Chapter 1
The air in the garage was heavy, a thick mix of Castrol motor oil and the sweet, skunk-heavy scent of the blunt Ray was nursing. Outside, the Pittsburgh sun was fighting a losing battle against the smog, but inside, the radio was low, playing some soulful Motown track that felt older than both of them.
Ray leaned back against a stack of Goodyear tires, eyes half-lidded.
"If you keep smoking that shit, you’ll be dead by sixty, Ray," Jack said, his voice muffled as he leaned over the fender of a Buick. He didn't look up, just kept ratcheting a bolt with rhythmic, metallic clicks. "Heart'll just quit on you. Plop. Right on the shop floor."
Ray took a slow drag, the cherry glowing bright in the shadows. He exhaled a cloud that hung still in the humid air. "I already been dead, Jack. Since the day I buried my Olivia."
The ratcheting stopped. The silence that followed was sharp. Jack stood up slow, wiping his greasy palms on a rag that had seen better years. He looked at Ray, his face hard.
"The fuck is wrong with you, man?" Jack’s voice was low. "That’s not funny. You don't say shit like that."
Ray let out a dry, raspy chuckle. "Lighten up, Jack. Since when did you become so tense? You’re wound tighter than a watch spring."
Jack turned back to the engine, grabbing a flathead and poking at the carb. "Just... a lot of stress at home with the girls. Place is a madhouse lately."
"Let me guess," Ray said, a ghost of a smirk on his face. "Boyfriend troubles?"
Jack winced like he’d been stuck with a needle. "Don’t even mention the word 'boyfriends.' I hear that word one more time today, I’m locking the front door and boarding up the windows."
Ray chuckled, tapping an ash onto the concrete. "It’s a good thing I got my girls grounded with that shit. They know the rules. No boys, no nonsense."
Jack let out a sharp, cynical scoff. He dropped the screwdriver on the cowl and turned around. "Yeah, fucking right, Ray. What teenager actually listens to their old man? Especially in 1982? Your girls are a bombshell—"
"Watch it," Ray said. His voice didn't get loud, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Jack immediately held up his greasy hands, palms out. "Hey, hey. I’m just saying. My girls, your girls... they’re no joke, Ray. These punks around here? They’ll cat-call and do anything to get in their pants. Believe me, I’m mad as the next guy, and you’re gonna be just as bad when you find out your daughter’s having sex."
Ray closed his eyes tight, the smoke from the blunt stinging his lashes. He leaned his head back against the tires, feeling every bit of his forty-eight years in his bones.
"Fuck, Jack," Ray muttered, his voice thick. "I don't want to think about that. Not today."
Jack wiped the black sludge off his knuckles, tossing the ruined napkins into the overflowing bin. He wasn't even looking at the mess anymore; he was looking right through Ray.
"Why?" Jack asked, his voice echoing in the rafters. "What else is there to think about in this town? Family is the only thing we got, Ray. I’m not gonna sit back and let some hoser knock up my daughters while I’m under a chassis. You gotta have your eyes open 24/7."
Ray shifted on the tires, the smoke from the blunt curling around his head. He looked at Jack, hesitating, the secret sitting heavy on his tongue.
Jack caught the look and immediately fumbled the oil can, a dark puddle splashing over his work gloves. "Shit!" he barked, grabbing a handful of shop rags. He pointed a greasy finger straight at Ray’s chest. "I know that fucking look. Something is brewing up there. I haven’t seen that look since we were in high school and you tried to seduce... what’s-her-face. The English teacher."
Ray bristled, his brow furrowing. "How lost of a memory you have. It was a dare. And for the record, I actually do have something to tell you."
Jack dropped the rags, his face going dead serious. "On with it then. Out with it, shit, man."
Ray took one last drag and crushed the cherry out against the concrete floor. "I need you to cover the shop for me. At least three months."
Jack’s head bobbed slowly, a surprised but approving look crossing his face. "Okay... okay, that’s manageable. Bout time you took some vacation time, Ray. I been saying this shit for years. Go hit the coast, see the water, get your head right."
"I’m not going on vacation, Jack," Ray said, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on Jack’s arms stand up. "I mean, I’m going away. But I ain't going to relax."
Jack started to grin, then stopped. "What do you mean, not to relax? Where the hell are you—"
The words trailed off. Jack looked at Ray—really looked at the way he was sitting, the way his jaw was set, the way he hadn't touched a beer all afternoon. He looked at the old heavy bag hanging in the corner of the shop that had been getting hit a lot harder lately.
The realization hit Jack like a lead pipe. His mouth hung open just a fraction.
"Ray..." Jack whispered, the sarcasm completely drained from his lungs. "Tell me you aren't talking about that National Team thing. Tell me you aren't actually going to Colorado to let those kids kill you."
Ray leaned in, the smell of stale smoke and 10W-30 clinging to his coveralls. He kept his voice low, steady. "I got the invite in the mail last week, Jack. This is my shot."
Jack’s shoulders hiked up to his ears as he rounded the front of the Buick, his boots crunching on the grit. "Chance for what?" he shouted, the sound bouncing off the metal walls. "To go out there and get yourself killed? To come back in a pine box because you thought you were twenty-one again?"
