but still held the gravelly rasp of someone whoâd done a lot of shouting in his life. âI hope you threw a few, too.â
She laughed a little, thankful that while he was losing the battle for his body, he hadnât lost his attitude. âOh yeah. Heâll be hurting today. He should have a fair shiner.â She held up her taped hand. âI hit him hard. Just like you taught me.â
He nodded. A gnarly hand emerged from under his sheet, took hold of her uninjured one and gripped it like a vice. âGood girl.â His face was as leathery and stoic as it had ever been but there was a wetness in his eyes. More than the moisture from a sick manâs tear ducts and it made Livâs chest feel like it was being crushed.
âI was walking back to my car last night and a man jumped me.â She told him about it quickly and sparely. Then about Daniel Beck, describing him as a heavyweight. Her dad had always referenced a man by his weight division. Sometimes he added an adjective when the guy didnât measure up, like a porky lightweight or a scanty welterweight. When heâd first met Thomas, heâd called him on the light side of welter. When she told him heâd left her, Dad called him a snivelling runt of a welter who didnâtdeserve to breathe the same damn air as his daughter. If he hadnât been stuck in bed with the after-effects of chemo, she wouldnât have been able to stop him paying her husband a visit. Seventy-one and full of cancer wouldnât have saved Thomas from a smack in the mouth.
She told him about the TV interview. He remembered Sheridan from her uni days, called her that rich girl who liked to slum it at his gym sometimes. Liv said Sheridan planned to mention him because people still talked about him.
His throat rumbled a grunt of cynicism. âDamn people should find something better to talk about.â
Liv knew it wouldnât impress him. It never had. It made her feel good, though. Heâd done it the hard way all his life. Harder than most. Harder still after her mother died. But heâd done it his way. He hadnât left her for others to raise, hadnât taken the advice to keep fighting while his star was shining. Heâd given up a chance at a world title fight and carved out a living instead, made a home for them, rough as it was, and brought her up himself. Made her who she was. Sheridan had taught her how to look like a sophisticated woman, Thomas had shown her how to live like one, but she was still her fatherâs daughter.
She told him Cameronâs latest, how he was trying out for striker this afternoon at the local soccer club.
âHeâs scrawny but heâs got mettle, that boy,â he told her.
Livâs eyes suddenly filled with hot, unexpected tears.
âSo have you, luv.â He gave her fingers a squeeze.
âI miss him. All the time,â she whispered.
âYouâre putting up a good fight.â
âThereâs no fight, Dad. Thereâs nothing to fight. Itâs a done deal. He lives with his father every other week. Thereâs nothing I can do about it.â
âSometimes the fight is just to stay on your feet.â
She smiled. Her father had a life motto to cover every occasion. Heâd made a living pounding them into tough-nut boys who needed something to make them feel like men. When she was little, she used to sprout his mottos like a mini-Tony. As a teenager, sheâd rolled her eyes and hoped he didnât embarrass her in front of her friends. In recent months, sheâd been trying to live by them, as many of them as she could remember. The Tony Wallace manual of pop psychology. Fighting to stay on her feet. Sheâd forgotten that one but he was right. It wasnât always about throwing punches and scoring points. Sometimes it was a huge effort just to make sure you didnât end up on your arse. Not to sit down and wallow in the grief