The four-hour round trip didn’t exactly fit in my timeline, but I hadn’t had much choice. So I’d hit the road by five in the morning, and when their doors had opened at seven, I’d been their first customer.
The added time in my truck hadn’t been all bad. The drive had given me time to think. So had my long hours working here.
It had been a week since I’d gone to Talia’s house with Mexican food and wine. A week since she’d yelled and slammed the door in my face.
A week since I’d seen just how much pain I’d caused her.
I didn’t want to back off, it wasn’t my style, but she needed time. So I’d given her time.
Christmas had come and gone. It had been a damn lonely day, so instead of dwelling on my current situation, I’d spent my holiday finishing the apartment. Making it a home.
I’d stripped the carpet from the bedroom and living area. Then I’d scoured the cement subfloor. I’d had to use a razor to scrape up all of the glue. My first trip to Missoula had been for stain-blocking primer and laminate flooring. After the bare space had been prepped, I’d hauled in the furniture. Alone.
My palms had blisters from the paint roller. My neck had a permanent kink from working on the ceilings. My lower back was screaming at me from too many hours on my hands and knees.
This project was part of my penance.
For Talia, I’d bear every ache and pain.
It didn’t help my body that I’d been sleeping on my new couch since leaving the hotel before Christmas. The bedding was still in its packaging. The mattress was wrapped in plastic and the frame needed to be assembled. It was on the list, just closer to the bottom than the top.
The replacement washer and dryer, along with a new fridge, wouldn’t be here until Friday, so until they arrived, I was living out of my suitcase and thriving on takeout. Besides, I’d have to get used to sleeping on the couch. My back would too.
Pain was just another part of my atonement. Everything was at stake. My life. My future.
Talia.
Would she ever hear me out? Would she forgive me when she learned the truth? Or was it too late?
Fear had been keeping me up at night. Pushing me to keep going. Fear that I’d lost her seven years ago and there was no winning her back.
Seven years was a long time.
What if we’d changed too much?
That familiar panic crept into my mind, making my insides churn. I clenched my fists and shoved the worry aside. I wasn’t going to lose her. Not again. I wouldn’t lose, period.
I was Foster Madden, the Iron Fist, middleweight champion of the world.
That title, something I’d worked for my entire life, was a motherfucking joke. I’d give it up in a heartbeat to go back in time. To make better decisions.
Except I couldn’t quit. Not yet. This fight in March was the last on my contract with the UFC. My agent was in talks to get me another two-fight contract but should that even be my next move?
A lot depended on this move to Montana.
Besides, my body paid the bills. I’d throw a few more punches and kicks to make sure that when it did come time to retire, I’d be financially secure.
I strode into the apartment, heading for the sink in the kitchen to wash my hands. Once they were dry, I reached into the camping cooler I’d bought last week and fished out a sports drink, gulping until the bottle was empty.
Then, like I had in the gym, I surveyed the mostly empty space. Across from the couch was a TV on a stand. I hadn’t even bothered plugging it in. The wireless wasn’t set up yet—another item on my list. The coffee table was cluttered with more empty drink bottles and protein bar wrappers.
If I didn’t get this kitchen set up soon so I could cook myself some decent meals, and if I kept working this hard, I’d cut too much weight before March. Whatever. I’d worry about the scale another day.
I took out another bottle of Gatorade and a chocolate chip granola bar from a grocery stack, then walked out to the gym, heat blasting me in a wave. The drafty window had been sealed, but the furnace seemed to be chugging as hard as ever. Maybe it was just me, my body producing this heat, but I went to the thermostat and turned it down five degrees. Again.
The damn thing was probably broken. Another item to be fixed. Another day.
I shoved almost the entire granola bar in my mouth, chewing as I pointed at that ugly orange wall. “You and me. Today, we’re gonna dance.”
I ate the rest of my bar, wadding up the wrapper and shoving it in an open trash bag, then I set my drink on the floor and went for the paint.
Cloud gray wasn’t exactly original for a wall color but it would brighten up the space from the current shade and be easy to keep clean. At some point, maybe I’d hang up photos and the American flag. I’d buy some racks for equipment storage. But my championship belts would be staying in a box.
When it came to a gym, there weren’t a lot of options for style. Boxing rings and exercise equipment all looked the same. Heavy bags and mats only came in so many colors. But I’d do my best to differentiate this space from Angel’s in Vegas. Starting with the trophy wall. That, I’d do without.
Maybe if I’d been less concerned with those trophies, with the money they represented, I wouldn’t have gotten so fucking greedy.
Why hadn’t I just stayed poor? At least without the money, I would have been my own man.
Guilt had been tormenting me for seven damn years and its claws were as sharp as ever.
I’d just picked up a gallon of Kilz, ready to prime the orange wall, when the door opened at my back. There was only one person who knew about me and this gym, so I spun around, my heart leaping.
Except it wasn’t Talia walking through the door. It was an older man with salt-and-pepper hair.
“Can I help you?” I asked, setting the paint down and crossing the room.
He nodded. “You can sell me this building and leave Quincy.”
Huh? “Say that again?” Too few calories, too much exercise and too little sleep. I had to have heard that wrong.
“You can help me by getting the hell out of my town.”
Damn. Guess I had heard him right. I took a step forward, ready to toss this guy out on his ass, but then I locked my eyes with his brilliant blue ones.
Talia’s blue.
We’d never met in person but I’d seen photos of her father. It took me a moment to match old pictures to the man standing before me.
“Harrison Eden.” I closed the distance between us and extended a hand. “Nice to finally meet you, sir.”
He stared at my hand, eyebrows arched. Talia must have learned that look from her father.
I dropped my hand to my side. “Appreciate you stopping by today. Appreciate you standing up for Talia. But I’m not leaving Quincy.”
Harrison’s jaw ticked. “Even if my daughter doesn’t want you here?”
“Talia and I have a lot to talk about.”
“Like how you broke her heart? I was there. After. I went down to Vegas to help her move. You crushed her. She’s not the type who will forget.”
“No, she isn’t. But I’ve loved her since I was twenty-three years old.” There was no point in mincing words. I was moving my entire life to Montana for Talia, and her dad might as well know why.
“Love?” He scoffed. “You had a funny way of showing it. Where I come from, what you did to her wasn’t love.”