Against the Ropes
Page 85
His breath catches in his throat. “You’ll come with me?”
“I’ll come because I choose to come, not because you made me.”
He sucks in his lips and studies me for the longest time. “What made you so strong, Makayla Delaney?”
I shrug. “If I was strong, I would have said no and meant it.”
He tucks my hair behind my ear. “A strong person faces their fears. A weak person runs away.”
“Like I said, weak.” I tilt my head into the warmth of his palm. He hisses in a breath and pulls me close.
“Like I said, strong.” He clasps my hand and leads me through the warehouse to a small, circular flight of stairs in the back corner. We climb at least fifteen feet, and Max unlocks a heavy metal door and flicks on the lights.
Wow! A loft space has been created at the top of the warehouse. Floor to ceiling windows meet exposed beams and wood paneling overhead. Highly polished tigerwood angles across the floor space. Exposed brick walls are interspersed with textured drywall, and a black, wrought iron staircase runs up to a half-finished second floor. Stone and brick dividers separate multiple living spaces. A bed is tucked behind a wall made of glass bricks, and a huge, modern kitchen stands half-built in the middle of the open space.
“Max. This is you,” I breathe. Rustic and modern, hidden and exposed, rough and classy. He has a foot in two worlds, and this place combines the best of both.
Max’s face softens. “I’ve never brought anyone up here. I’ve done all the work myself.”
No one else has been up here. No Pinkaluscious. No girls. No friends. Just me. Butterflies flutter in my stomach and I squeeze his hand. “You’ve done an incredible job. It’s beautiful.”
I wander to his makeshift living area: couch, television, bookshelves, a soft shag area rug, and…pictures. My mouth waters at the thought of getting a glimpse of the real Max. “Are these of you? Can I look?”
“Anything you want.” His voice is a soft rumble. “I brought you here because you said you didn’t know me. Here I am.”
I drop to my knees in front of the table and sort through the pictures. I pull out a grainy, faded photograph of Max as a toddler, chubby and cute. He poses for the camera in kid-size boxing gloves beside a beautiful woman with long, dark hair.
“She’s beautiful. Is she your mom?”
“Was.”
I have so many questions, but this isn’t the time. I pick up his preschool picture and smile. His chubby cheeks are gone, but his face is still soft and recognizable as my Max. He grins from a makeshift boxing ring surrounded in bushes. I find a few pictures of young Max at the beach and playing at the zoo, but mostly the pictures are of Max boxing or holding up trophies or medals.
I shuffle through the pictures. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“No. It was just me.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“The South.”
I raise an eyebrow. “The South. Well, that narrows it down.”
Max sits on the couch behind me and tucks me between his legs. His arms slide around my waist and he squeezes me tight as if we’re on a roller coaster and he’s hanging on for dear life.
“You didn’t lie when you said you started boxing young.” I hold up another picture of toddler Max.
“My father wanted me to follow his dream.”
“Looks like you were very good.” I point to all the pictures of Max and his medals.
“I was.”
“You are.” I look over my shoulder and brush a kiss over his cheek. He has bought his forgiveness by letting me into his inner sanctum, and I want him to know I appreciate the gift.
He shudders and murmurs into my hair. “I wasn’t good enough.”
“Is this your dad?” I hold up a picture of five-year-old Max at his birthday. His mom is pressing a kiss to his cheek while beside them, an intense-looking man glowers at the camera. He could be Max but smaller, thinner, and not as handsome. But I know that scowl.
Max rests his cheek against my head and tightens his arms. “Yes. He was a professional boxer but was kicked out of the circuit after a series of injuries. He had worked his way through his savings when he met my mother. She was high society and very well-off. They fell in love and eloped. The family turned against her. They thought he was after her money so they disinherited her. She didn’t care. They were happy together until I was born.” His voice catches in his throat, but as I turn to face him he redirects me to the table and folds his arms around me.
“What happened? It looks from these pictures like you had a happy childhood.”
“I did. My dad worked as a boxing coach at a local gym. He didn’t make much but he wanted me to have the shot at stardom he never got. All his money went to pay for coaches, trainers, gym time, and equipment. My life revolved around school and boxing. I didn’t mind because I wanted to make my dad proud. But no matter how hard I tried, I was never good enough.”
The pain in his voice cuts me like a hundred little knives. My arms ache to hold him. I try to turn, but he tightens his arms and rests his chin on my head.
“As I got older, I never thought to ask how a coach got the money to pay for all my training. Turns out he borrowed it from the local mafia at an exorbitant interest rate, and one day, when I was fourteen, they came to collect. Only Mom and I were home. “
I gasp and my hand flies to my mouth.
“You remind me of her,” he murmurs. “You have the same hair. You are beautiful and headstrong and self-reliant. She never asked for help. She never listened to anyone—not even me—when it mattered most.”
