Libby’s shoulder brushed against him, and with that brief skin-on-skin contact, the primal urge to wrap his arms around her and shield her from the sea of cameras nearly overtook him. He knew this game. He’d played it for years, but there was something very different about what was happening now. He reined himself in and looked on as confusion and shock welled in her eyes.
He understood her reaction. What was she supposed to say to the press? He wanted to help, but he was the last person to counsel her on yoga and spirituality. As far as he was concerned, it was a colossal waste of time for a boxer to indulge in stretching and screwing around with gongs.
And time wasn’t exactly on his side.
The fight was a little more than six weeks away. That was barely a blip when it came to training. A knot formed in his stomach, and his pulse kicked up.
He didn’t have time to bullshit around.
But what choice did he have? Briggs had broadcast to the world that he’d immersed himself in this unorthodox training.
What the hell were they supposed to do?
No, that wasn’t the question. He was in this on his own. What he should be asking is how was he going to beat Ireland’s Silas Scott. How would he regain the title for Meredith?
He’d watched the man’s fights. The Snake was the perfect moniker for a slippery fighter who delighted in having fouls called on him. The guy played as close to dirty as he could without getting booted from the ring.
He’d done his homework on the man. But he hadn’t settled on a strategy to win.
What was his game plan? Aug tossed out idea after idea, but nothing clicked, and nothing clicked because of his off-kilter, distracted energy.
All these questions tormented him day and night.
This is exactly why he’d spent the last ten days holed up in the gym, ignoring the world. He needed to focus and train. He had to tune out the noise and tighten up his punches and perfect his footwork. He should be eating, breathing, and sleeping boxing.
Then again, he’d done that. He’d cut off contact, and everything had still gone to hell.
Just like last time.
His heart thundered in his chest. He could hear the blood whooshing in his ears. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. He stared at the sky. Gray ominous clouds had rolled in.
He blinked, and his stomach flip-flopped.
Everything went blurry.
What was wrong with his vision? Was it the shift in the weather or the drain of mental exhaustion?
He tried to breathe, but there wasn’t enough air—there wasn’t enough of anything.
He wasn’t enough.
Bloody soul-sucking doubt.
It was as if this crush of frantic energy was on the cusp of swallowing him whole. His thoughts spiraled, and he was no longer in Rickety Rock, Colorado.
And then it was bright—so bright it exposed every crack in his facade. All that existed was the glare of the lights illuminating the ring, the battering click, click, click of cameras, the stench of sweat and blood and bodies closing in, crowding around him, suffocating him, and the doctor’s voice coming through the mobile pressed to his ear.
I’m sorry, Erasmus, she’s gone.
He sucked in a sharp breath, but the air couldn’t get to his lungs. Was he about to pass out?
Would he skip out on this fight, too?
Was it all for naught?
That would be it.
Another failure.
The boxing world would surely write him off. Everything Mere had sacrificed would be for nothing. He’d be labeled a head case—a has-been fighter who’d lost his nerve. He could see the headlines and hear the commentators clucking away. The Beast has lost his bark. The Lion is no king of the ring. Erasmus Cress is not a champ. He’s a chump.
He looked away from the sea of cameras and squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t let them see him like this. People had wondered why he didn’t show for the fight the year after Meredith died. Of course, the boxing world speculated that it was the grief that had made him a no-show.
And they weren’t wrong. He was grieving. He was still grieving.
But it was one thing to speculate.
The truth, the ugly, debilitating truth, was a whole different story.
The press hadn’t seen him on his knees, hyperventilating, trapped in the moment when he’d learned she was gone. No one had witnessed the tears streaming down his cheeks or could comprehend the punishing flood of guilt that kept him on that floor, shivering in a heap of pain and regret, unable to live up to the fighter Mere had helped him become.
He was a damned fool for responding to Silas Scott’s juvenile taunts, but when he’d replied, it was as if she’d wanted him to fight, like she was there, leaning over his shoulder.
Or maybe that was a load of crap, and he’d accepted the challenge for his own selfish ego.
One thing was for certain. There was no way he was about to untangle his thoughts standing on the porch, steps away from a herd of reporters. He turned, ready to bolt inside the house when the noise stopped, and there was only warmth. The incessant thrum in his head quieted as heat spread over his body. Tender and calming, a gentle peacefulness soothed his battered heart. He opened his eyes and found the source of the heat—a hand pressed to his chest.
Her hand.
Libby’s hand.
“Erasmus Cress, look at me,” she whispered, and he complied, grateful for the direction. “You’re going to ground yourself in this moment, and your breath will hold you together. It doesn’t feel like it can right now, but it will. Put your hand on top of mine.”
He stared into her eyes and pressed his hand to hers.
“Feel that rise and fall? That’s your breath. That’s your chi. That’s your pulse slowing down as you return to your body.”
He inhaled, becoming one with his breath as the storm of chatter cleared, and a weight lifted with his exhale.
How did she stop his panic attack with simply a touch and a few words?
“There you go. There you are,” she said, then slipped her hand out from beneath his. “We should address the press.” She adjusted her curtain scarf. “It’s more like I should address the press.”
“What will you say, plum?” he asked, still in awe of what she’d done to him.
She gave him a weak smile. “I have an idea, but I might need you to chime in and help me with some boxing terminology. Can you do that?”
“Yeah, I can,” he answered smoothly. Was he under her spell? Had she psychically hijacked one of his chakra thingies and reset him? Whatever she did, he felt like a new man.
“I can help, too,” Sebastian called, wiggling between them.
When did Sebastian come out onto the porch?
“No, Sebastian, wait inside with Augie and Luanne,” he directed, not meaning for the words to bite, but they clearly had, and the lad’s shoulders slumped.
Dammit.
“Actually,” Libby said, wrapping her arm around Sebastian’s shoulders, “if it’s okay with you, Raz, I’d like to have Sebastian close by. He’s the one who gave me this idea.”
“Me?” the boy asked.
“Yes, remember when we were being silly, and we modified some of those yoga moves.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“I’ve got an idea, and it might work,” Libby said, no longer messing with her scarf or mustering weak smiles. She had some sort of plan, and as long as it didn’t involve vibrators, he was for it.