It’s these last few weeks that pass by quicker. For every punch I endure, I think of Dee, and threaten to smile. If I smile, Glass just hits me harder.
Sometimes I smile. I’ll take the hit.
By the end of it, we’re in full-on sparring matches. Glass can’t keep up with me, so I spar with McNamara. He’s got that old-man strength you can never underestimate. It’s not muscle mass at that point, it’s central nervous system.
He’s got that old-man endurance, too. He doesn’t even feel pain.
We spar twenty times in twenty days, pure boxing, no MMA, no take-downs. I win sixteen times, five times by knockout, the rest concession. The four I lost, McNamara surprised me with them old-man tricks.
After our last fight, Glass comes to me, grinning widely, his eyes shining. “God damn it, boy,” he says, throwing an arm around my shoulder and squeezing me into him. “You’re fucking magic, baby.”
I take off my gloves, unwrap my hands, and then go to McNamara, still on the ground, holding onto his eye. Blood streams down the side of his face, but he takes my arm and I help him up.
“Good fight,” I tell him, and we tap fists.
“Wasn’t for me,” he jokes. “It’s been good having you here, Duncan. You did good. I’m sure fucking glad you’re done here, because I don’t think I can take anymore of this.”
“Sure you can,” I say, nodding toward his trophy cabinet. “They once called you champ.”
“You’ll earn that name soon,” he tells me, slapping my shoulder affectionately.
We leave later that afternoon. During the drive back – we take turns – he talks about how much better I look. I’ve put on weight, maybe twenty-five pounds of lean mass in the last six months, without losing any speed or agility.
They fed me five thousand calories a day at McNamara’s fighting camp, and when you’re not eating junk, you really come to appreciate just how much food that is.
Boiled chicken, brown rice, and broccoli six times a day, basically. Full-sized meals. On top of that were the multitude of supplements, and the post-workout protein milkshakes blended with egg whites.
I stayed away from the stimulants, though. Some of the other’s liked it, yohimbine, caffeine, even just green tea extract. But I can’t take it. It fucks with my rhythm.
Glass slaps the steering wheel in excitement, then looks and me and laughs. “We’re going to give all those fuckers a real surprise with you, boy.”
Those fuckers. The other mob families and groups he hopes to swindle by selling me as an underdog so they bet against me.
It won’t last for long, but at the start, he’ll make a killing.
And I’ll get my share.
And yet… all I can think about is what Dee will think about that.
Will she begrudge my taking part in her father’s plan?
I know that I am going to fight, and I know that I am going to make money, and I know that I am going to be the best.
But I haven’t thought past that. I could go pro at some point like Glass will want me to, but dealing with the politics and intricacies on that stage doesn’t particularly interest me.
No, the more appealing idea is to just walk away when I’ve had enough, take my money, and go.
But it’s only more appealing if I have Dee going with me.
I suck on my lower lip for a moment, then engage with Glass who’s chattering animatedly about his plans.
I need to stop looking so far ahead with Dee.
There’s no telling how much she may have changed in these past six months, whether our last night together will mean as much to her as it still does to me.
And beyond that, there’s no telling about our future, about how things will play out.
Shit, everything could go to fucking hell.
I try to imagine the worst situations, the ones I hate the most, and find that in all of them, Dee and I are not together.
Chapter Fifteen
It’s graduation, and of course Dad’s not here. I don’t know when him and Duncan are going to return home. He hasn’t called once, and I’m sure that he’s the reason Duncan hasn’t called, either. I thought I’d at least get a postcard or letter, but nothing turned up.
If I had to guess, it’d be that Dad’s kept Duncan locked up like a princess in a tower. I have to rely on that assumption, because I don’t want to think about the idea that maybe… maybe Duncan just chose not to call.
For six months it’s just been Frank and I at home. He tried to cook meals, but it was usually some variation of eggs on toast or tinned food. Not exactly healthy. I ended up cooking for him.
I sit in my gown, watch on as several people on stage make speeches, but I don’t really listen to any of them.