Near the end of his second set, a man walks over. Boxing shorts, stained undershirt. Hair shaved close to the scalp. Head square as a cinderblock. Big arms, thick neck. Skinny legs, though. Most people would confuse him for a tough guy, but not Horvath. The eyes give him away. Uncertain, always moving. Scared. He’s got the gloves and the outfit, but he’s no boxer. Why’d they set me up with this guy? Do they want me to knock a little sense into him? Or maybe they underestimate me. He thinks of Lana.
“You the new guy?”
“Yeah. Just here for a few days.”
“Simpkins.”
“Horvath.”
“Working up a sweat, huh?”
“You got it.”
He does another set of shoulder presses.
The man nods, looks at Horvath, looks down at the floor. “So you fight?”
“Yeah.”
“Any good?”
“I can hold my own.”
“I played fo
