He tapped the arm of the suited-up man next to him. The Game Time producer, Rex Carter, had a fake orange tan and a watch that probably cost twice my mortgage. The obvious look of awe on his face when he saw me activated a darker fight-night power in my chest that I had never felt comfortable with. He was a man who knew this sport inside out, who’d met a lot of the greats and respected their talent. He wasn’t mad. Or full of frustrating sympathy. He stood to shake my hand and gazed up at me like he understood I used to win every night of the week.

“Dean the Machine,” he drawled, gripping my hand tightly. “It’s an honor to meet you in person, and I’m not only saying that. I was telling your agent here that I’ve always been a die-hard fan.”

I inclined my head and sat down. “Nice to meet you, sir. Welcome to Philly.”

“Rex was just talking about the job and what it entails,” Harry said, sliding a cup of coffee my way. “Being on TV. Moving to Vegas. He knows you have a lot of concerns.”

Rex flashed me a smile. “We’re very serious about investing in this as your next career, Dean. Almost as serious as we are about the health and safety of our boxers. If you need some persuading, I’ve got the time today to do that.”

I twisted my coffee between my hands. I was hyperaware that the instincts coursing through my body were not the right ones or even the ethical ones. That the old power I was searching for at this table was flashy and unsustainable. It wasn’t helping people like Eddie or seeing my parents dance in their living room or accepting that transformations take time. It had nothing to do with the confidence that came from Tabitha Tyler kissing me like I was the air she needed to breathe and then holding me when I was in pain.

But that was the thing about instincts, I guess. Sometimes they led you astray.

“I’ve got the time today,” I said. “And I’m open to persuasion.”

33. Tabitha

Thirty-Three

Tabitha

The vulnerability hangover was very real.

As the neighbors milled about on the sidewalk, anxiously discussing the fate of the park, I was chewing on my thumbnail and wondering if I might throw up. I hadn’t expected to feel so achy and exposed after telling Dean about my knowledge of my mother’s affair. It was deeply uncomfortable for me. As was watching him leave for that meeting with body language that was the opposite of last night’s family dinner: shoulders up to his ears, lips pressed together, forehead creased. Having our night and early morning be so tender and emotional only made this sudden awkwardness that much more unsettling.