I looked at her. She was thirty-six, with the kind of face that could shift from warm to dangerous in a heartbeat. We'd met years ago when she'd been fighting amateur circuits and I'd been trying to figure out what to do with myself after Troy's mother died. She'd seen me at my worst and stuck around anyway, which made her either loyal or masochistic. Probably both.
“Just an off night,” I said finally. “Happens.”
“Not to you. You're the most consistent fighter I know. Which is why when you're not, I notice.” She tilted her head, studying me. “But if you don't want to talk about it now, fine. Just don't let it mess with your training.”
“It won't.”
“Good.” She reached out and poked the bruise forming on my ribs. I flinched. “Ice those. Doctor tomorrow if they're still bad.”
“They're fine.”
“Sure they are.” She grinned. “Come on. Let's get you cleaned up before you stiffen up completely.”
I stepped through the ropes and dropped down to the floor outside the ring. My legs protested, muscles tight from three rounds of controlled violence. Mara followed me toward the locker rooms, weaving through people who wanted to congratulate me or talk business or ask about training. I nodded at them, kept moving, let Mara run interference when someone got too persistent.
The locker room was quieter. Just a few other fighters getting ready for their bouts, focused and locked in. I found my corner, dropped onto the bench, and started unwrapping my hands. The tape was stained with sweat and spotted with blood. I peeled it off slowly, methodical, letting muscle memory take over.
Mara sat beside me, watching me work. “He had good power for his size. That body shot in round two was solid.”
“Yeah. Kid's got potential if someone teaches him to pace himself.”
“You gonna offer?”
“Fuck no. I'm not a babysitter.”
She laughed. “Fair enough. You staying for the rest of the card?”
I flexed my hands, checking for damage. Knuckles were swollen but nothing felt broken. “Nah. Got shit to do tomorrow.”
“Troy shit?”
I looked at her sharply. She just raised an eyebrow, waiting. Of course she knew. Mara always knew.
“Yeah,” I said finally. “Troy shit.”
“When's he getting in?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
“And you're nervous.”
“I'm not nervous.”
“Declan. Come on.” She leaned back against the lockers. “How long's it been?”
“Six years. Maybe seven.”
“Long time.”
“Yeah.”
She was quiet for a moment, just watching me finish unwrapping. Then she said, “You gonna tell me what's really going on, or do I have to guess?”
“There's nothing to tell. He's coming home for a while. That's it.”
“Bullshit. You don't get distracted in the ring over 'that's it.'” She crossed her arms. “Talk to me.”
I didn't want to. Didn't want to put words to the mess in my head, didn't want to admit that the thought of seeing Troy again made my chest tight and my hands shake. But Mara had earned honesty over the years. Had stuck by me through enough bullshit that lying to her now felt worse than just saying it.
