Page 220 of The Nanny and the Beefcake
Aug stopped at a light as a local sports talk radio program played in the background. The voices melded together, droning like a sea of jabbering gobbledygook. Every so often, he heard his name, then Silas’s, then more chatter. He leaned his head back and stared at the roof of Augie’s SUV. He was barely there, a ghost, an echo, a man intent on one thing and one thing alone.
Victory.
It was the day before the big fight, and despite wanting to pound the bag, Aug had insisted he take it easy. He shifted in his seat, nervous energy coursing through him like he had ants in his pants. But that energy would soon come to serve him well.
Tonight, the cameras would roll, recording live the much-anticipated weigh-in. He and the Snake would growl and hiss and parade around the stage, hamming it up for the cameras before stepping on the scale to record their official weights.
The intensity would be set to pure alpha.
The air, electric.
Two animals sizing each other up, itching to tear the other apart in the ring.
And why was the press in near hysterics?
Three words: another viral video.
It would be the first time he and Silas would meet face-to-face since the incident at the airport.
The entire world had gawked and gaped, watching as he swung and missed, and the Snake dodged and hit.
Twice.
That was the last time he’d looked at his bloody mobile. He’d turned it off. No silent mode. No vibration. Off. Gone. Dead. Do not disturb.
His heart had been put through the wringer.
His confidence, slaughtered.
He hadn’t spoken a word to Aug on the drive from Rickety Rock to Denver. They’d pulled up to the gym, and fifteen minutes later, he’d wrapped his hands, gloved up, and had started swinging. It was the only way to put meaning to his pain. The only solution to his agony and the only path forward.
Path.
He recalled the path leading from the barn to the Victorian, darkened from the rainfall, then pictured Libby’s face as he tried to explain why he had to leave. When his foot hit the rock stack, the crack of the stones mimicked the cracks in his heart as he stood there, staring into her eyes. Their last words to each other returned to him every night in his dreams.
No, his nightmares.
I don’t have a choice.
You do, and you’ve already made it.
There wasn’t another way—at least, not one that he could see.
Between the crippling doubt and the visceral clawing pain, all he had left was the fight.
Truth be told, he didn’t care what the media had to say about the matchup. He wasn’t fighting for them. He’d done a decent job shutting it out, but he’d heard snatches of conversation between Augie and Briggs.
Unprecedented excitement.
Highest Pay-Per-View preorders ever recorded.
The fight of the century.
Let them concern themselves with that piece of the puzzle.
He’d gone into boxer zombie mode.
All that mattered was strapping on gloves and fighting like the devil.
