The lights are on in the space, which gives me hope. I pound my palm on the rolling door when I hear voices, and after a few seconds, I see three pairs of feet appear underneath as it lifts. Music is playing in the background, the low thump of the stereo offset by the slapping sounds of gloves hitting hands.

“You finally check your damn messages?” Harley says. He’s dressed in his dark gray suit, like he always does for fight nights, his hair slicked back and his glasses tinted. He says it makes him look older, and I think he thinks it makes him look tougher. I always thought it just made him look like a pansy asshole. Honestly, the version of him I see at the gym—the one that walks around with his shirt off and lifts fifty-pound dumbbells, tossing them around the joint like they’re water bottles—is a shitload more intimidating. But Harley’s also never been screwed out of money, so maybe he knows some shit I don’t.

“Phone died, and I was at my ma’s. Sorry,” I answer, holding my phone up for proof. He slaps my hand.

“Put that shit away. I believe you,” he says, turning to face the guy standing in the ring working out with Bill, one of Harley’s head trainers. “Danny, he’s here. You can go ahead and bail. I’ll hit you with something in two weeks. Take care of that fuckin’ hand.”

The dude boxing in the ring is bald and looks a few years older than me, but we’re about the same size. He pulls the tape from his hand, twisting it into a ball that he throws in the trash, and nods at Harley in response. Bill comes over to look at me, leaning on the ropes with both arms.

“I don’t know, dude. You think we can roll him out there?” Bill asks.

Harley looks at him, his back to me still, and the silence means he must be making one of his faces at Bill, the kind that says shut the fuck up without the use of words. Bill leans forward and spits on the concrete floor, then looks at me.

“All right, boss. You know best,” he says, his grin either crooked from getting punched by Danny a few minutes earlier or because he’s snickering at me.

“Roll who out where?” I ask, ignoring Bill and hoping like hell this means payday for me.

“Pitch has a fight tonight. It’s kind of a big one, and I need it to look good, but I need Pitch to feel good—like he can kill in his next fight, ‘cuz that one will be real. He’s been off, so I need to get him right again. Danny usually works with him, and he was going to go tonight, but that asshole hurt his hand doing some goddamned house project for his wife or whatever. You’re close to the right weight, and you’ve handled Pitch before,” he says, tossing a pair of shorts my way along with a backpack.

“If by handled you mean let him knock my front teeth loose and deviate my septum,” I say. I need money, but fuck—Pitch could honestly kill me if he tried hard enough.

“Funny septum joke. I like it. Look, it’s late and I just sent Danny home. Are you in or are you going to fuck me over? Because if you’re going to fuck me over, you can just get out of here and find a new place to work out your juvenile-aggression shit or whatever it is you do when you come here.”

I swallow hard, and I know he sees it. I can’t cut myself loose from Harley—I need both the money and the pain, and I think he knows it. I nod and sit on the folding chair to pull out my gear from the backpack.

“Where’s this thing at?” I ask, my tongue in my cheek as I check the gloves, tape and mouth guard to make sure everything looks ready, wishing there was armor buried in that bag, too, for the massive stomach shots Pitch always likes to land.

“It’s by Cicero, just down the street from Union. You can ride with us,” he says.

“I’m good. I got a car,” I say, wrapping my wrists and hands early, cutting the tape with my teeth.

“Well look who finally grew up and got himself a license,” Harley teases.

“I’ve had a license, asshole. My car’s just back from the dead finally. And I have work and practice in the morning, so I wanna head home right after we’re done,” I say, looking up to notice Harley and Bill have already made it to the back door to leave, not bothering to listen to me—not really giving a shit, more likely.

“We’ll pull around; you can follow us,” Bill says as the door shuts behind them.

“Oh, you’re welcome, Harley. Always happy to help out. I’m sure I’ll love getting my ass kicked for thirty minutes in front of an angry, drunken crowd. This all sounds super,” I whisper, chuckling to myself as I grab the rest of my things and walk back through the sliding door, pulling it down behind me and tugging up to make sure it’s locked.