Page 77 of Sacrifice
“Hey, Sal. It’s Crew Gentry.”
“Well, what do ya know,” he drawls out. “What’s goin’ on, kid? How ya been?”
“Good. I’m good. Just callin’ to see if you have any openings around there?”
“What for?” he asks blatantly. I can hear the skepticism in his voice. Since picking me up behind Shaw’s, Sal followed my career through high school. He trained me on the side nearly every night after my high school practices were done. He was one of the few people that believed I could fight at a collegiate level. Without him, I never would’ve gotten the chance.
He’s old-school. When you train with Sal, he pushes you. He has expectations and doesn’t cut anyone any slack. When you’re on Team D’Amato, he takes care of you. Which I know is either gonna hurt me or help me right now.
“Well, I’ve got myself a fight lined up and I need a trainer.”
“You what?” he barks. “What the hell ya doing, Gentry? You get cleared by the doc?”
I rub my forehead. I knew this would be a sticking point with him and I’m not sure if there’s a way around it.Fuck!
“That doesn’t matter.”
“The hell it doesn’t!”
There’s a long, tension-filled pause. “What are ya into, Crew?”
I blow out a long breath. “I have a rematch with Davidson on July 13th. I need a trainer.”
“I heard that part the first time. You have a fight. My question is why?” I know he’s taking off his glasses and shaking his head. I’ve seen it a million times. “Why would you go put yourself in that situation? You’re not an idiot, Gentry. You have nothing to prove against that piece of shit. I sure as hell heard those docs tell you that if you fight again, it’d probably fucking kill you. Don’t be fucking stupid, kid.”
“I need the money.”
“Ah, fuck,” Sal says, probably thinking I’m into something no good.
“It’s not like that,” I say.
“It never is, kid. It never is.”
“My niece has cancer, Coach. I need about fifty fucking thousand dollars so she can get the treatment she needs.”
I hear him sigh and the squeak of a chair.
“I’m doing this with or without you,” I say, my voice steady. “It would give me better odds to have you in my corner. But if you don’t want to do it, no worries. I’ll do it myself.”
He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth like he does when he’s thinking. I wait him out. This can go either way.
“I wish I could talk ya outta this. But if you’re hell-bent on doing it—”
“I am.”
“Well,” he sighs, “be here tomorrow night at six. I’ll have the puke cans ready for ya. You better be ready to work.”
THIRTY-ONE
JULIA
I watch the poison roll into my daughter’s veins. It’s asinine. We are pumping her full of chemicals that are essentially toxic to her system. I know it’s for her own good, but it just seems crazy. This entire situation is just mind-numbing.
Everleigh is watching cartoons. She’s tolerating things so much better today. She’s tired—you can see the fatigue on her face—but she’s not as sick. We slept more last night than I expected, and I’m getting as used to this little makeshift bed as I’ll ever get.
She squeezes her monkey to her chest and points at the television, the IV lines and monitors weighing her little arm down. “Look, Mommy!” She laughs. Her voice creaks like her throat is dry.
“Do you need a drink of water?”
