Page 63 of Split Decision

"I'll talk to Joe. Maybe he'll go for once a week, but I wouldn't count on being here every time I'm in the ring."

"You're in the ring more than once a week?" she asks incredulously.

"Well, yeah, sparring. Not in a full-on fight, though."

"I am truly amazed at what I just witnessed, Luke. Honestly. I usually abhor violence of any kind, but what I just watched was different. That was like watching a symphony in motion. Your movements were so fluid, so refined. It's like your body is a finely crafted instrument, and you effortlessly hit every note with perfect pitch and tone."

"I've never heard boxing described with that analogy before," I say, running my hand through my sweat-soaked hair. "I'm going to take it as a compliment."

"It is definitely a compliment, Luke," she says emphatically. "In fact, I can't wait to see more of your fights. This is so exciting!"

Joe, Mack, Charlie, and Artie all reemerge from Joe's office with smiles. Charlie and Artie stop toshake my hand again on their way out. As Joe and Mack stop beside me, I turn to them and raise my brows in question.

"Well? What's the verdict?" I ask.

"We're going to check out the competition and secure a formal contract so they don't switch fighters at the last minute. This goes on your record. Win it cleanly, and you're in the title conversation. That's what the next six weeks are for,” Joe says, his New Jersey accent making itself known. He's been in Vegas more years than not, but he reverts to his old accent when he gets excited.

If Joe's excited, then I'm excited.

"Go on to your room and eat a good meal, kid," he says with a smile. "You've had enough for today. Come back ready to hit it hard tomorrow morning."

"Will do," I quickly agree. "Oh, my PR representative asked if she and a photographer could come in once a week to watch me spar, snap some photos. What do you say?"

"Sure, sounds like a great idea," Joe says with a huge smile before he walks off with Mack.

"Take advantage of it before he changes his mind," I chuckle. "I'm headed back to my room to shower and eat. I'll catch you later."

"Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?" Syndioffers. "We should discuss the plans for the photo shoot next week."

I think about it for a second and realize I've had dinner alone more nights than not since the Syndi-as-friend experiment started. It's been easier than I expected—she keeps the conversation professional, she's smart about the industry, and she doesn't push. I've been waiting for her to push. She hasn't.

"Sure. Same restaurant? Give me a couple of hours," I say.

"Perfect," she replies.

When I walk into my hotel room later that night, Brandon is on my couch.

He looks up from his phone. "Took you long enough."

"You could've told me you were coming," I say.

"Then you'd have had time to prepare arguments." He sets the phone down. "Mom sent me. She's worried. I'm here because you've been carrying something for weeks and you haven't said it clearly to anyone."

I drop into the chair across from him.

"I'm fine."

"You're twenty-eight, and you're in Las Vegas, and your fiancée is on a tour bus with Travis Malone, and someone is running an institutional pressure campaign againstboth of you, and you have a major fight in six weeks." He looks at me steadily. "How's any of that fine?"

I don't answer that.

"Show me the photos," Brandon says.

I know which photos he means. I've had them for weeks—the ones that arrived in the courier package around the same time the news alert about the Commission ran. I've looked at them enough times that I've memorized the frame of each one without wanting to.

I find the envelope and hand it to him without comment.

Brandon is quiet for a long time. He lays them out across the coffee table with the methodical precision he brings to everything. Picks one up. Compares it to another. Sets it down. I've watched him analyze construction proposals the same way.