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“You do?”
“Aye.” It comes out rough. “More than fucking anything.”
Her eyes shine. She cups my face in her hands. “I love you too, Ryan. I have for a while now.”
Her lips twitch, and she glances down between us, to where we’re still joined. “Although, of all the moments you could have picked.”
I’m not sorry. Not in the slightest.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
RYAN
I can hear the crowd through the walls. It’s muffled from back here, but every time somebody out there lands something, the roar goes up.
I bounce on my toes and throw a slow one-two at nothing.
My hands were wrapped an hour ago, the NMFC inspector watching every turn of the gauze. When he was happy, he signed his name across the tape on each wrap in black marker. Then the gloves went on, the tape went round the wrists, and he signed that too. He hasn’t left the room since. He’s in the corner now, arms folded, a man paid to make sure nobody slips anything into my gloves between here and the cage.
I did the proper warm-up twenty-odd minutes ago, on the pads with Davie until the sweat came. Now I’m only keeping the engine ticking over. Shadowboxing. Rolling my neck. Every so often Davie lifts a pad, and I put a light jab-cross into it.
There’s a telly up on the wall showing the broadcast. The co-main is into its last round, two welterweights, both looking battered and bruised. When it finishes, me and Vale are next.
Apart from the inspector, it’s just Davie, Niamh, and James in here. And every one of them is wound tight. Niamh can’t sit still. She’s checked the water bottles, rearranged the towels, and checked the water bottles again. James is pacing the length of the room, thumbing through his phone. And Davie keeps glancing up at the screen, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
Me? I’m fine. Better than fine. I’m the calmest I’ve been all week.
The actual fighting is the only part of the job that has ever made complete sense to me. All the noise of the last two months—the press, the sponsor shoots, the weigh-in, Vale’s face on a poster in every Métro station—is gone. All that’s left is five rounds against one man.
“Ry.” Niamh comes over with my phone. “Your other half.”
My gloves are already on, and I’m not about to fumble a phone in them, so she holds it up for me to read.
Briony
I’m so proud of you, Ryan. I believe in you. Go get your belt
Love you
It’s been three weeks since the hotel room in London. She’s said it countless times since—in texts, in bed, across the kitchen with a mouthful of toast. Every time, it lands like the first.
She only flew in yesterday, and between the ceremonial weigh-in and everything else on my pre-fight list, I’ve barely spent any time with her. But we don’t fly home till late Monday. And come tomorrow, I’m going to make the most of being in the city of love with my girl.
“Tell her that tomorrow I’m all hers,” I instruct Niamh. “And say, ‘I love you too, flower girl.’”
Niamh rolls her eyes, but she types it all the same.
The horn sounds, and the crowd erupts. That’s the co-main done.
James stops pacing and pockets his phone. “Right, I’m going to go take my seat. Remember, Ryan, whatever he says in there, it’s just noise. Don’t give him anything.”
“Aye.”
He nods once, and then he’s gone.
A few minutes later, there’s a knock, and a runner with a headset puts her head round the door. “Ryan, you’re on,” she says in an American accent.
Hood up. Gumshield in. Then out of the changing room and into the corridor. Davie and Niamh fall in close behind me, one at each shoulder, with the inspector bringing up the rear. A cameraman walks backwards in front of us, the red light on the top of his camera steady. This is going out live around the world.
