“Did Emma do this to you? Or that Harley dude?” he asks.

“Neither of them did anything to me, ass monkey,” I say, not bothering to look up.

“Okay,” he says, his pause long and quiet and…why isn’t he talking? I glance up to find him staring at me, his brow pulled forward, his mouth a hard line.

“Coach isn’t going to like this,” he says.

“Whatever. It’s not like I’m you,” I shrug.

Dick thing for me to say, but it’s true. I’m the guy people expect to show up looking like this. Trenton is the face of the team. I’m just the guy who the crowd loves seeing get thrown in the box.

“Look, I can sit here and play twenty questions and never get close to what’s actually going on with you. How about you try this friendship thing out and maybe trust me with some shit, huh?” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. I laugh and look away, but I can feel him looking. I turn back to see his face serious, so I lower my gaze, maybe a little ashamed.

Digging into my pocket, I pull out the envelope from my fight, holding it in front of me for a second before finally tossing it on the table between us. Trent watches it land in front of him, glances to me again, then looks back to it, pulling it in his hands. His eyes react when he opens the fold and sees how many hundreds are stuffed inside. He closes it quickly, tossing it back on the table before running his hands over his face. He can’t seem to bring his eyes to me now, and I know it’s because he’s thinking the worst.

“I need to know. Did you do something…illegal to end up with this?” What he means—is am I selling drugs.

“No…not…not really,” I shake my head. It’s not really legal, but my end…well it gets sketchy. I’m just doing a job. I get offered a fight and a purse. I do my thing; I go home with money. I’m not hurting anyone.

“Not really…as in you are just like…what…a middle man?” Trent’s voice grows louder, and he’s rubbing his hands together nervously. I can sense his temper, his patience waning.

I pull my face up to really look at him, my hands gripping the back of the chair. “Do I look like a middle man?” I say, arms out, my beaten body as evidence. “I fight sometimes. For money. Harley…he pays me,” I say.

Trent flinches, not expecting that answer.

“So you’re, what…like a boxer? Are you any good?”

“I can take a punch,” I say. “That’s why he books me. I’m like a practice fight for his real guys.”

“So you get paid to get the shit beat out of you?”

I nod slowly, letting my eyes drift back to the table, to the stack of cash peaking out from the yellow envelope.

“Yep,” I say, chewing at the inside of my mouth.

“Wow,” he says quietly. Slowly. He leans forward again and picks up the envelope, really flipping through this time. His eyes flash as the number he’s counting grows higher. “So…the worse shape you’re in, the bigger the payday? Is that how this works?”

He chuckles, handing me my money. I lean back and stuff it back into my pocket.

“Nah. Last night was sort of special. I fought a guy that’s sort of a big deal. Paid my tuition,” I say.

“That guy…he gave you that?” he asks, pointing to my crusty brow, the dark stitches sticking out. I touch it, and immediately think of Emma. I nod in response.

“Does Harley just stitch you up then?” he asks.

I purse my lips, tilting my head to the side.

“I…uh…I had Emma do this,” I say, finger back on her handy work.

Trent starts to laugh slowly, standing as it grows to a full belly laugh, the kind that makes him start to cough. He walks into the kitchen and pulls a bottle of water from the fridge, guzzling half of it before finally calming himself down enough. My life is funny to him.

“Emma,” he repeats. I just nod.

“Not…what was her name?” He’s being an ass now.

“Her name is Lindsey. You know her name. Stop,” I say, standing, done with my little session. I flip the chair around and walk toward my room.

“A’right, a’right. I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m helping, listening—go on, give me the story behind that part. Emma…you said she’s the girl. This is the girl? The one who you went to that group home for or whatever?”

“It wasn’t a group home. It was more like a reform school. And yeah…same Emma,” I say, folding my arms, protecting my heart. “Long story short, I took the fall for her, then I never heard from her again.”