo could lend you some money—” I started and Noah interrupted.
“It’s not really as dangerous as you think. It’s rare that you ever fight someone who’s had any training. Usually the guy with the quicker fist or the stronger jaw wins. As a trained fighter going in, you can pick and choose what punch to take, to make the crowd excited, and then when to lay out your opponent. The likelihood of injury is low,” he said earnestly. It seemed important to him that I understood this and even supported it.
“What about other trained fighters, like you? It can’t be all inept people,” I objected.