Page 3 of Yours on the Canvas

His nails rake across my forearm before catching my cheek, and warm blood trickles towards my jaw, but I don’t loosen my grip; I just tighten the choke another fraction.

His fight drains away, his arms fall limp, and he never gets the chance to tap out as his body goes dead weight in my arms.

The crowd roars when I climb to my feet, but I don’t acknowledge them. Fuck them. They would’ve been screaming for my head if things were reversed and I was the one passed out in the dirt.

I walk over to Frank, and he gives me a small smile. He pulls a thick wad of cash from his pocket and presses it into my hand.

“That was a little quick, Jack,” he says as I pocket the cash.

I shrug, not giving a shit. “I’ve got a long ride home,” I mumble.

He snickers before calling the next fight, and I watch as two young men walk towards the ring and climb inside. They can’t be much older than Finn and I were when we ran from his father.

Frank blows the whistle, and they start fighting. I stand there watching them for a minute. They’re good, really good. I can see the discipline, the speed, and the sharpness of each move, and I know it takes a lot of training to get that good.

A few minutes later, I’ve seen enough, and I nod my head to Frank and head for my truck.

The cash weighs heavy in my pocket, but it doesn’t come close to the weight of the memories this place dragged back to the surface.

* * *

The following night, I pull into Silas’s driveway. He’d asked me to stay over to watch Hale because he’s got an early start in the morning.

I let myself in and step into the living room.

Hale is sprawled across the armchair, eyes glued to the television while yelling at the screen, and I hear the slice of skates on ice rattling through the speakers. Silas sits on the couch, his laptop balanced across his knees, fingers flying over the keyboard fast enough to make my eyes hurt. His fingers never miss a beat as he glances up long enough to flash me a crooked grin before looking back at the screen.

Whatever he’s doing looks less like typing and more like speaking a language only he understands.

Hale flicks his eyes towards me in silent acknowledgment before turning straight back to the television.

Typical ten-year-old.

It still feels strange seeing him here.

A few months ago, Hale was sleeping on a filthy mattress beneath an underground fighting ring, waiting for grown men to decide whether he was worth keeping alive.

Now he’s arguing with the television over some hockey game while Silas tells him to keep the volume down.

Sometimes life changes that fast.

Somehow, Silas and Hale fit. Hale needed someone who wouldn’t give up on him, and Silas needed someone who reminded him there was still good left in the world.

Now and then, I catch Silas looking at Hale when the kid isn’t paying attention. There’s something in his expression I can’t quite name.

Like he’s already preparing himself for the day someone comes to take Hale away. And if that happened, I honestly don’t know which one of them that would break more.

Silas barely notices as I sink onto the couch next to him. His attention stays on the screen, jaw tight with concentration, broad shoulders filling half the couch.

Christ.

The man is unfair to look at.

He’s built like someone who could walk through a brick wall without slowing down. Most of the PalMerc boys are big, but Silas somehow makes the rest of them look average.

Silas doesn’t talk much, but it’s not that weird quiet some people have. He’s steady. Intentional. He speaks when he wants to, and when he does, it’s with that calm weight that makes you pay attention.

But most people never see the other side of him. Only his inner circle sees the prankster—the one who can talk a mile a minute with those he is comfortable around. I have been lucky to see this side of Silas.