between

home for study first.”
The three moved away down the alley, leaving Carlo Salvanelli alone in the box that served him as home.

Harris Greene sat on the stool in his corner and concentrated on keeping his war-face on. It wasn’t easy; dizziness and weariness tugged at him, and Zeb was talking. Talking and talking.
“Dammit, Harris, you’re being too predictable. The same combinations over and over. Mix it up more. He’s onto your backfist; forget about it. Work on his gut. I think he’s still hurting from the Helberson fight. And watch out when you close with him. When you make the transition between your range and his, in or out, that’s when he’s nailing you.”
Harris accepted a mouthful of water from the trainer’s bottle, then swallowed it instead of spitting. He stared for a long moment at the PKC banner on the auditorium wall, at the crowd that had shouted for his blood just a few minutes ago, and he turned to look at Zeb. “I’m going to lose,” he said.
Zeb Watson stared back at him, hard-eyed. Black, bearded, intense, he’d once been a fighter and could still project the attitude. His gaze was like a knife raking at Harris’ face. “No, you’re not. You can take him. You have more than he does. Just do what I say and stop thinking so much!”
The warning whistle sounded. Zeb cursed, slipped the plastic guard back into Harris’ mouth, and slipped out of the ring. Harris rose. The bell sounded,