Page 60 of Fighting Fate

“Hell no. I’m gonna make you work for it.”

“It might fix your nose.”

“What’s gonna fix your…” A devilish grin cuts his face as he glances down at my crotch with an insinuating scoff before turning his back on me and grabbing two skipping ropes from the side.

Rory pauses in front of the large mural. All the humour that was lighting up his face a second ago darkens. The air around us shifts, heavying with the visible slope of his shoulders.

“Who’s this guy?” I ask, taking in the wrestler’s painting.

The familiarity of the man’s features isn’t lost on me, but it’s the tattoo on his chest that answers my question at the same time as Rory tells me, “That’s my dad.”

I’ve seen many sides of Rory—a variety of feelings and emotions—but the sadness that he’s shrouded in right now is something completely new. It’s staggering. Every cell of my being feels its sting while I watch him, and when he turns to look at me, it solidifies the air in my lungs. Without a second thought, my feet carry me to his side.

A million questions flit through my mind, wondering why the sight of his dad makes him so sad. What happened? How it’s possible for him to hide all of this inside him? But all I can do is smile as I cup his face with both hands, trailing my thumbs over his lips from the middle to the corners, hoping that I can physically draw them into a smile.

“I can see the resemblance. He’s handsome.”

“He was.”

“Oh.” My surprise comes as a gasp at his remark. I had no idea, and now I feel like an idiot for being so clueless. Maybe I should’ve taken Beth’s advice and googled him. Then I wouldn’t have put my foot in it. Fuck! “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s been so long, and it’s not your fault. It’s…” Rory pauses, releasing a long breath before he takes my hand from his face and puts a skipping rope in it. “Come on. No distractions. We have to get you warmed up before Taylor gets in here.”

“You better be saying nice things about me,” an older man calls from the double doors we came through. He’s tall, dressed in a shell suit that’s more retro than the shabby boom box my dad keeps in his office.

“Talk of the devil…” Rory mutters, trying to inject some levity into his voice.

“You must be Willow.”

“You must be Taylor.”

Stopping in front of me, he inspects me from head to toe before focusing on Rory. “This schmuck can’t stop talking about you.”

“Really?” A small laugh escapes me as I look over my shoulder at Rory, twisting the skipping rope in my hand tightly around my fist to distract me from the collision of butterflies and knots in my stomach.

I’m so fucking nervous that my hands are clammy. Apart from Jan, I’ve met none of Rory’s close friends, and how he and Taylor interact and talk about each other, they sound a lot closer than that.

Rory steps closer to me, his hand flattening to the small of my back. “We talk about a lot of things.”

“But lately, it’s mostly about you. I can see why.”

“Not quite,” Rory tells me with a glare at Taylor.

“You’re a terrible liar,” I snicker, trying to bring him back from the dark place he’s fallen into.

“Got the worst poker face in the history of poker faces,” Taylor chuckles with a shake of his head.

“I do not.”

“But you do,” I laugh, lightly pinching Rory’s chin between my thumb and finger. “You’re straightforward…I like that.”

“You like it.”

“Very much.”

“Okay, lovebugs, time to get serious,” Taylor states, slapping Rory’s shoulder. “We have a fight to prepare for.”

“Did you get my message?” Rory asks him. There’s an edge to his voice that I’ve never heard. All the lightness is gone, and the words come out as a bark.

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