Chapter Thirty-One
Gabe
I knew before the doctor said anything. Had known since the moment I woke up this morning after a shit night’s sleep, unable to lift my arm.
I wasn’t fighting today.
Not today or ever again.
My go in the tournament was finished. Coach’s gym—my gym—was gone. I didn’t have the money to get the loan, and Coach Lou couldn’t push off the developers any longer. Not if he wanted his retirement.
Everything I had trained for since I was fourteen, my life’s work, my life, was coming to an end in this room, and all I felt was numb.
The doctor had me hold my left elbow at my hip and raise my fist to a ninety-degree angle, then he nudged the outside of my wrist, and that numbness sparked into electric pain that radiated from my shoulder to my fist. I clenched my teeth as my arm gave out, too weak to resist the doctor’s slight pressure.
Diego’s head dropped where he stood behind the doctor. He pushed aside his suit jacket to rest his hands on his hips. “Gabe…”
“I know,” I said, voice flat.
He’d been right yesterday. If he let me in the ring, no coach would let his fighter book with him again. Not to mention it would be a shit performance. People didn’t turn on the TV to watch a guy with one functioning arm get knocked out in the first round. Not during a championship fight.
The doctor removed his exam gloves. “You’ll want to go to the hospital for X-rays. You may need surgery if it’s a complete tear, but you’ll need treatment either way.”
I nodded. I knew the drill.
He walked to the other side of the room to examine the next fighter, and I lowered into a chair. That simple motion was enough to pull an ache from my shoulder.
Diego watched, face pained. “You fought a hell of a tournament.”
It didn’t feel like it. It felt like I’d given everything I had and it wasn’t enough. Like I’d failed to do the one thing I’d sacrificed everything for.
Again.
Heat crept up my neck as my chest tightened, the air suddenly too thick to inhale. I closed my eyes to block out the pressure, but I couldn’t block out the images.
My mom at my first boxing match. My mom’s open casket. The hug she’d given me the last time I was home. The cake she’d baked the first time I won a title belt. The brightness in her voice the last time we spoke on the phone, right before her surgery, when we all thought everything would be okay.
With each memory came a sharp stab, deeper and more painful than anything my shoulder had brought.
It was like I’d been running from it all since she’d died, the despair and the grief and the reminders she was really gone, and now it was all crashing on top of me, burying me under its weight.
Mom was gone.
Boxing was gone.
What did I have left?
Aubrey’s face flashed across my mind. Her big hazel eyes and bigger, sweeter smile.
God, I’d wanted her with me last night. Had wanted to cradle my arm to my chest, curl against her body, and stop time so I could stay there forever. Just her and me, and nothing else in the world.
But the idea of her seeing me like this, for her to witness my failure up close—I couldn’t stand to see the pity in her eyes.
Or worse, the pain.
Evan was right—it would hurt her to watch me fight like this.
Hurt her to know that even now, for all the agony I was in and as pathetic a showing as it would be, if they let me, I’d still fight.
Her pain wouldn’t be enough to stop me, which told me everything I needed to know about me. Everything I already knew.
She was better off without me.
“You going to stick around for a bit?” Diego asked. “I can introduce you to some people if you want. You can capitalize on all that talk you’ve been getting.”
I squeezed my eyes shut a few more seconds before I gazed up at my old friend, amazed my head would lift. It was like my energy had been sapped from me, my body practically sinking into the chair. “No. I should probably go to the hospital.”
“You need a ride? I can find someone to take you.”
It was a good question. One I should have been able to answer. Yet even that decision felt like too much.
“I can drive him.”
A tall Black man I hadn’t noticed in my misery stepped away from the wall to join Diego. He had a shaved head and trimmed beard, and the way he carried his broad build told me he’d thrown around in the ring before.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, then addressed me. “I was hoping to chat for a bit. I’m happy to drive you to the hospital if you’re willing to hear me out on the way.”
I glanced at Diego, who shook his head. This wasn’t one of his contacts.
My brain itched like I’d seen him before. His plain white polo and black pants did nothing to clue me in.
“I’m sorry, but who are you?” I asked.
If he was offended, he didn’t show it. Just gave an amused smirk. “We didn’t get to meet at selection camp. I’m Joe Dotson, head coach of the US Olympic boxing team. I wondered if you might be interested in a job.”