He’s much older now, grayer, more weathered, with the kind of face that looks like it’s been hit a few too many times. He glances over when I walk in, does a double take, and his expression goes flat. He remembers me.
I approach and wait for a break in the action. Eddie keeps working with his fighter for another few minutes, maybe longer, calling out combinations and corrections like I’m not even there. Making me wait. Establishing that I’m on his turf and his time, that whatever I want from him, I’m going to have to earn it. The young woman throws crisp punches into the pads, and I stand there in my heels feeling like I really fucking wish I had a change of clothes in my car.
Finally he tells her to take five and turns to face me, arms crossed over his chest, feet planted wide. It’s the body language of a man who’s already decided he doesn’t like what he’s looking at.
“Well, well.” His voice is even rougher than I remember, sandpaper over gravel, the kind of voice you get from decades of shouting instructions across noisy gyms and probably too many cigarettes. “Brooke Bennett. Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”
“Eddie.” I keep my voice neutral, professional. The tone I use for hostile interviews and sources who don’t want to talk. “I need to talk to you about the Miles Webb story.”
He snorts. “Honey, I’ve got nothing to say to you or any other fucking journalist for that matter.”
“First of all, I’m not your honey, so don’t call me that,” I say, because I am in no fucking mood for condescending men today. I hold his gaze without flinching, letting him see that I’m not backing down. “Second of all, I’m not writing a story. This is personal and I need to understand some things about what happened back then.”
“Well maybe you should’ve worried about understanding back when it mattered.” He spits the words like they taste bad.
I take a deep breath. “Eddie, I think I might have gotten something wrong, and I need to know for sure.”
His eyes narrow slightly, reading me the way I’ve watched fighters read their opponents, looking for tells, looking for weakness, trying to figure out what angle I’m working and whether it’s worth his time to engage. “That so?”
“That’s so,” I say, holding his gaze. “I’m not here to cause trouble. I just need answers.”
He studies me for a long moment, his weathered face giving nothing away, and I wait.
Finally, something in his posture shifts. Not friendlier, exactly—I don’t think Eddie Kovacs knows how to be friendly—but less actively hostile. He nods toward the ring where the young woman is stretching, rolling her neck from side to side. She’s got the lean, coiled build of a fighter, and she’s watching our conversation with obvious interest.
“Maria’s my newest prospect,” Eddie says. “She’s working on head movement today. Defense. Bob and weave, slip and counter.” He looks back at me, and there’s something almost like a challenge in his eyes, a glint that wasn’t there before. “I need someone to throw punches at her so she can practice not getting hit.”
I wait for the rest of it, because there’s clearly more coming.
“You want answers, you can get in the ring.” He uncrosses his arms and gestures toward the duct-taped ropes. “Fifty punches. Every one you throw, I’ll answer a question. Every one that actually lands, I’ll tell you something you don’t already know.”
I’ve had some ridiculous conditions for interviews in my day, but this takes the cake. I look at the ring with its duct-taped corners and suspicious stains on the canvas, dark splotches that could be old sweat or old blood or just years of accumulatedgrime. I glance back at Maria, who’s grinning at me now with the confidence of someone who knows exactly how this is going to go.
I look down at my pencil skirt, which cost four hundred dollars and is absolutely not designed for physical activity, and my silk blouse, which is already starting to feel damp from the humidity in this place, and my heels, which are completely impractical for anything except looking professional in New York City.
I should laugh in his face and walk out and find another way to get answers.
But I didn’t drive two hours through the rain to walk away empty-handed. And I’ve spent enough years on the mats at my jiu-jitsu gym to know I’m not afraid of a physical challenge, even if boxing is a completely different animal. There’s something about the dare in Eddie’s eyes that makes me want to prove I’m not the soft city journalist he clearly thinks I am.
I kick off my heels and feel the cold concrete through my stockings. “Fine. Let’s go.”
Eddie’s eyebrows rise slightly, the first crack in his hostile demeanor. He wasn’t expecting me to say yes.
Good. I’ve built my entire career on doing things people don’t expect.
He tosses me a pair of training gloves, scuffed leather that’s seen better days but still functional. I slide my hands in and they fit surprisingly well, molding around my knuckles.
“Basic jab,” Eddie says, demonstrating with a quick motion. His form is still clean despite his age, the punch snapping out from his shoulder. “Straight line from your shoulder. Rotate your hips. Don’t telegraph.” He does it again, slower this time, breaking down the mechanics. “Weight on your back foot, then transfer forward as you punch. Keep your other hand up to protect your face.”
I mimic the movement, trying to shake off the rust. I took some boxing classes years ago at a gym in Brooklyn, enough to know the basics, but it’s been a long time and my body has spent far more hours drilling armbars and chokes than jabs and crosses. The hip rotation feels familiar at least, that much translates from grappling, but the rest of it is rough.
“That’s passable,” Eddie says, which is clearly generous. “Get in there.”
Maria has climbed through the ropes and is waiting in the center of the ring, bouncing lightly on her feet like she’s got springs in her shoes. She’s maybe early twenties, with dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and quick, darting eyes that track my every movement as I approach the ring.
I climb through the ropes with significantly less grace than I’d like, my pencil skirt making it awkward to lift my legs high enough, the canvas rough under my stockinged feet. If this were a jiu-jitsu match I’d feel right at home on a mat like this, but standing here with my fists up instead of looking for a takedown makes me feel like I’m fighting with the wrong weapons.
Maria grins at me. “Don’t worry. I’ll go easy on you.”
