"Eddie Walsh!" Rex’s voice on the other end of the phone is pleasant. If Eddie’s being honest, he’s missed it. "How are you, my boy?"

  Rex Hardy is about fifty years old and seems like someone who’s always been that age. In the boxing circles, there are articles about him from thirty years ago. Even back then, in the photos, he looks the same as he does now. Big, broad-shouldered, always in a gray coat and cap. Maybe his hair was blacker then than it is now, but from the black-and-white pictures, it’s hard to tell. They called him Big Shot, though Eddie doesn’t know the story behind the nickname.

  When it comes to work, Rex is a workaholic. He’s constantly setting up meetings no one initially cares about, but suddenly the halls fill with about five hundred people, which, for a small town like Bratley, is an event. Never mind that it mostly attracts drunks and loafers. Those were exactly the types Rex made good money from—whether from the alcohol or the illegal bets he ran inside. And despite modern technology, Rex still uses a pen and paper to record every single one. Some might call it retro, but Rex considers himself pragmatic.

  "You wanted to talk to me, Rex. Is it urgent?" As he asks, he remembers Maisie doesn’t want him having this conversation.

  "Where are you, Eddie? Still in Bratley? I haven’t seen you in a while."

  "Yeah. Just finishing work." Eddie glances at his watch as he says it. It’s a little before midnight. Maybe he should apologize for calling so late, but Rex doesn’t sound sleepy.

  "Still with Cork? How’s my old friend doing? Getting fatter?"

  "Still there, Rex. Cork’s a great guy. I haven’t even thought about another job."

  "Cork’s really good people. I’ve known him since his dad ran the only burger joint in town. Cork would sneak us in through some side door, and we’d finish off the grease from the fries with bread crusts. I’m telling you, Eddie, it might sound gross, but that’s the taste of my childhood. I wouldn’t eat it now, but the smell of burnt grease always takes me back."

  Eddie’s now sure he hasn’t bothered him with the late hour. Rex could talk like this for days, especially if you catch him in the mood.

  "Listen, Eddie."

  Here it comes. Rex’s tone grows calmer. Eddie parks his old Cadillac and leaves the hazard lights on. Across from him, a strip club sign glows, and a few young guys outside the bar eye him suspiciously.

  He knows Rex too well. This won’t be a short conversation. Maisie’s probably waiting for him at home by now, but he’s already called. Even though he promised not to talk to Rex.

  It’d be disrespectful not to.

  "I’m listening, Rexy."

  "I hate when you call me that."

  "Sorry." He chuckles.

  "You ready to make some extra cash?"

  "No, Rex. I’m done with that gig."

  "Come on, done? You were fighting just a year ago. Is Maisie holding you back? Want me to talk to her?"

  "It’s not just Maisie. I’ve got a kid, Rex."

  "And that kid needs to eat," Rex cuts in.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  "I make enough with Cork."

  "You make enough to scrape by. Probably Maisie does too. Sure, you get by in Bratley, but don’t you have bigger dreams, Eddie? More money, more opportunities."

  Eddie hates how smooth-talking Rex is. He’s always wanted that gift of gab—to persuade, to speak loud and confident. But even though Rex has it, it hasn’t gotten him anywhere yet.

  "No, Rex. I don’t know what you’ve got planned, but I’m saying no. Yeah, the money’s probably good, but it’d mean missing work for some measly thousand bucks I’d earn anyway just chopping veggies at Cork’s."

  Rex goes oddly quiet and says nothing. Maybe he’s waiting for Eddie to finish, though that’s not his style. Eddie takes the chance and keeps going:

  "I’m thirty-two now, Rex. With a two-year-old. Sure, it used to be fun getting beat up by some young punks for chump change, but now I’m trying to look after my health."

  "What’s the little one’s name, Eddie?" Rex asks quietly, almost monotone.

  "Theo."

  "Theo," Rex repeats. "You want little Theo to learn from you that life’s about getting up, going to work, coming home, eating, sleeping, and back to work? Is that life to you?"

  "My dad taught me that’s the right way. And I don’t see anything wrong with it."

  "Your dad didn’t let you fight either. He thought you were weak."

  "And he was right. You’ve got my stats, Rex. Tell me how many wins I’ve got? Actually, it’s one. One! And how many losses..."

  "Your job wasn’t to win, Eddie. You were there to lift other people up," Rex continues in that monotone voice, which grates on Eddie. "A lot of guys became stars after beating you."

  "But not because they beat me. I was just a number in their stats."

  "How many like you are there?"

  "A lot. A real lot."

  "Eddie, you’re the best at this. I’ve told you before."

  Eddie falls silent, closes his eyes, and leans his head back on the seat. Rex seems to sense it because he doesn’t speak either. For a moment, everything’s quiet. Only the chatter of the growing crowd of young guys outside the strip club filters through. Eddie opens his eyes again and takes a breath:

  "Twenty-two losses. I’ve got twenty-two losses," he reminds him.

  "Only two knockouts," Rex counters.

  "And you think that makes me the best?"

  "Look, Eddie. Guys like you aren’t in the sport to win, and you know that damn well. You’re not Dax Reid or Max Holt. You’re Eddie Walsh. You’re there to give your best and lose."

  "I’ve never lost on purpose, and you know it."

  "That’s not what I mean, Eddie. But everyone expects you to lose."

  "We’ve had this talk dozens of times. I know my role." He really did. He’d long since swallowed his ego. He just hates it when Rex lies to rope him in. He wants him to be honest.

  "You’ve probably heard of Rory Flint..."

  "Yeah," he answers right away.

  Rory’s the local wonder kid. Only nineteen, and already four wins in four fights. His level’s way beyond Bratley. The kid flies in the ring. Doesn’t bother with defense—loves to attack. Eddie’s watched all his fights a couple of times. On top of that, he knows his dad. They worked together for a week at Cork’s. And right then, Rory won his first fight, and everything flipped for him and his father.

  "Rory’s three for three, all knockouts. Flawless. Crazy talent. Black kid, fast as hell. People compare him to Kieran Holt, though if you ask me, I see more of Kieran’s brother, Max, in him. Point is, he’s damn good."

  "Look, Rex. Maisie’s waiting. If you wanna talk boxing, I can swing by the gym. But just for coffee."

  "Ten thousand dollars, no sponsors. How’s that sound, Eddie?"

  Ten thousand dollars? Is Rex messing with him? He can already see the sum in his head, but he still doesn’t get what Rex is on about. Well, he can guess, but he can’t believe it.

  "Rory wants to break out on the national stage, Eddie. He needs a quick win. Rory doesn’t want anything from the fight. Just for you to hold your own. As for the rest... Well, I won’t lie, you don’t stand much of a chance."

  "Is this a joke? Rory Flint wants to fight some near-retired athlete, now a cook, for ten thousand dollars? Rex, I’ll be disappointed if you’re mocking me."

  "Fine, I’ll try saying it the same way but truer to me." Rex is clearly enjoying this. "Rory Flint wants to fight the best local boxer who’ll give his all but still lose. How’s that sound?"