Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 83120 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83120 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“But Nolan,” she pleads, softer this time. Her voice cracks, and her eyes water a bit. I feel a little twinge of guilt. “You weren’t the one that had to doctor up his wounds. You didn’t hold his hand when they reset his shoulder for the seventh time or see the pain on his face every time he drew a breath because he’d broken another rib.” She shakes her head. “I love you all so much, and it kills me to see you hurt. I don’t want him in the ring again.”
Nolan reaches for her hand and tugs her over to him. I feel almost as if I’m looking in on a private conversation, though neither of them modulate their voices. They want me to hear this, too.
“Didn’t I, lass?” he says softly, chucking a finger under her chin so her eyes meet his. “How many times did I train him at St. Albert’s, and you weren’t there?”
She winces.
“I know it’s hard for you, sweetheart, but you’re blind if you don’t see how much this means to him.” He gives me a sad smile. “Your brother has the blood of a fighter in his veins, and he will until the day he dies.” He leans in and kisses her forehead. “And you didn’t have to doctor him up, lass. We have a doctor right here at home. But you did it because you wanted to, and you did it because you love him.”
He looks over to me. “Now,” he says, his voice deeper now. “It’s a done deal, isn’t it, Tiernan?”
I clear my throat and keep my gaze on his instead of Sheena’s. “Aye. Done deal, brother. Signed the contract not an hour ago, and I’ll leave to prepare in another hour.”
“Right, then,” Nolan says. “We’ve time for some food and a pint, then.”
“Aye.”
I join them for lunch, and Sheena’s thankfully dropped the subject. She still pouts a little, though. When we’re finished, I head out to get a ride to the ring. I have a locker prepared for me, and clothes, and want to prepare myself beforehand.
The time before the match flies by, and nervous excitement skates through me like electricity. I haven’t been in the ring in ages. Do I still have what it takes? I haven’t stopped my training, but training for a match is one thing. Actually remembering the feel of being in the ring is another thing altogether.
I limber up with a punching bag, remembering everything I was taught by Nolan, by Malachy at St. Albert’s, by my brothers of the Clan.
I remember the first time Nolan bested me. I was a mouthy teen who thought he was an arsehole, and Nolan had had enough. He never raised a fist to me, never even raised his fucking voice. But he took me down a peg or two.
And then he taught me to fight.
I chuckle to myself in the dressing room, as I strip to my boxers and face the mirror. I remember my teenaged years well. Nolan’s got the patience of a saint.
I’ve worked hard to train my body, my muscles now at peak form, my body lithe and nimble. I wear McCarthy ink along my shoulders and chest, down my arms and neck, and across my back, the signature markings of the Clan. It’s widely known here and incites respect in anyone who sees it.
I bounce on my feet and throw a few punches, spin in a circle and get ready to fight. Christ, how I missed this adrenaline rush. I imagine it must be similar to how soldiers going to battle feel, at the knowledge that I either face certain pain or I’ll be on the delivering end. Though the fights here in Ireland are moderated, bareknuckle brawls can be brutal. They’re rarely fatal, but it’s still a distinct possibility.
A knock sounds at the door.
“Yeah?”
The door’s pushed open, and a short, portly man with a balding head and scars along his face and chin peeks in at me. A former fighter, likely. Ring referee.
“You ready?” he asks, then he freezes when his eyes come to the McCarthy ink.
“Aye.”
He blows out a whistle. “Bloody hell,” he says. “It’s you.”
Does he recognize me?
“Not sure we met before?” I ask, trying to be polite. I grab a bottle of water and chug it before the match.
“Can’t say that we have,” he says. “But you’re the McCarthy fighter?”
I look away. I hate recognition like this. “I’m one of them, aye.”
He snorts. “One of them. They taught you to be humble, eh?” He pushes the door wider open. “There’s only one known as the McCarthy fighter, son. You’re feckin’ legendary. Why’d you leave the ring?”
I don’t answer. It isn’t right for him to favor one of us before the fight, and I won’t make friends with him.
“It’s complicated,” I say.