Page 94 of The Nanny and the Beefcake
He didn’t have time to bullshit around.
But what choice did he have? Briggs had broadcast to the world that he’d immersed himself in this unorthodox training.
What the hell were they supposed to do?
No, that wasn’t the question. He was in this on his own. What he should be asking is how was he going to beat Ireland’s Silas Scott. How would he regain the title for Meredith?
He’d watched the man’s fights. The Snake was the perfect moniker for a slippery fighter who delighted in having fouls called on him. The guy played as close to dirty as he could without getting booted from the ring.
He’d done his homework on the man. But he hadn’t settled on a strategy to win.
What was his game plan? Aug tossed out idea after idea, but nothing clicked, and nothing clicked because of his off-kilter, distracted energy.
All these questions tormented him day and night.
This is exactly why he’d spent the last ten days holed up in the gym, ignoring the world. He needed to focus and train. He had to tune out the noise and tighten up his punches and perfect his footwork. He should be eating, breathing, and sleeping boxing.
Then again, he’d done that. He’d cut off contact, and everything had still gone to hell.
Just like last time.
His heart thundered in his chest. He could hear the blood whooshing in his ears. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. He stared at the sky. Gray ominous clouds had rolled in.
He blinked, and his stomach flip-flopped.
Everything went blurry.
What was wrong with his vision? Was it the shift in the weather or the drain of mental exhaustion?
He tried to breathe, but there wasn’t enough air—there wasn’t enough of anything.
He wasn’t enough.
Bloody soul-sucking doubt.
It was as if this crush of frantic energy was on the cusp of swallowing him whole. His thoughts spiraled, and he was no longer in Rickety Rock, Colorado.
And then it was bright—so bright it exposed every crack in his facade. All that existed was the glare of the lights illuminating the ring, the batteringclick,click,clickof cameras, the stench of sweat and blood and bodies closing in, crowding around him, suffocating him, and the doctor’s voice coming through the mobile pressed to his ear.
I’m sorry, Erasmus, she’s gone.
He sucked in a sharp breath, but the air couldn’t get to his lungs. Was he about to pass out?
Would he skip out on this fight, too?
Was it all for naught?
That would be it.
Another failure.
The boxing world would surely write him off. Everything Mere had sacrificed would be for nothing. He’d be labeled a head case—a has-been fighter who’d lost his nerve. He could see the headlines and hear the commentators clucking away.The Beast has lost his bark. The Lion is no king of the ring. Erasmus Cress is not a champ. He’s a chump.
He looked away from the sea of cameras and squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t let them see him like this. People had wondered why he didn’t show for the fight the year after Meredith died. Of course, the boxing world speculated that it was the grief that had made him a no-show.
And they weren’t wrong. He was grieving. He was still grieving.
But it was one thing to speculate.
