lighten up,” Charlie said. “Let’s have a beer,”
He put a hand on Kyle’s shoulder, and Kyle looked disgustedly at Stu, but went with them back to the bar. They were four shots deep when Stu started mouthing off again.
“I just dropped in for a visit. I may come for your Chang fight next month,”
“They’re selling advance seats. There’s a new girl doing videos now, and she’s already taking pre-orders on discs of my fight,” Stu said proudly.
“That’s great, man.”
“And when I get to Vegas, I won’t fuck off and go home empty handed,” Stu chuckled too heartily.
“I took a hit to the kidneys, Shaughnessy. I’ve seen you drop to the ground from one of those more than once.”
“You left yourself open. I saw the video. You went soft before you ever quit.”
“I still fight at Wreck.”
“Yeah, we heard. Local losers who can’t get on at Swagger. Too bad about that, pretty boy,” Stu scoffed.
“That’s it. Outside,” Kyle said, flipping the table and glaring. They all jumped with the shock of his sudden movement. A shower of glass breaking filled the silence.
“Outside? Like you’re not going to throw a punch in a goddamned fight club? Are you gonna slap me with your gloves and get out your dueling pistols, too?” Stu snorted. “Can you fight like a real man, or do you need your brother to teach you how down at your sissy girl school?”
Kyle smashed his fist into Stu’s mouth. He didn’t go for the jaw, for maximum impact to throw him off balance. He hit for pain, and if Stu’s howl was any indication, he’d succeeded. Blood poured from Stu’s mouth, and Kyle cracked his knuckles for emphasis. Stu gave him the finger. Kyle turned around and walked off, muttering imprecations under his breath.
There was blood on his hand, and he tried to wipe it on his t-shirt, but it wouldn’t come off. He wandered into a bar he knew well and caught up on the local gossip with a few beers. Remembering his fight in a few hours, he ordered a sandwich to try and soak up some of his midday alcohol consumption. When he took out his wallet to pay, he saw the sticky note—not the one he’d thrown on the bedroom floor, but the first one, with Shea’s number on it. He stuffed it back in his pocket, embarrassed—either by the fact he’d defaulted to hedonism at the first sign of adulthood or that he couldn’t even enjoy being a bad boy because he felt guilty now. This, he thought, was a symptom of growing up…being unable to have fun. He ordered a shot of whiskey to wash down his sandwich.
A couple of hours slipped by while he chatted up the barmaid halfheartedly and downed a few drinks. By the time he dragged himself to Wreck, he was barely in time to change for his fight.
“You know this is a shit club,” he told one of the trainers. “Goddamn crooked floors tilt to one side.”
“Try coming to work sober,” The man said with a roll of his eyes.
“I’m perfectly fine,” Kyle said clearly, showing that he wasn’t slurring and could hold his drink.
He stepped into the ring, a little shaky on negotiating his path between the ropes, and grinned at the crowd.
“He’s wasted,” he heard the trainer mutter to the owner on the sidelines.
“You,” Kyle said, pointing his finger ostentatiously, “are a liar. I am not. Fucking. Wasted.” He wagged his finger at the trainer, and the crowd laughed uproariously, “Hear that? They love me. I’m a fucking legend ,” he said.
As soon as the ring bunny cleared out with her sign and the bell rang, he staggered forward uneasily and took a wide swing that barely clipped his opponent. The crowd laughed again. Kyle felt his jaw clench, his blood pound in his ears at the embarrassment. He crowded the man to the ropes and unleashed a barrage of body blows, an onslaught as relentless and powerful as it was sloppy. There was no beating him, because he just kept coming. He took a hit right to the nose, shook his head to clear his vision
He put a hand on Kyle’s shoulder, and Kyle looked disgustedly at Stu, but went with them back to the bar. They were four shots deep when Stu started mouthing off again.
“I just dropped in for a visit. I may come for your Chang fight next month,”
“They’re selling advance seats. There’s a new girl doing videos now, and she’s already taking pre-orders on discs of my fight,” Stu said proudly.
“That’s great, man.”
“And when I get to Vegas, I won’t fuck off and go home empty handed,” Stu chuckled too heartily.
“I took a hit to the kidneys, Shaughnessy. I’ve seen you drop to the ground from one of those more than once.”
“You left yourself open. I saw the video. You went soft before you ever quit.”
“I still fight at Wreck.”
“Yeah, we heard. Local losers who can’t get on at Swagger. Too bad about that, pretty boy,” Stu scoffed.
“That’s it. Outside,” Kyle said, flipping the table and glaring. They all jumped with the shock of his sudden movement. A shower of glass breaking filled the silence.
“Outside? Like you’re not going to throw a punch in a goddamned fight club? Are you gonna slap me with your gloves and get out your dueling pistols, too?” Stu snorted. “Can you fight like a real man, or do you need your brother to teach you how down at your sissy girl school?”
Kyle smashed his fist into Stu’s mouth. He didn’t go for the jaw, for maximum impact to throw him off balance. He hit for pain, and if Stu’s howl was any indication, he’d succeeded. Blood poured from Stu’s mouth, and Kyle cracked his knuckles for emphasis. Stu gave him the finger. Kyle turned around and walked off, muttering imprecations under his breath.
There was blood on his hand, and he tried to wipe it on his t-shirt, but it wouldn’t come off. He wandered into a bar he knew well and caught up on the local gossip with a few beers. Remembering his fight in a few hours, he ordered a sandwich to try and soak up some of his midday alcohol consumption. When he took out his wallet to pay, he saw the sticky note—not the one he’d thrown on the bedroom floor, but the first one, with Shea’s number on it. He stuffed it back in his pocket, embarrassed—either by the fact he’d defaulted to hedonism at the first sign of adulthood or that he couldn’t even enjoy being a bad boy because he felt guilty now. This, he thought, was a symptom of growing up…being unable to have fun. He ordered a shot of whiskey to wash down his sandwich.
A couple of hours slipped by while he chatted up the barmaid halfheartedly and downed a few drinks. By the time he dragged himself to Wreck, he was barely in time to change for his fight.
“You know this is a shit club,” he told one of the trainers. “Goddamn crooked floors tilt to one side.”
“Try coming to work sober,” The man said with a roll of his eyes.
“I’m perfectly fine,” Kyle said clearly, showing that he wasn’t slurring and could hold his drink.
He stepped into the ring, a little shaky on negotiating his path between the ropes, and grinned at the crowd.
“He’s wasted,” he heard the trainer mutter to the owner on the sidelines.
“You,” Kyle said, pointing his finger ostentatiously, “are a liar. I am not. Fucking. Wasted.” He wagged his finger at the trainer, and the crowd laughed uproariously, “Hear that? They love me. I’m a fucking legend ,” he said.
As soon as the ring bunny cleared out with her sign and the bell rang, he staggered forward uneasily and took a wide swing that barely clipped his opponent. The crowd laughed again. Kyle felt his jaw clench, his blood pound in his ears at the embarrassment. He crowded the man to the ropes and unleashed a barrage of body blows, an onslaught as relentless and powerful as it was sloppy. There was no beating him, because he just kept coming. He took a hit right to the nose, shook his head to clear his vision
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