I do as she says. Breathing in through my nose and slowly out my mouth, the way I have so many times since I started seeing Joan for counseling. I see Linc holding Tera and Xander’s baby, blowing raspberries onto her belly, laughing in the sunshine on the patio of CFD. Our ever-expanding family there.
“Where are you now?” Joan asks.
“Home. With the family. Linc holding the baby.”
“Happiness. It’s all happiness.”
“It’s home.”
“It’s the perfect place to be. Why don’t we stop for today and pick up again next week?”
I nod. “Sounds good.”
“If you need anything between now and then, you know where to find me,” she tells me with a soft smile.
“Thanks, Joan.”
3
LINC
“THE RIBS ARE JUST bruised,” Coach tells me. Dave’s been with me from the moment I walked into Charlie’s gym nearly ten years ago. It was a dive, hidden in the middle of nowhere which is where I liked to be back then. The boxing, hitting the bag, kicking the bag, beating the hell out of the bag—it was the outlet for my rage after Tera’s attack. I felt helpless. She suffered, and there was nothing I could do to help.
Sure, I gave up the band, but that wasn’t a hardship. I wasn’t as into it like the other guys were. For them, music is like breathing. For me, I can take it or leave it.
One day Coach aka Dave approached me and asked if I’d ever done any fighting. I’d done some scrapping but nothing like real fighting. He put me in the ring with a sparring partner, and it was like the rest of the world disappeared. The anger. The rage. The hurt. All of it was centered into my fist.
In that ring, I worked my shit out.
In that ring, I found a career—one I was damn good at.
That ring and Coach saved my sanity.
I was worried he wouldn’t make the move to LA with me, but he did. He keeps telling me he’s “enjoying those California girls.” I smirk. He’s happier here. I am too.
“Next month we fight the Dragon.”
I grunt a reply as I pound the bag, ignoring the twinge in my ribs. Ethan wasn’t too happy when I got up this morning—two days after the fight—to get right back to the gym. He thought I needed to heal more. I told him, “Nothing’s broken. I’m good to go.” He just shook his head, then pressed a frustrated kiss to my lips. He let out an exasperated sound as I walked away chuckling.
“You think you’re ready for him?” Coach asks.
“Hell yeah. He’s a pussy,” I tell him honestly. I could kick his ass today—bruised ribs and all.
Coach nods. “Only half day today. Those ribs need to heal up. The cut by your eye was a lucky shot.”
“The fucker. Pisses me off I let him get one in on me.” The guy was a chump. A joke. Him and his submission bullshit. He wouldn’t stand up for the hit because he knew I’d take him down with one good punch. It’s what I’m known for. It’s why they call me K.O. or as Coach calls me, Knox. “He kept sweeping my leg. Pissed me off. Next time I’m just going out swinging.”
“One-hitter quitter,” Coach declares.
“Damn right. Boom! See ya, motherfucker. I hate wasting my time on these scrubs.”
“Step up a level,” Coach advises.
“I’ve been thinking about it.”
“You’d have to go against Jabs.”
“Jamie. Yeah, he’d be a good rival.“ It sucks fighting a friend, but it wouldn’t be the first time.”
