Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 118459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 474(@250wpm)___ 395(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 474(@250wpm)___ 395(@300wpm)
And that’s all it takes to refocus me. Because for the first time in nearly seven years, Julia has asked something of me.
And I will not fail her.
Not again.
CREW
I circle the table, phone to my ear. On the fifth ring, a cheery voice answers, “Blackrock Gym.”
“Hey, is Sal in by any chance?” I ask.
“Yeah, I think he’s still here. Who’s calling?”
“Crew Gentry.”
“Hold on just a second.”
Instead of putting me on hold, she lays the phone down. I hear the usual gym sounds trickle through the line. The sound of leather hitting leather, notes of music, sounds of people yelling all filter through the phone. I didn’t know how badly I missed it ’til now. A yearning to jump through the line and join in the mayhem flitters through me. I know what the gym smells like, what the light looks like coming in through the glass doors.
The line is ringing again before it picks up. An old voice answers, “D’Amato.”
“Hey, Sal. It’s Crew Gentry.”
“Well, what do ya know,” he drawls out. “What’s goin’ on, kid? How ya been?”
“Good. I’m good. Just callin’ to see if you have any openings around there?”
“What for?” he asks blatantly. I can hear the skepticism in his voice. Since picking me up behind Shaw’s, Sal followed my career through high school. He trained me on the side nearly every night after my high school practices were done. He was one of the few people that believed I could fight at a collegiate level. Without him, I never would’ve gotten the chance.
He’s old-school. When you train with Sal, he pushes you. He has expectations and doesn’t cut anyone any slack. When you’re on Team D’Amato, he takes care of you. Which I know is either gonna hurt me or help me right now.
“Well, I’ve got myself a fight lined up and I need a trainer.”
“You what?” he barks. “What the hell ya doing, Gentry? You get cleared by the doc?”
I rub my forehead. I knew this would be a sticking point with him and I’m not sure if there’s a way around it. Fuck!
“That doesn’t matter.”
“The hell it doesn’t!”
There’s a long, tension-filled pause. “What are ya into, Crew?”
I blow out a long breath. “I have a rematch with Davidson on July 13th. I need a trainer.”
“I heard that part the first time. You have a fight. My question is why?” I know he’s taking off his glasses and shaking his head. I’ve seen it a million times. “Why would you go put yourself in that situation? You’re not an idiot, Gentry. You have nothing to prove against that piece of shit. I sure as hell heard those docs tell you that if you fight again, it’d probably fucking kill you. Don’t be fucking stupid, kid.”
“I need the money.”
“Ah, fuck,” Sal says, probably thinking I’m into something no good.
“It’s not like that,” I say.
“It never is, kid. It never is.”
“My niece has cancer, Coach. I need about fifty fucking thousand dollars so she can get the treatment she needs.”
I hear him sigh and the squeak of a chair.
“I’m doing this with or without you,” I say, my voice steady. “It would give me better odds to have you in my corner. But if you don’t want to do it, no worries. I’ll do it myself.”
He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth like he does when he’s thinking. I wait him out. This can go either way.
“I wish I could talk ya outta this. But if you’re hell-bent on doing it—”
“I am.”
“Well,” he sighs, “be here tomorrow night at six. I’ll have the puke cans ready for ya. You better be ready to work.”
THIRTY-ONE
JULIA
I watch the poison roll into my daughter’s veins. It’s asinine. We are pumping her full of chemicals that are essentially toxic to her system. I know it’s for her own good, but it just seems crazy. This entire situation is just mind-numbing.
Everleigh is watching cartoons. She’s tolerating things so much better today. She’s tired—you can see the fatigue on her face—but she’s not as sick. We slept more last night than I expected, and I’m getting as used to this little makeshift bed as I’ll ever get.
She squeezes her monkey to her chest and points at the television, the IV lines and monitors weighing her little arm down. “Look, Mommy!” She laughs. Her voice creaks like her throat is dry.
“Do you need a drink of water?”
She shakes her head. “No. My belly will get sick.”
The light glances off her head, the absence of dark locks catching my breath in my throat. I think I’m more affected by the loss of her hair than she is.
She hasn’t said much about it. I’ve caught her running her hand over her head and picking up a brush and then setting it back down, but she doesn’t seem upset about it. I’ve tried to talk to her about it and she just changes the subject. Maybe she’s just had so much thrown her way that she hasn’t had time to really consider it. I just know that seeing her without her little ponytail kills me every time I see her.