Spirit of a Champion (Sisters of Spirit #7)

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CHAPTER ONE

Victoria Tempest Drake, known to all as "Stormy,"
threw the last of her father's clean socks into his suitcase, stuffed them down
into any remaining spaces, and pressed it shut. All she needed to do now was to
call the cab and arrange for it to take him and her brother to the Boise
airport. Then she would have her father's house all to herself while she
decided what to do with her Masters in applied mathematics.

She had three universities trying to recruit her at the present,
she mused as she picked up the phone. Actually four.

"...results are not good." 

“Tell me.”

The line was being used.
Stormy started to hang up.

"You have three soft spots—one very large. If you
fight again—ever, it will kill you."

Who? What?
She caught her breath and yanked the phone back to her ear as
the voice continued, its tone harsh with urgency.

"I'm telling you this as your doctor and your friend. You
must cancel your match with Killer Kyle."

"I can't." Her brother's voice. Stormy suddenly
realized the importance of what she was hearing.

"Jerry?" she cried out, alarmed. "What’s going
on?"

"Stormy? What are you... Get off the line!" Her
brother's voice, outraged, took Stormy aback. "This is a private
conversation!"

"I...I...."

"Hang up," he demanded. "And don't you dare
repeat anything!"

"Sorry." Her heart raced as she turned off the phone
and dropped it back into its charger.

Soft spots! She knew about them. Weak places in a person's brain
that could not take any more blows. For a prize fighter, they were deadly. She
stood still, confused. Why had Jerry said he couldn’t cancel the fight?

Her brother could die.

She sat down on her father’s bed, trembling with shock.

Jerry hadn't had all that many boxing matches, she thought,
desperately trying to negate what she had heard. Compared to their father’s
prize-fighting career, Jerry was still at the beginning. He had only been boxing
as a heavyweight for three years. Maybe the doctor was talking about someone
else.

But no...he had said
"you."
"You
...must cancel
your
match with Killer Kyle."

The upcoming bout with the champion. Two weeks away. Fifteen
rounds with a man whose long arms and deadly fists blasted most opponents out
of the ring in less than three.

Last night Stormy had watched some footage of The Killer’s last
fight. He didn't waste time with body blows; he went for the head.

She sprang to her feet and paced across her father's bedroom,
barely mindful of its somber brown colors. What should she do? Her fingers
plucked at the sleeves of her shirt, grasping and releasing the material as she
tried to understand what she had heard.

She had to talk to Jerry. There had to be some explanation. No
one would deliberately put themselves into such danger.

She ran out of her father’s room and down the hallway to her
brother’s bedroom. Knocked on the door. Tried to open it, but it was locked.
Frantic, she pounded on the door with her fists.

No answer. She ran back to her father’s room and went inside to
get his suitcase. She’d tell her dad. He would know the danger and stop Jerry
from fighting.

"Stormy! Stormy!" Her brother walked down the hallway,
shouting her name.

"Here," she replied, running over to open the door. He
would tell her what was going on. She and her brother—younger than her by
two years—had always been close, she helping him through the mercurial
times when their father's prizefighting career took its highs and lows.

Without a mother, she had become one in her early years, taking
care of her younger brother while her father was gone, more often than not,
training for another match, trying to reach championship status. He acted as a
father when he remembered, showing them how to fish and hunt, but he did not
know how to teach Stormy much about being a girl.

When Jerry was old enough to start boxing, Stormy entered swim
meets and marathon swims and other events as a way of seeking her own
championships. She had a box of ribbons and medals in a drawer.

“I’m here, Jerry.”

Jerry was already halfway down the stairs and turned back
towards her. Tension twisted his otherwise good-looking features. He was
dressed in a light sport shirt and slacks, ready to travel to Las Vegas.  

She stopped and looked anxiously down at him. "What did he
mean? Your doctor. What was he talking about?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. How much did you
overhear?"

"Just...you have soft spots—"

"Not me. My sparring partner."

