Thomas was eating a plate of fried eggs, a rolled-up gym clipboard resting on the bench next to him. When I sat down opposite him without asking, he did not look up from his plate.
“You are Dustin’s trainer,” I said.
Thomas picked up a piece of toast and pointed it at me before taking a bite.
“I run his program,” he said. “He has got a heavy bag session in forty minutes, so make it quick.”
“I want to know about his temper,” I said, keeping my hands flat on the scratched laminate table. “How he acts when he is not in the ring.”
Thomas let out a short, dry laugh and tapped the rolled-up clipboard against his thick thigh. Tap, tap, tap.
He was a broad-shouldered man with a neck as wide as his jaw. He looked at me like I was an old fence post he could kick over.
“The kid has got drive,” Thomas said, using the rapid-fire jargon of a man who spent his life in the corners of rings. “He has got a high-intensity motor.”
