My cheeks heated at his compliment. After one last squeeze, Till let me go and headed for the window.
“I’ll make burgers. Bring the potatoes up and make them at my place. Quarry would love to help,” He announced over his shoulder, causing Quarry to groan and stomp from Till’s room upstairs.
SCOTT WAS THRILLED WHEN I told him that I wanted to take over the apartment. His lease wasn’t up for another nine months, but he was planning to propose to Anna, so the timing really worked out for everyone. After hearing why I needed the apartment, he made me a killer deal on his bed and furniture. So by the end of the phone call, I had not only a room but also a bed for the boys and a dresser for them to store the trash bag full of clothes I had been able to recover from my mom’s.
Finally, something was going my way.
Two weeks later, everything was going as smoothly as possible. The boys were in school, Quarry seemed to be getting his shit together, and Eliza came over every night when she got off work to help with their homework. We were still counting pennies to pay the bills, but we were together. It had been well worth the sacrifice.
Flint was pissed when I put my foot down about him getting a job. So he decided to take it into his own hands and tattled to Slate, who, thankfully, took my back on the issue—kind of. He agreed that Flint needed to focus on school, but he also thought that it was Flint’s right to be able to contribute to our household. So Slate did what he always did for us—he fixed it.
Flint became the first kid hired at On The Ropes to be paid in actual cash. He still had to earn his keep around the gym, but for two hours every afternoon, Slate paid him to tutor the kids who were struggling in school. Flint loved it, and every week, he signed his paycheck over to me. I’d be lying if I said that it didn’t help. It did, but we weren’t exactly eating steak and lobster every night. Kids were fucking expensive. Especially two growing boys. Jesus, they could eat.
I loved having them around. We felt like an actual family for the first time ever. We still fought over bullshit things, and Quarry wouldn’t stop cussing no matter what I did, but they were good, honest, and respectful kids. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how that had happened when they had been raised by two wheeling-and-dealing scumbags like our parents. I had Eliza to thank for the way I’d turned out . . . but they had figured out how to be decent people all on their own.
It was Saturday night and we were headed to a league fight at On The Ropes. I loved fight nights, but this one in particular had us all buzzing—especially Eliza. It was the night Quarry would debut in the ring. He’d only been boxing for a few weeks, but Jesus, he was a natural. I knew I was good, but I’d never seen someone take to a pair of gloves like Quarry “The Stone Fist” Page. (He announced the nickname approximately twelve seconds after Slate agreed to let him fight.)
“Yo, Till!” Derrick Bailey strutted into the locker room in a pair of khaki slacks and a teal button-down. He was such a tool.
“’Sup. You not fighting tonight?” I asked only so I didn’t look like a dick when I ignored him.
“Nah, man. Slate didn’t tell you? He’s taking me pro!”
I tilted my head questioningly. Not only were my ears failing me but they were now making up words just to fuck with me on their way out.
“I’m sorry. What?”
“Yep. I’m going professional. My first fight is next month.” He bounced on his toes and put his hands up triumphantly. “I’m gonna get paid to fuck people up in the ring.” He threw a slow-motion uppercut under my chin.
I was too stunned to even play along with his little game. “Slate doesn’t do pro,” I stated, confused.
“Well, he does now. I guess he decided he couldn’t just pass up talent like mine.” He dusted off his shoulder playfully, but he was wearing at least a hundred-dollar shirt, so he just looked like a douchebag.
“Yeah. That must be it,” I bit out as I turned to face the locker.
Derrick was a decent boxer, but he wasn’t a champion.
There are two types of boxers: the opponents and the champs. Opponents are often less-than-kindly referred to as bums. Sure, they can be good boxers, but not great. Everyone starts as an opponent, but the ones who fall become bums, and those who rise and separate themselves from the pack are your champs.
Really, it all boiled down to good versus great.
Derrick was good in the amateur ring, but there was no doubt he would be outclassed in the sea of professionals. So it boggled my mind—and, quite honestly, pissed me off—that Slate would even agree to transition him.
“Page!” Slate boomed into the locker room.
“Yes, sir,” Flint and Quarry answered at the same time.
“Shit, there are a lot of you now. Sorry. I meant Till.”