Page 46 of Off Balance

" The one with the rooftop bar. Solace? "

"Alright. Let me make some calls."

"What are you going to do?"

He's already looking through his phone contacts. "See if anyone I know has the connections to get their hands on the security footage from that night. We'll find out what really happened and go from there."

Dwayne gestures for me to close the door behind myself, so I leave him to make his calls and go for a run to get some of this nervous energy out. If I don't do something productive, I might make worse decisions, like busting my knuckles on a certain someone's skull instead of a punching bag. The run soothes me some, but after an hour, I find myself standing in front of the De Pointe Elite building, looking up at the floor to ceiling windows that take up the entire top floor. I can almost make out the movement of dancers practicing, and I sit on a bench, watching the vague shapes and wondering which of them might be Cam. He doesn't tell me about his day anymore, about what parts of the choreography he's struggling with, or which impossible leaps are imperceptibly imperfect. I don't get to watch him practice until his eyes are heavy and his movements are sluggish. He hasn't come to the studio at night in over a week.

I’m suffocating without him. Fiending like an addict, down to the incessant itch under my skin because I physically need to be close to him.

My phone pings, pulling me out of my head.

Dwayne: A buddy of mine came through and has an in with the bar manager. I'll keep you posted.

Me: Thanks

Dwayne: He's my stepson. I'm not about to let anything bad happen to him.

Dwayne: Dinner at the house tonight? Cora found some old photo books. Might be fun to go through them together.

Me: Alright, sounds good. See you later.

Dwayne: Love you, bro.

Me: Yeah, yeah

"Holy shit. Do you remember this?"

Dwayne pulls a photo from the album he's been looking through and holds it up. We must have been around eight and nine years old. It was Halloween, and we'd made our own Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles costumes. We'd drawn abs and turtle shells on old t-shirts and wore the elbow and knee pads that we never wore while rollerblading. We're posing for the camera, Dwayne with his toilet paper roll nunchucks, and me with an old broom handle, squatted down in our best fighting positions.

"Man, we thought we were so bad," I laugh. "Please tell me there's a picture of your busted nose after we got carried away rough housing."

Dwyane flips another page, and sure enough, there's Dwayne with his homemade purple mask and blood covering the bottom half of his face. Despite the damage to his face, we were still smiling, holding up peace signs with one hand and pillowcases full of candy with the other.

"Good times."

I snort, but he's not wrong. Back then, life seemed so simple. Mom and Dad struggled to make ends meet, but we were happy and completely oblivious to just how hard it was to keep the lights on and food on the table. Mom worked as a secretary at a temp agency, where my father got most of his part-time jobs. He was a boxer like me, had gotten his start while enlisted in the Army. After serving, he worked at an auto manufacturing plant, picking up matches at a local boxing club on the weekends. He started getting pretty popular locally, bringing home good money for winning fights. Until he knocked out an off-duty police officer.

In a staggering coincidence, he was arrested by that very same officer not two weeks later. My dad was the most strait-laced guy anyone knew, had never touched a drug in his life. It was obvious to everyone around him that the evidence was planted, but he couldn’t prove it. It was his word against an officer of the law.

Thanks to good behavior and being a first-time offender, he didn’t end up serving the entire six-year conviction, but he was different when he came home. Still loving, but less animated, more withdrawn. Because of his record, suddenly no one would hire him. He still made money fighting when things got really tight, but he didn't do it for the love of the sport anymore. He did it because he had to.

Still, some of my favorite memories are him teaching us to box in the backyard. And when I showed interest and even the slightest bit of talent, he trained with me every day. He was in my corner during my first fight, my first amateur title, and helped me go through all the motions to join a professional boxing league.

Dwayne passes me a picture of the two of them standing on the ropes behind me during one of my first professional fights.Hedidn’t make it to my first championship fight, but I still had my brother.

"You should keep that one."

I nod my thanks, staring at the picture in silence for a long time.

"What do you think Dad would say about this comeback fight?"

"You know what he'd say:You've got it in you, kid. Just remember, if you get knocked down, you get back up. No matter what, you get back up." He does a perfect impression of our dad's low, gruff voice and thick Georgia accent.

I don't have to look at my brother to know he's remembering the day our father didn’t get up. And I know he’s thinking about the day I almost didn’t. I don't need to look at him to know that he's wondering, not for the first time, if it's worth it.

The longer I'm back home, the more I wonder if my name or reputation actually mean anything to me anymore. But it feels important. Like vindication for everything we’ve been through, for what my father went through. I want respect back on the Connor name, but I also want to do this for Dwayne, for his business and his family. Not that he doesn't have enough money—he made a lot of smart investments with the money we made in my heyday. But training me back into fighting shape, getting me out in that ring, and having his fighter come out on top when no one thinks I can do it would put his gym on the map. He could franchise or expand the management side of his business. And then we could both see our dad's name get the recognition he deserved.

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