Page 180 of On a Fault Line

“Where’s Nic?” I ask when the conversation lulls.

“Something came up.”

Okay…

Why is he being so secretive?

I stretch my arms above my head, grabbing my elbows with my gloved hands. Then I stretch out my calves, one at a time.

When we are both warmed up, we get into the ring and bounce around on our feet.

Bumping fists, Graham and I separate to opposite sides of the ring before meeting up in the middle to go head-to-head.

Evenly matched, we each get a few jabs in, moving about the space with quick feet.

The rhythm to boxing is what I enjoy the most. I love getting to know my opponents and striving to predict their reactions. Graham and I have sparred for a while now, so I always appreciate when he incorporates a fight sequence that forces me to think on my feet to counter.

He goes to kick, and I bounce back, causing him to miss.

Then out of my periphery, I see his fist barreling through the air to connect with my flesh in a stinging punch.

“Dammit,” I groan, moving my glove up to see if he broke the skin.

Then he does it again.

This time, I’m caught completely off guard, something that rarely ever happens. Spit flies from my mouth, as my tongue grazes against my teeth. It’s enough to cause the tissue to puncture and fill my mouth with the bitter taste of acid and rust.

“Hell, man,” I say, with a biting edge to my tone.

Strengthening my form, I go back into fighting position, while still staying light on my feet.

And he charges forward again, shoving me against the ropes. My back ignites from the burn, and I use my momentum to stay upright, protecting my face before his fist comes coursing through the air in a full-on attack.

Hopping on my feet, I dodge him by mirroring his movements.

But when I duck a punch, his knee connects with my chin. My head flies back, followed by the rest of me.

Kicking my legs up, I bounce back to my feet. Blood splatters the mat. I can’t even tell where it’s coming from at this point. I just know I’m the source.

Then Graham throws his entire body at me. Tugging my thighs toward him, he sweeps my feet from underneath me. My back crashes to the mat followed by my head.

My vision goes black, and when it finally focuses again, it’s Graham Hoffman’s livid face that will haunt me forever.

His fist pounds into the side of my head, until I maneuver myself out of the hold and take control back.

I pin him to the mat but don’t take out my aggressions on him, like he has me.

“What the fuck, man?”

He has the nerve to look unaffected. “What?”

I pant from the exertion, trying to get my breathing back to a normal aerobic state. “Are we sparring or brawling?” I snarl.

After several seemingly long seconds, Graham growls in what I can only assume is frustration—over what, I’m still trying to figure out for sure.

“I trusted you,” he chokes out. “I fucking trusted you, and you went behind my back and did the one thing I never in a million years would ever expect you to do. You are a traitor.”

His words feel like venom to my veins.

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