“I haven’t been called in,” Lucy points out. “Have you?” she asks Oliver.
“Nope.”
“Huh.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Can’t be that busy.”
I bristle, my emotions an unstable cocktail sloshing far too close to the surface. Before I can spit a response about how not needing them didn’t mean we weren’t busy, Oliver grabs my forgotten gloves, throwing them at my face.
He slides between the ropes into the ring, his own gloves in hand. “Come on.” That’s all he says, rolling his neck and shoulders, hard lean muscles tight beneath his undershirt.
“Oli—” Lucy starts.
“Get your ass in here, Cillian,” he cuts her off. Lucy and I exchange a look, both confused and cautious.
“Nah, I’m good.”
Oliver settles a hard gaze on me. “Didn’t ask.” When I don’t move, he adds, “Or you can give me your key.”
“What?” I ask, not trying to hide my disbelief.
Not having a key to Rosado’s made about as much sense to my brain as not having one to Two Sons. I grew up here as much as the bar, and the same was true for Oliver and Lucy.
“You heard me.” There’s no heat in Oliver’s words. Just cool, level command. Teacher voice. It makes me furious.
“Fine,” I snarl. “You wanna go, we can go.”
Whereas Oliver flowed into the ring, I lumber. My leg, size, and irrational incandescent rage make grace inaccessible.
“Boys, let’s not have bloodshed, ok?” Lucy says from the floor.
Oliver tightens one glove with his teeth. “He already bled all over my bag.”
“It's held together with duct tape and a prayer, a little blood ain’t gonna hurt it.”
“Maybe I could afford a new one if I was here instead of helping run your kitchen.” He snipes back.
My hands protest being shoved into the gloves. “As you pointed out, we haven’t had you there in a minute. What other excuse you got?”
“Cillian, bro, come on,” Lucy chides.
“He started?—”
“It’s fine, Lu.” Oliver takes his stance. “Let him run his mouth. Won’t help him.”
“Cocky.” I try not to wince, the muscles in my left thighmaking their displeasure with me, and the choices I’m about to make, evident.
“Correct,” he shoots back with a fox-like grin.
Unfortunately, for both my body and my pride, he is right.
Within minutes, he lands a few hits. Nothing hard, just proof that he can.
“So,” he asks as we move around the ring, “You know how to use your phone, but maybe it’s not working.”
“If you wanted to talk—” I land a hit. “Should’ve stayed out of the ring.”
“Too easy.” He practically dances around me.
Show off.I think bitterly.
