so tough. But that can be deceiving. He’s shorter than me by a couple inches at least, even if his arms are bigger. This is probably as fair a fight as I can expect from Heston.
I don’t talk shit this time or hype up the crowd. This is a job. This is something I’m doing because I don’t have a choice. Nothing about this is fun or exciting.
It’s not like it used to be.
This becomes clear after I draw first blood, landing a whopper of a punch right in the guy’s teeth. At this point, my blood would usually be pumping hard and fast. As it is, I feel sluggish and slow, completely unable to block the punch he answers with. It snaps my neck back, but I recover quickly, shaking off the ache.
It seems like everyone’s screaming now, bodies looming along the rim of the pool like a fence, trapping us in. There’s just no fucking excuse for the next hit I take, stumbling back a couple steps before regaining my footing and ducking the next swipe.
Fuck, I need to get my shit together.
Centering myself, I focus on the guy in front of me, following my tight, bouncing circles out of his reach. It’s not hard to imagine he’s Heston. I’ve gotten really good at that over the years. It gets me a couple more solid right hooks.
But there’s just something about it.
Something isn’t clicking.
Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, or that I’ve been hitting the booze and weed a little too hard this week. Maybe, like with lacrosse, I’ve just been out of the game for too long, less capable of competing.
But even deep down, I know that’s bullshit.
I could have kicked ass on the field—if I really wanted to. If I wasn’t consumed with this bitter fucking resignation that Heston will always knock down the best parts of me.
The guy takes a shot at my jaw and it grazes me too high, glancing off my cheek in a bad way. I feel the skin split, but it doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts. I try to dodge his next hit, only for my hair to be caught in his other fist, driving me down into his knee with a blow that makes my vision go momentarily white.
I shove him off and try to shake it off, using a wrist to wipe the blood from my mouth. He gives me a slick grin, clearly proud of himself. “Motherfucker,” I spit, some of that hot fury finally coming to life inside my chest. I clutch onto it for dear fucking life, willing the ember to grow, to burn. I strike out, finally getting in a good round of blows. The crowd’s shouts pitch higher when he stumbles to the side, running from my wild barrage of fists. It’s sloppy, primitive bullshit. Not my finest work.
He comes back moments later, recharged and smarting from the energy of the crowd. There’s a clear favorite here, and it’s not him. His fist meets my temple, and goddamn. Cocky little fuck, but there’s some power behind his hands. I edge away, willing my sight to steady out before he returns, and I can’t pretend anymore. My heart’s not in this.
Fuck, I don’t even think my lungs are in this. All of my organs are firmly out of fucks to give. It doesn’t make sense. All I wanted for months was to finally get in a ring with some motherfucker and go to town. Beating Doug’s ass, for all the turmoil it caused, was the highlight of my whole fucking winter.
What changed?
Apparently, I’m spending too much time in my own head about this, because the guy gets a good one on me, right in the eye that just began healing from Doug. It’s a real bitch of a hit, too. Nearly sends me right to my knees. I skirt around him for some distance, because that’s apparently how I fight now. I run and wait.
Because there’s nothing to fight for.
My fists drop, landing heavily against my thighs as I gasp in huge, sucking breaths of chilled air. I get this split-second thought that I should just lose. I should get my ass handed to me down here, let Heston think that I’m useless to him.
That’s when I know I’m done.
The guy laughs when I climb the steps of the shallow end, pushing past the throng of confused, disappointed people eager for their pound of flesh.
“Not gonna fucking be mine,” I mutter, clumsily tapping out a cigarette