I kicked off my expensive shoes, keeping my socks on. My footsteps echo softly against the polished floor as I cross to the rack where the wraps are kept. I stood there for a moment, staring at the punching bag across the room like it personally had something to do with what happened in the conference room.
My pulse is too loud in my ears. I flexed my hands—knuckles popping one by one.
I unwrap the long black hand wraps with disciplined movements, pull, hook, tighten around the wrist. My fingers work automatically, more precise than my breathing. But the tighter I wrap, the more I can feel the tremor under my skin.
The memories don’t wait to be invited.
Fontenot’s voice. Glen’s compliance. The implicit threat of dragging Serenya into Hell that Dad and I fight to keep girls, boys, men a