"Ted?" She gripped the railing hard and stared at him
in disbelief.
That wasn't the way she had heard it.

"Yeah. I'll have to let him go."

"But...but Ted isn't lined up to fight The Killer. You
are."

"I know. It might have sounded like that, Stormy. But it
wasn't. You didn't hear what you thought you heard. That happens when you come
into the middle of a conversation."

"But that was
your
doctor. Not his."

"Both of ours."

"Oh.” She felt some relief. Yet, had she really heard it
wrong? By now she wasn’t sure. “You’ll have to tell Dad. As your trainer, he
has to know."

"I will. Not you. I know the whole story, you don’t. And
that was a confidential conversation you overheard. Confidential. Or don't you
know what that means?" Jerry could be sarcastic at times when he wanted
something. Like now.

"I know all right."

"You just have the wrong slant on it."

"I heard enough. I don’t believe this is about Ted. The
doctor said those soft spots would kill
you
."

He put his hands on his hips, cocked his head to one side.
"Now, Stormy. Do you actually think I would fight if that were true?"

He made it sound like she was the one being unreasonable. Stormy
paused to consider his words. Maybe she was. "No."

"Of course not,” he scoffed. “No prize money is worth a
person's life."

"You’re right."

"You haven't been here long enough to know what's going on.
So don't go upsetting Dad—"

"I wouldn't do that—"

"Promise me."

"I...."

"Promise. You always keep your promises, Stormy."

She looked down at her bare feet. She never wore shoes in the
house if she didn’t have to. "Fine. Okay. If that's what you want."

"I do. Especially when you don't have all the facts."

"What are they?"

"I'll tell you...some day. Right now I've got to finish
packing. Don’t make
me
one of your causes. Go save the penguins."

Her causes were a sore spot with him. He could never see why she
put so much time and energy into them. But someone had to. "All right.
I'll call the cab. That's why I picked up the phone in the first place,"
she added, to let him know she didn’t make a habit of listening in on other
people’s phone conversations.

"Thanks." He glanced at his watch. "Our plane
leaves in less than two hours. We need to allow time to go through baggage
check."

"It'll be hot in Vegas. Do you have plenty of
sunscreen?"

"Yes, mom." He rolled his eyes.

"Sorry. Just habit."

"I've got a wife to do that now."

"I know.” She liked Amy. The young woman was deeply in love
with Jerry, but still able to see his faults. “Will Amy be joining you?"

"Only the night of the fight. I don't want her around while
I'm doing my last two weeks of training. She's too distracting. Besides, she
has her job in Reno that she doesn’t want to leave early. I don’t think she
thinks I’ll win, so she’s not about to stop working. And I don’t need to be
getting those vibes while I’m training."

Stormy bit her lower lip. "Does Amy know about...? No, of
course she doesn't."

"Stormy. Remember? Wrong message. Forget it!"

She threw up her hands. "I'll call the cab."

"Do that." He stalked past her back to his room and
Stormy continued on downstairs and used the kitchen phone to call the cab
company.

That done, she wandered into the living room where her father
stood in front of the TV, a remote control in his left hand. His dark hair was
peppered with gray. Ring scars marked his face, giving it a weather-beaten
appearance. Like his son, he was dressed to travel.

"Cab's on its way," she said. "Your suitcase is
ready."

"Thanks. I'm about done here."

She walked over and stood beside him, looking at what he had on
the TV: a DVD of one of The Killer's fights.

The Killer was pounding his opponent unmercifully, battering him
to the canvas. A final, lethal blow to the head ended the fight and left the
champion raising his arms in victory.

Stormy felt sick. Head blows. He could kill Jerry, as surely as
he had just knocked out his last challenger. Jerry had said he would not fight
if he was in any danger, yet she could not throw off her sense of
foreboding...or the sounds of urgency in the doctor's words.

A close-up focused on The Killer's triumphant expression as the
referee finished the count. He had asked no quarter and given none.