Page 9 of Off Balance

"Ugh, Cameron, you're getting sweat on my linen shirt. It will wrinkle."

"Shit, I'm sorry," I say, putting a little space between us. It breaks me from my fog of lust.

Emile skirts around me, zipping himself away before rounding his desk and taking the seat there.

"Thank you, Cameron. I'm feeling much better now."

Okay…

Feeling dismissed, I will my erection to go down. Now isn't the time. He's under so much stress. Maybe later tonight, we can?—

"Oh, before I go. Did you get my text about dinner tonight?"

"Yes. I will see what I can do."

My chest fills with a warm, hopeful feeling. "That'd be great. I'll text you the address."

When I walk out of his office, Emile’s secretary is rounding the corner with a young woman I don't recognize. A new dancer, maybe? Belinda gives me a tight, unimpressed smile and the young woman looks anywhere but at me, her cheeks deep red.

The warm happiness in my chest fizzles out.

Great.Just what I need.

CHAPTER 2

DOM

"Stay on your toes, brother!" Dwayne calls out for what feels like the hundredth time.

I nearly drop my hands in frustration. Jacob, my sparring partner, takes advantage and steps in to land a blow across my cheek. It’s enough to make my head spin, but that doesn’t take much these days. I'm still fast enough to block the punch and deliver a jab to his gut that knocks the breath out of him.

Dwayne signals for us to break, and I pat Jacob on the back as he sucks in breaths.

"This isn't going to be enough," I tell my brother when Jacob leaves, still coughing and clutching his middle.

I'm out of shape. I know I am. We've been working on getting back into fighting condition for months now, and while I've toned up and increased my stamina considerably, there isn't anyone in my weight class that I can spar with. In a real match, I'd knock every one of these guys out in a single punch. I need to be entering the ring and getting some real fights under my belt if I want to get back in the game. Some competition that I don't have to hold back on.

"Your footwork isn't up to par," Dwayne says. "You pack a hell of a punch, but your balance is shit."

I know he's right, but that doesn't make me feel any less frustrated.

My last real fight ended with a head injury that put me out of commission. Even after all these years, fans and sports commentators still talk about the match, and there's division over whether it was a fair win. I had the upper hand, the final round seconds from being over. Just as the bell rung, or maybe a split second after, Bo “The Red Rebel” Hoyt landed a punch to my temple that knocked me out cold. Whether or not the punch was a fair one, I should have been ready for it. Instead, I'd let the sound of the crowd cheering pull my attention away. I was mentally celebrating a win that hadn't been called yet.I was stupid and deserved to take a hit.

And a hit is what I got. To my head and to my entire life.

I spent three days in an induced coma before the swelling in my brain went down. Then I was in and out of the hospital for several months with severe headaches and vertigo, and a few seizures that meant more doctor's visits and overnights in the hospital. That first year was rough, especially when it became clear I wouldn't be fighting again anytime soon. Still, I count myself lucky to be alive. I’m acutely aware of just how bad it could have been.

By the third year of struggling with dizzy spells, headaches, and balance issues, I came to terms with my career being over. I sank into depression, but still went through the motions of smiling and waving at the cameras. I went to press events and attended fights, and even did a few celebrity reality shows. It kept the money coming in. My favorite job has been commentating. Ihave a regular spot on a popular ESPN panel where we talk about stats and fighters, giving our personal opinions about different matches.

Several months ago, I commentated a fight where Bo Hoyt lost to a much younger and quicker opponent. I remarked at just how talented the newer boxer was, because Bo Hoyt is a formidable opponent, and has been for well over a decade. Instead of taking it as the compliment I meant it to be, Bo Hoyt and his manager started a public feud.

As hard as I’d tried to avoid the drama, fans and fellow sports commentators alike bit back at the trash talking. A well-meaning colleague suggested that if I came out of retirement, I would wipe the floor with Hoyt. It got to the point that my reputation as a fighter was being questioned not just by the public, but by fellow athletes and coworkers. It didn't matter that I'd been taken out of the game by a severe head injury. In the minds of the public, I'm big and strong enough to overcome anything. I had to step down from my commentator position to avoid exacerbating the situation.

It wasn't until Bo Hoyt was recorded making disparaging comments about my personal life that I got angry. And then my ego took a huge hit when pornographic photos of my girlfriend with none other than Bo Hoyt were leaked. Suddenly, I couldn't escape the tabloids or the taunts from both the paparazzi and the Bo Hoyt team. Trista’s betrayal hit me harder than it should have.

The final nail in the coffin was when I got caught in a moment of weakness. It all got to be too much. I let my anger get the best of me, and not only did some trash talking of my own, but I punched a hole in the wall of a hotel lobby after getting heckledby some of Hoyt’s followers. Someone caught it on camera, and it, too, got released to the public.

In the midst of all the press insanity and stress, I ended up committed to "the comeback fight of our generation". The day ESPN reported it was happening, my brother called.

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