The sudden wall he’d put up between us was confusing.

Ugh. Was it even a wall?

Was I overthinking this?

The shower turned on, and as I sat on Rhys’s bed, waiting to use his shower after him, I did what I always did and spent way too much time in my own head.

Twenty

Rhys

Life was strange. One aspect of it could be going great while other parts gave you hell. For the first time in years, I felt happy. It was weird. She made me truly happy in a way I didn’t know how to deal with; I’d never been like this with a woman. I went about my day like a giddy goof, smiling continuously, my insides flipping and twitching with anticipation of seeing her again. Once I had my hands on her, it was bliss. Pure, freaking bliss.

Parker was fun. She made me laugh. And she made me horny as hell. I’d turned into a horny-ass poet. Dean was amused at my “transformation.”

I took his ribbings with good humor—as I said, I was too happy to care.

And then there was the rest of my life. I had a plan. I’d stick to the plan. But I wasn’t exactly what you’d call happy with it. It was too close to the past.

Every time I stepped into the ring to spar, I was hit with a bold elation, a sense of utter rightness and confidence. And, at the same time, I’d feel vaguely sick. The scent of sweat and blood and the rank stench of boxing boots brought it all back. I’d instantly remember Jake’s expression, the blankness in his eyes, the fucking shock of it all.

I’d had broken ribs, broken nose, busted-up knuckles, and had two concussions. Pain is life. The true horror of death was the sheer nothingness of it. Nothing was bringing Jake back. He was gone.

It was a refrain as I jumped rope, going faster and faster.

He’s gone.

He’s gone.

“Double time, Morgan!” Jimmy’s growl snapped me back into the moment. His craggy face twisted into a glare. “You’re not here to daydream.”

“I’ll do that on my own time, boss,” I replied with a smile. I’d trained with Jimmy since going pro. When I’d asked him about doing a charity match, the old man had gotten a tear in his eye. Apparently, he’d been waiting years for me to come back.

Guilt was a bitch.

“If you’re going to dream,” he said, “then dream about moving that fat, lazy arse of yours. Jaysus, did you not keep in shape at all?”

Jimmy was a funny fucking guy.

“Apparently not, boss.”

Not to his standards, anyway. I’d thought I’d been in pretty good shape. Nothing like getting back to the sport to remind a man how badly he’d deluded himself.