See you tonight. XOXO Shea
He’d spent the night at her apartment and woke up by himself to a hugs-and-kisses Post-It note that assumed a standing date. He crumpled the note and let it fall to the carpet. He glanced at the time on his phone, debating whether it was worth the time to take a shower. Then he switched the phone off, shoved it back in his pocket.
Catching his reflection in the gold-framed mirror on her wall, he stared. Instead of the hard-living boxer he was used to seeing, it was the face of a man who had responsibilities—a daughter, a girlfriend, a class schedule to keep. “What the fuck?” He asked his reflection and stormed out.
He blew off the class, all his classes. He had no choice. Kyle Dolan was losing himself in some bullshit adulthood soup that had been dumped all over him. Six months ago, he’d been on top of the world, knee-deep in hot cocktail waitresses in Vegas and ready for his first pay-per-view bout. Now he was a washed up fighter teaching women how to kick some mugger in the shins, worrying about child support and whether his girlfriend had a good enough time last night. He was domesticated, a pet terrier on a leash instead of the wolf he’d once been. It was shameful, not at all how a real man lived his life.
The women he’d screwed, past and present, were lucky to have had the chance to enjoy themselves so much, and any consequent emotions or offspring should be their problem, not his. He should be in the ring, pounding out someone’s teeth and winning money for it, not filling out a time sheet and planning demonstrations at some two-bit fight school. It wasn’t even a fight school—it was a girly learn-to-stand-up-for-yourself bullshit routine, like ballet class or yoga.
No way was he going to live his life like this, waiting for an ex-girlfriend to give him permission to see his kid, waiting for his girlfriend to spill the secret about his kid to his family. Women were nothing but trouble. He found his way to Swagger as if by instinct, though he hadn’t been there in months. He saw the owner talking to a supplier out front and he nodded to the man.
“Neal, how are you, man? Just stopped by to see the boys, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure enough, Kyle. Don’t be long. They’ve got real fighting to prepare for.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Kyle said good-naturedly.
He entered the familiar club, inhaling the beery, stale-sweat smell that had been so much a part of his youth. From the time he was a teenager, he’d fought in that ring, charmed free drinks out of a series of pretty and indulgent bartenders, shagged ring bunnies, and hung out with his friends talking trash and working out.
He stopped by the bar, said hi to Maggie, and drank the shot she poured him fondly. He threw back a second one for good measure, and the whiskey was just starting to heat his limbs as he strolled through his old stomping ground. Charlie and Stu were there, along with a couple of new guys.
“Hey, Dolan,” Charlie said, never breaking the rhythm of his speed rope.
“How’s it going, Charles?”
“Good, good. Are you back for more, you bloodthirsty Mick?” he returned.
“Nah, I heard Donny was in the hospital.”
“Punctured lung. Kid was fighting good, but that bastard from Philly kicked him.”
“You can tell Aaron we all jumped the guy after the fight. He was spitting out teeth when he left Mattapan,” Stu laughed.
“I’ll tell him that. Any big bouts lined up?”
“Ah, Billy Chang is coming in next month. Big fight for Stu here.”
“Chang? That don’t sound very Irish,” Kyle said.
“He’s not, but he’s tough as hell,” Stu said.
“Chang? What is he, Chinese? Probably about four feet tall,” Kyle said dismissively, enjoying the trash talk with his old friends.
“Dolan, if you hadn’t gone soft and thrown in the towel, you’d know that Billy Chang is the East Coast champion right now,”
“What did you say?” Kyle asked, fists bunching up.
“Come on,
He’d spent the night at her apartment and woke up by himself to a hugs-and-kisses Post-It note that assumed a standing date. He crumpled the note and let it fall to the carpet. He glanced at the time on his phone, debating whether it was worth the time to take a shower. Then he switched the phone off, shoved it back in his pocket.
Catching his reflection in the gold-framed mirror on her wall, he stared. Instead of the hard-living boxer he was used to seeing, it was the face of a man who had responsibilities—a daughter, a girlfriend, a class schedule to keep. “What the fuck?” He asked his reflection and stormed out.
He blew off the class, all his classes. He had no choice. Kyle Dolan was losing himself in some bullshit adulthood soup that had been dumped all over him. Six months ago, he’d been on top of the world, knee-deep in hot cocktail waitresses in Vegas and ready for his first pay-per-view bout. Now he was a washed up fighter teaching women how to kick some mugger in the shins, worrying about child support and whether his girlfriend had a good enough time last night. He was domesticated, a pet terrier on a leash instead of the wolf he’d once been. It was shameful, not at all how a real man lived his life.
The women he’d screwed, past and present, were lucky to have had the chance to enjoy themselves so much, and any consequent emotions or offspring should be their problem, not his. He should be in the ring, pounding out someone’s teeth and winning money for it, not filling out a time sheet and planning demonstrations at some two-bit fight school. It wasn’t even a fight school—it was a girly learn-to-stand-up-for-yourself bullshit routine, like ballet class or yoga.
No way was he going to live his life like this, waiting for an ex-girlfriend to give him permission to see his kid, waiting for his girlfriend to spill the secret about his kid to his family. Women were nothing but trouble. He found his way to Swagger as if by instinct, though he hadn’t been there in months. He saw the owner talking to a supplier out front and he nodded to the man.
“Neal, how are you, man? Just stopped by to see the boys, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure enough, Kyle. Don’t be long. They’ve got real fighting to prepare for.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Kyle said good-naturedly.
He entered the familiar club, inhaling the beery, stale-sweat smell that had been so much a part of his youth. From the time he was a teenager, he’d fought in that ring, charmed free drinks out of a series of pretty and indulgent bartenders, shagged ring bunnies, and hung out with his friends talking trash and working out.
He stopped by the bar, said hi to Maggie, and drank the shot she poured him fondly. He threw back a second one for good measure, and the whiskey was just starting to heat his limbs as he strolled through his old stomping ground. Charlie and Stu were there, along with a couple of new guys.
“Hey, Dolan,” Charlie said, never breaking the rhythm of his speed rope.
“How’s it going, Charles?”
“Good, good. Are you back for more, you bloodthirsty Mick?” he returned.
“Nah, I heard Donny was in the hospital.”
“Punctured lung. Kid was fighting good, but that bastard from Philly kicked him.”
“You can tell Aaron we all jumped the guy after the fight. He was spitting out teeth when he left Mattapan,” Stu laughed.
“I’ll tell him that. Any big bouts lined up?”
“Ah, Billy Chang is coming in next month. Big fight for Stu here.”
“Chang? That don’t sound very Irish,” Kyle said.
“He’s not, but he’s tough as hell,” Stu said.
“Chang? What is he, Chinese? Probably about four feet tall,” Kyle said dismissively, enjoying the trash talk with his old friends.
“Dolan, if you hadn’t gone soft and thrown in the towel, you’d know that Billy Chang is the East Coast champion right now,”
“What did you say?” Kyle asked, fists bunching up.
“Come on,
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