Page 58

“Better,” Dan grunts. “Again.”

We drill the sequence for another twenty minutes. My lungs burn. Lactic acid floods my shoulders. I welcome the physical exhaustion. It drowns out the noise in my head.

“Time.” Dan drops the pads to the floor. He wipes his forehead with a gray towel.

The gym hums around us. Jump ropes slap the mats. Heavy bags swing on steel chains. But our corner feels suffocatingly tight. Dan stares at me with those hard, expectant eyes. The same eyes my father used to have.

“Good work today,” Dan tells me. He claps a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Whatever was stuck in your head last week, you’re pushing past it. That’s what champions do. You shut out the distractions and follow the game plan.”

“Thank you.”

“Your father would be proud, Zane. He built Ironside for moments like Saturday night. An Ironside champion defending the throne against a street brawler.”

I picture the bronze plaque back at Ironside, my father’s name above the entrance. We’re hundreds of miles from that building, and Dan still manages to put me under its roof.

I force a smile. I nod my head. I mouth the platitudes required of me. Yes, Dan. Thank you, Dan. Ready for war.

The shower in the locker room feels like washing off a thick layer of grime. I scrub the soap into my skin until it turns red. I want to scrub away the legacy. I want to peel off the Ironside crest etched into my back.

The drive across Chicago passes in a blur of streetlights. I grip the steering wheel of the rental car until my knuckles ache. Each red light gives me another chance to turn back toward the hotel. I keep going.

I leave the bright hotel district behind and turn onto the quieter blocks near Micah’s rental. A corner grocery is pulling down its shutters. Someone walks a dog past the bus stop.

I find the spare key in my pocket before I reach the landing.

Yesterday, Micah handed it over while looking for a clean fork. As if giving me a way into his space required no discussion at all.

I unlock the door.

“That you?” he calls.

“Who else has a key?”

He looks over from the stove. “Jealous already?”

“Conducting a security assessment.”

“Wash your hands. Plates are in the cupboard above the sink.”

I set the key on the table.

For a moment, I just look at it lying there.

“Butler. Plates.”

“I heard you.”

I wash my hands and get the plates down. Micah divides the chicken and rice between them, sets out the forks, and sits opposite me.

I chew the food mechanically at first. Then the flavor hits my tongue, and I realize I haven’t eaten a real meal since yesterday morning. I clear the plate in minutes. Micah watches me, his own food barely touched. He simply tracks my movements, waiting until I’ve finished.

When I push the empty plate away, he stands up. He guides me away from the table, steering us toward the faded hand-me-down sofa in his small living space. We sit. He pulls me down until I lie stretched out, my head resting in his lap. His fingers thread through my hair. The gentle scrape of his nails against my scalp forces a long, shuddering breath out of my lungs.

“Dan brought up my dad today,” I whisper. The words tear at my throat.

Micah’s hand pauses for a fraction of a second. The rhythm resumes. “What did he say?”

“Said my father would be proud. Said he built Ironside for moments like this Saturday.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “It made me want to rip my own skin off. I realized I’m fighting for a ghost. A man who would disown me the second he found out I was sitting in this apartment with you.”