He paced a tight circle around the fender, waving a greasy rag like a flag. "Hell, man, we had our time. We were warriors in our way, Ray. We did our bit. You don't need some cheap gold-plated title to prove you’re a champion. Look around you. You built this."
Ray didn't move. He just watched Jack pace. "I know I got nothing to prove to you, or the girls, or this town. But Jack... this is my life. Fighting is in my blood. It’s in yours, too."
Jack opened his mouth to bark back, but Ray cut him off, pointing a finger.
"Don't. You can stand there and play-act like you’re done with that life, but I see you, Jack. I see how you grab the morning paper and flip straight to the local fight cards. I see that look in your eyes when some punk talks out of turn, that look like you’re ready to let the hands fly. Don’t try to play God with me. You know in our world, a man is what he can do with his fists. I'm not ready to be nothing yet."
Jack stopped. He gripped the edge of the Buick’s hood so hard his knuckles turned white through the grease. He looked at Ray, really looked at him, the 80s neon-lit world outside feeling a million miles away from the two of them in that shadows of the shop.
"Forty-eight, Ray," Jack said, his voice cracking. "They're gonna be fast. Faster than anything we remember."
"Then I'll just have to hit 'em harder," Ray said.
Jack sighed, a long, rattling sound that seemed to deflate his whole chest. He tossed the greasy rag onto the workbench and shook his head, a weary grin finally breaking through.
"You were always a crazy son of a bitch, Ray. Still are."
Jack looked around the shop, eyeing the rows of tires and the half-finished jobs like he was looking at a prison sentence. "Okay. Fine. I’ll take over this joint for the three months. But your ass better get back here, you hear me? You don't leave me hanging. You know how the locals get if their tires aren't balanced on time—they’ll be at my front door with pitchforks."
Ray let out a real laugh this time, the tension breaking. "Don't worry, Jack. I'm coming back in one piece. I promise."
Jack stepped in and grabbed Ray in a bear hug, the kind of heavy, bone-crushing hug two guys share when they aren't sure if things will ever be the same. Jack slapped Ray’s back hard enough to rattle his teeth.
"Alright then," Jack said, pulling away and pointing toward the door. "Go get those son of a bitches, Ray. Show 'em what old-school looks like."
Ray nodded, stepping back and wiping his hands on his pants. "I count on it. But first... I gotta deal with something else."
Jack’s face soured instantly. "Something else? What?"
"Mother Miller," Ray said flatly.
Jack actually recoiled, a look of genuine fear crossing his face. "Oh, you’re all done, pal. Forget the National Team. That broad is gonna put you in a coffin before you even see the state line. You’d be safer staying in the ring with a heavyweight than telling your mother you’re going off to get punched for a living at your age."
Ray headed for the door, grabbing his denim jacket off the hook. "Wish me luck, Jack."
"Luck ain't gonna save you from that woman, Ray!" Jack called out as the screen door slammed shut. "You better wear your headgear to dinner!"
The house smelled like cabbage and floor wax. Ray stepped into the kitchen and saw his mother standing by the stove, staring at a pot like she was trying to remember why she’d turned the burner on. When she turned to him, her eyes were blank for a second—a cold, terrifying second—before the light flickered back on.
"Oh, Anthony," she said, her voice thin. "You’re late for dinner."
"Ma, it’s Ray," he said softly, walking over to check the stove. He noticed the mail was piled up in the fruit bowl, unopened. "And I told you, you gotta make that doctor's appointment. The memory stuff... we talked about this."
"I will, I will. I promise," she snapped, though her eyes stayed soft. "Now sit. Have some pot roast. I spent all afternoon on it."
Ray looked at the plate she slid in front of him. It wasn't pot roast. It was gray, stringy corned beef. He opened his mouth to correct her, but she put a hand up, shushing him.
"Shh. Don’t worry about the doctor. I'll go," she said, her voice drifting.
Ray pushed the meat around his plate, his appetite gone. "Ma, I need to know you’re going to be okay when I’m at work... or away on—" He trailed off, the lie catching in his throat.
She frowned, leaning over the table. "Or away on what, son?"
Ray sighed heavily, the sound echoing in the quiet kitchen. He reached into his denim jacket and pulled out the crumpled invite. He smoothed it out on the floral tablecloth and pushed it toward her.
Her hands shook as she picked it up. "What is this, Anthony?"
"Just read it, Ma."
She squinted, pulling a pair of spectacles from her apron pocket and sliding them onto the bridge of her nose. She read it slow, her lips moving with the words. "National Team... tryouts... Colorado. Is this an actual thing? Is this legit?"
"Yes, Ma, it’s legit," Ray said, a touch of annoyance clipping his words. "I always had a passion for this. You know that."
She looked up at him, the overhead kitchen light catching the deep lines in her face. She looked at him not like a stranger, but like a mother who suddenly realized her son was greying at the temples just like she was.
"How old are you, though?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Ray... you don't look twenty. Isn't fighting for the younger bucks? The ones who haven't been broken yet?"