“I’ll come because I choose to come, not because you made me.”
He sucks in his lips and studies me for the longest time. “What made you so strong, Makayla Delaney?”
I shrug. “If I was strong, I would have said no and meant it.”
He tucks my hair behind my ear. “A strong person faces their fears. A weak person runs away.”
“Like I said, weak.” I tilt my head into the warmth of his palm. He hisses in a breath and pulls me close.
“Like I said, strong.” He clasps my hand and leads me through the warehouse to a small, circular flight of stairs in the back corner. We climb at least fifteen feet, and Max unlocks a heavy metal door and flicks on the lights.
Wow! A loft space has been created at the top of the warehouse. Floor to ceiling windows meet exposed beams and wood paneling overhead. Highly polished tigerwood angles across the floor space. Exposed brick walls are interspersed with textured drywall, and a black, wrought iron staircase runs up to a half-finished second floor. Stone and brick dividers separate multiple living spaces. A bed is tucked behind a wall made of glass bricks, and a huge, modern kitchen stands half-built in the middle of the open space.
“Max. This is you,” I breathe. Rustic and modern, hidden and exposed, rough and classy. He has a foot in two worlds, and this place combines the best of both.
Max’s face softens. “I’ve never brought anyone up here. I’ve done all the work myself.”
No one else has been up here. No Pinkaluscious. No girls. No friends. Just me. Butterflies flutter in my stomach and I squeeze his hand. “You’ve done an incredible job. It’s beautiful.”
I wander to his makeshift living area: couch, television, bookshelves, a soft shag area rug, and…pictures. My mouth waters at the thought of getting a glimpse of the real Max. “Are these of you? Can I look?”
“Anything you want.” His voice is a soft rumble. “I brought you here because you said you didn’t know me. Here I am.”
I drop to my knees in front of the table and sort through the pictures. I pull out a grainy, faded photograph of Max as a toddler, chubby and cute. He poses for the camera in kid-size boxing gloves beside a beautiful woman with long, dark hair.
“She’s beautiful. Is she your mom?”
“Was.”
I have so many questions, but this isn’t the time. I pick up his preschool picture and smile. His chubby cheeks are gone, but his face is still soft and recognizable as my Max. He grins from a makeshift boxing ring surrounded in bushes. I find a few pictures of young Max at the beach and playing at the zoo, but mostly the pictures are of Max boxing or holding up trophies or medals.
I shuffle through the pictures. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“No. It was just me.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“The South.”
I raise an eyebrow. “The South. Well, that narrows it down.”
Max sits on the couch behind me and tucks me between his legs. His arms slide around my waist and he squeezes me tight as if we’re on a roller coaster and he’s hanging on for dear life.
“You didn’t lie when you said you started boxing young.” I hold up another picture of toddler Max.
“My father wanted me to follow his dream.”
“Looks like you were very good.” I point to all the pictures of Max and his medals.
“I was.”
“You are.” I look over my shoulder and brush a kiss over his cheek. He has bought his forgiveness by letting me into his inner sanctum, and I want him to know I appreciate the gift.
He shudders and murmurs into my hair. “I wasn’t good enough.”
“Is this your dad?” I hold up a picture of five-year-old Max at his birthday. His mom is pressing a kiss to his cheek while beside them, an intense-looking man glowers at the camera. He could be Max but smaller, thinner, and not as handsome. But I know that scowl.
Max rests his cheek against my head and tightens his arms. “Yes. He was a professional boxer but was kicked out of the circuit after a series of injuries. He had worked his way through his savings when he met my mother. She was high society and very well-off. They fell in love and eloped. The family turned against her. They thought he was after her money so they disinherited her. She didn’t care. They were happy together until I was born.” His voice catches in his throat, but as I turn to face him he redirects me to the table and folds his arms around me.
“What happened? It looks from these pictures like you had a happy childhood.”
“I did. My dad worked as a boxing coach at a local gym. He didn’t make much but he wanted me to have the shot at stardom he never got. All his money went to pay for coaches, trainers, gym time, and equipment. My life revolved around school and boxing. I didn’t mind because I wanted to make my dad proud. But no matter how hard I tried, I was never good enough.”
The pain in his voice cuts me like a hundred little knives. My arms ache to hold him. I try to turn, but he tightens his arms and rests his chin on my head.
“As I got older, I never thought to ask how a coach got the money to pay for all my training. Turns out he borrowed it from the local mafia at an exorbitant interest rate, and one day, when I was fourteen, they came to collect. Only Mom and I were home. “
I gasp and my hand flies to my mouth.
“You remind me of her,” he murmurs. “You have the same hair. You are beautiful and headstrong and self-reliant. She never asked for help. She never listened to anyone—not even me—when it mattered most.”
