Page 221 of The Nanny and the Beefcake
He’d pounded the heavy bag until his knuckles bled. He’d knocked out hundreds of combinations and sparred with multiple partners. He didn’t need rest. He barely required fuel.
When he was in the grind, slick with sweat, limbs trembling, and breaths coming fast, it masked the ache. Like a machine, he’d gone numb. It was as if his head had overridden his heart, turning off the emotions to do what had to be done.
And that was to win.
Beat Silas Scott and send the Snake back to Ireland, a bloody bruised loser.
He pulled the hood of the same hoodie he’d been wearing since he’d left Rickety Rock over his head and felt the jostle of the items in his pocket.
Libby’s aquamarine stone, the timepiece with Mere’s picture, and the small wooden box.
He could have grabbed another hoodie. God knows he had a dozen of them hanging on hooks in Aug’s gym. But he kept going back to this one—like a child reaching for a cherished teddy bear.
It was his one indulgence, the one item he’d permitted to bring him a sliver of comfort.
He’d craved the life he, Libby, and Sebastian had built in Rickety Rock. Every cell in his body begged to be back with them, doing Pun-chi yoga on the porch, running the trails with donkeys, tucking Sebastian into bed, then having Libby to himself. He missed her scent, missed wrapping her silky raven-colored locks around his fingers, missed cracking open his eyes each morning to find her beside him. He’d stare at her, bloody awestruck, so in love, and so at peace. If he were any other man, he would have taken that beauty, that perfect purgatory, and never left.
But he wasn’t just any man.
He was a fighter.
A fighter with much to prove.
A fighter who could not lose.
He was a fighter who owed a massive debt that required payment in blood and sweat.
“Erasmus, there’s a file on the back seat. It’s from Briggsy. He dropped it off last night. You need to sign off on it,” Aug said, keeping his gaze trained on the road.
“Can’t you do it, Aug? I don’t care about the PR bullshit.”
Aug released an audible breath. “I can’t do this for you. This requires your specific attention.”
“Fine,” he huffed, twisting his large frame and plucking the manila folder from the seat. He opened it and read the line.
PR release regarding termination of partnership between Erasmus Cress and Libby Lamb.
The muscles in his chest tightened as a heaviness set in. He skimmed the paragraph.
After a successful partnership training for the Heavyweight Championship fight, spiritual coach and Pun-chi yoga creator Libby Lamb and the Heavyweight Champion, Erasmus Cress, have chosen to part ways and pursue individual projects. Erasmus Cress and the entire sports management team wish Miss Lamb well.
The heaviness felt more like a lead weight.
He read what was left, then glanced at Aug.
“It’s dated for tomorrow.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s the same day as the fight.”
“Good to know you can still read a bloody calendar,” Aug answered tightly, toothpick in place between his lips.
“It says I’m the champion. I haven’t won yet.”
“Isn’t that what you want, boyo?” Augie tossed back, more bloody sour than usual.
“What’s got you twisted up?” he bit back.
