Page 5 of Coming for the Champion
Rory raised one eyebrow. “I don’t.” Although the truth was that he couldn’t fight. He could barely walk into a sparring room without his memories dominating the space. He kept fit doing the same drills and exercises, loving the familiarity and the way his body responded, but he had to be outdoors away from anyreminders of a ring, and it’d been years since he’d sparred with someone.
“Yet here we are.”
“Yes.” Rory knew he wanted to spend more time with The Colossus and his raking gaze. “This is my fault.”
“How so? I could’ve said no without invoking your name.”
“And I could’ve ...” He wouldn’t have said no—he needed what Bennington was offering—so he stopped himself before he lied overtly.
“But you didn’t.”
“No.” He held The Colossus’ gaze, staring into the man’s dark brown eyes trying, and failing, to assess him.
“Then we should spar.” The Colossus held up his fists, knuckles towards him like before a fight, and Rory responded in kind, automatically. Their knuckles touched, a brief graze which sent a sharp tingle up his arms and his breath hitched. The Colossus’s eyes widened slightly before he pulled his hands away, not leaving them in the air longer than necessary, but not quick enough to disguise the tremor.
Rory gasped. "You can't fight." He’d seen that tremor before. His coach, Don ‘The Lion’ Foxton, had it from too many head knocks, his hands shaking until he hadn’t been able to pick up a mug of beer. One more head knock would be too many for The Colossus and Rory didn’t need his death on his conscious. Absolutely—definitely—didn't need that. He leaned back, away from the man, knowing he had a duty of care to prevent this fight even if he lost his land over it.
Chapter 4
Malcolm had hoped to shock The Long Laird by saying he needed to fight, but the man was so wrapped up in his own problems that he’d barely registered the comment. Malcolm didn’t want to fight, one more knock to the head might be his last, but the idea was so tempting. He hadn’t missed the ring, at first, but now after years of being overlooked at work and living alone with his memories, he wondered if it was worth the risk to get that same old thrill back in his life.
The King’s Book Club provided a different type of thrill, but lately even that had become tired and boring. It was always the same people fucking each other in the same ways, swapping around over the years, with a few of the older crowd competing in increasingly grotesque ways over new members. That part was becoming distasteful in a way he couldn’t stomach. At least when he fought, people cheered his name for the right reasons. He missed the tension, the training, the knowledge that he was good at something and most importantly, he had been valued for it.
“Tell me one thing.”
“Yes?” The Long Laird’s light brown eyes lit up like an eager puppy, ready to please Malcolm and make up for the mess he’d put them in. He breathed out slowly as hope beckoned. The Long Laird probably had no idea what type of club The King’s Book Club was ... or maybe he did and suddenly Malcolm had something new and interesting to ponder. He held himself back, not wanting to salivate like an old roue.
“Do you miss it?” He asked because he missed it, and he wanted to know he wasn’t alone in that. He would’ve kept going if his mentor, the Duke of Galforth, had let him. Initially he’d been glad someone was looking out for his well-being, and he’dbeen excited about the job at Sotheby’s because he’d been able to prove that he wasn’t simply a body to be used for people’s entertainment. He’d done both for a while, until he couldn’t fight anymore. Back then, he’d known he couldn’t spend his entire life taking blows from others and dishing them out. He’d appreciated that Galforth understood he was more than a boxer, that he could think, and solve problems, and at Sotheby’s, people listened to his opinion. They still did, but he was frustrated by the lack of recognition for his skill level.
He’d become a faded old champion, like a news clipping slowly fading in the sunlight over the years until the glory written on the pages disappeared completely. He’d come to realise that his opinions were often ignored until repeated by a white colleague, and to have his thoughts stolen like that wasn’t a compliment.
“It’s complicated.” The Long Laird gazed out the window of Bennington’s carriage, tension in his jaw, and Malcolm understood that he was telling the truth that he could never fight again. There was too much hurt and sorrow and regret painted on his face.
“Yes, I can imagine it would be, for you. I miss it.”
“What parts?”
Malcolm relaxed. “I miss being someone. I miss the intensity, focusing on a rival and myself, and knowing I am ready for any challenge. And you?” Finding rare watches was a similar challenge, albeit very different in physical intensity.
“Honestly, I don’t know. The last match changed me so much that it’s hard to remember what came before.” The Long Laird’s surprising honesty drew him in closer.
“Yes. I can see how it might.”
“Should we spar? I haven’t stepped into a ring since...” There was a wavering bravery to The Long Laird’s tone.
“No. You don’t need to do this for me. I’m not going to push you to do this fight simply because it’s tempting for me. I told Bennington and Mardin I would only fight you because I needed an excuse to avoid it.” If he stepped into a ring, his issue would be obvious to a keen observer. From the way The Long Laird’s eyes had softened when they’d tapped knuckles, Malcolm wondered if he’d already noticed.
“You used me as an excuse.”
“Yes, we’ve already established that, but I thought it was worth reiterating now we are talking about sparring.”
“If neither of us want this, why did you say that you might?”
Malcolm shrugged. “Ignore that. It was wishful thinking.”
“Give me your hands.” The Long Laird held out his hands, palms up, and Malcolm’s stomach sank because there was only one reason The Long Laird would ask this. He placed his hands into the other man’s and tried not to jerk them away as their skin touched. Warmth rushed up his arms as The Long Laird held the weight of hands and slowly stroked his thumb over the scarred skin of his knuckles.
“I can see why you were so good. Your hands are naturally weighted.”
