Page 25 of The Game

The older man sitting beside me leans toward me and says softly, “Who are you here supporting?”

“A. Miller, mat 4.”

He nods. “He’s had some hard matches. That’s my grandson on mat 3.”

I study the blond guy on mat 3 who looks impossibly young. “How old is he?”

“Sixteen. He’s an excellent fighter but …” He chews his lip. “Professional sport takes its toll.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

“Competed myself for a long time, won a few things decades ago. It was very different then. I used to grapple with him when he was younger, but he’s much better than I ever was.”

Oh boy, this man is my dad. “Is it torture watching?”

He huffs. “Always.”

Two girls appear at the end of the row, notebooks and pencils at hand.Ah, shit.

“Could we have your autograph?” they say shyly.

I’m about to take the books when the man’s hand comes across me. They’re talking to him? I stare at the side of his face. Who is he?

“‘Scuse me,” he says. “It happens once or twice every tournament.”

He starts writing on one of the pages, and when I glance over at what he’s doing, he’s written a header that saysRules for Life. I read his list over his shoulder.Don’t drink, the first one says, followed by …and definitely don’t do drugs.

What a cool idea!

He writes the same recommendations in both exercise books and signs them with a flourish, handing them back to the two waiting girls.

“Brainwash ‘em young, that’s what I say.” He chuckles with a wink.

My eyes drift back to the mats. Adam and his grandson have finished their matches.

“Who won?”

“They both lost, but he’s skilled, that man of yours.” I open my mouth to say Adam’s not my man but he’s looking at his watch. “We’ve got a bit of a break now, thank God. I need to go for a smoke.” He holds up a hand. “It’s a vice, I know—but I’m no hypocrite, so I never writeDon’t smoke.” He grimaces and then drifts off like a mirage.

I follow him out, find myself a ginger tea from the stand serving hot drinks, and try and calm down. As I’m standing waiting for my order, a text buzzes on my phone.

It’s a picture of Arty’s receipt from the dog breeder, accompanied by a picture of him and the breeder holding Pepper who’s looking up at him adoringly. I roll my eyes. That must have been the only time he ever cuddled her. What a jerk. I tap two buttons to forward it on to my lawyer.

When I come back scowling, I’m immediately sucked back into Adam’s third match. My heart bleeds for him. He’s such a fighter, the way he puts a loss behind him and carries on. It’s impressive, and it’s one of the hardest mentalities to learn in sports, too.

My friend reappears beside me, sucking on a coffee and eating a donut.Yum. He breaks some off and gives it to me then grunts and nods toward the mats. “That man your fella’s fighting, don’t like him, never have.”

The guy launches himself at Adam, who’s immediately got his hands up batting him away, trying to block his attempts to get a hold on him.

“Far too aggressive, hurt my grandson last time ‘e fought ‘im.”

Shit. I don’t think I needed to know that.My throat tightens.

The other fighter takes Adam down to the mat in a hold, but he manages to wriggle out of it and the guy is scowling. But a takedown will get him points,I’m sure. My new friend grunts next to me.

“How’s your grandson doing?” I ask.

“Okay. He’s going to give me a heart attack.”

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