An exposed pipe made a noise that would make a human blush.
It was weird to see petite blonde women walking the halls, but the only way to get funding for the gym had been to add an academic team.
Fry looked at Lather from the prep room.
Fry had rescued Dorian Little. He’d never use that term, but everyone around him did.
Dorian was a sweet kid in a sour world.
He had all the skills -the quickness, the reach, the power-to be a champion, sell pay-per-views, endorse products, get wealthy.
But Dorian didn’t have kill in him.
He’d survive in the ring, with his skill set, but that wasn’t gonna be good enough.
You’d think he’d be angry.
Fry was angry for him; poor as hell, used by the dope slangers in Corman Meadows and up and down Fenkell Avenue, a juvenile felony he didn’t deserve, dyslexic so bad he might never read.
Dorian’s body was granite that could become lightning, and his head was pudding being licked by a kitten.Not dumb, just softer than any street kid Fry ever met.
Tonight was his first pro fight.
Lather stood next to Dorian’s Aunt who raised him. She looked so nervous Lather thought she might puke.
“Wish him good luck and you don’t have to watch,” Lather told Zelena Fielding.
“I gotta be here for him if he gets hurt.”
“There are trainers and medical personnel here for that, Zee,” Fry said.
Zelena put her hand on her hips.
“Oh, so you’re saying
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