“Nah, I’m over that.”
Sure, there are still days when it stings—the fact that she’d lied, and I hadn’t seen it coming. It hits especially hard when I see her life moving forward while mine feels… stuck. Like when she posted her pregnancy announcement on social media or when I ran into her parents at the grocery store, and they casually asked if I was seeing anyone. But overall, I don’t think about it anymore.
Looking back, I’d been so certain about my commitment to Savannah, but with time and distance, I realized we both overlooked the cracks in our relationship. We were too focused on preserving what we’d invested in rather than facing the truth. A strong relationship isn’t measured by how long it lasts. Some of the worst marriages include people sticking it out for decades, more out of pride in the length of it than caring about the quality of their lives together. Wearing the badge of a long marriage while behind closed doors, they’re utterly miserable.
He huffs. “You’d better be. I need you sharp if you’re aiming to win this tournament. And if you’re hoping to pull your head out of your ass and notice the pretty woman with chestnut brown hair who’s clearly interested in you, that’d be a good start.”
His last words may have been muttered, but they were unmistakably clear.
“What are you talking about?” I demand, stepping towards him, my head cocked to the side, eyes narrowed like I couldn’t have possibly heard him correctly.
He stands firm like a tree, his arms folded over his broad chest, “I’m not afraid of you, little Cameron. Little brown-haired girlwith curls and big brown eyes was in town asking about you today. I told her where she could find you tonight. So don’t be surprised if you see a sweet thing that looks way too good for your ugly ass amongst these gruff men and stale beer tonight.” He chuckles and doesn’t give me a chance to respond before quickly exiting the locker room and slamming the door shut behind him.
What the hell?
I slam my fist against a metal locker, the impact causing it to rattle. Looking down, I notice a bead of blood already seeping from my split knuckles.
Fuck!
If Maggie is showing up tonight, she’s clearly figured things out, which isn’t the issue. I’ve always had a feeling I could trust her with my secret, and it isn’t something I mind her knowing. The problem is that if she’s here while I’m fighting, I’ll be distracted by the thought of her standing amidst the chaotic crowd. There’ll be no way I can focus on the fight.
She’s not your problem.
She’s not your problem.
She’s not your problem
I chant that repeatedly in my head as I sprint out to the ring just as my name is being called. But the problem with that is, sheismine to worry about. Or at least, it’s started to feel that way. Despite my attempts to push her out of my mind, there’s an undeniable attraction pulling me to protect her, and I resent that with every fiber of my being.
I step over the wires that separate the ring from the outside crowd and make my way into the center, determined to push those thoughts aside and take out my frustration on my opponent. There, I tap gloves with Frank, a brief but necessary ritual before the fight begins.
‘Frank the Furt,’ is a burly man at least five years my senior who works as a cowboy on a ranch nearby. I’ve known him for years and know that he isn’t a good guy. The sheriff had told me that he’d been picked up on more than one occasion for domestic violence against his live-in girlfriend.
I channel my anger towards his cruelty with every punch as the round begins. I focus inward, determined to block out the fact that Maggie Hollister might be somewhere in the crowd, watching me and likely being heckled by perverse men.
A quick jab, a kick to his calf, and a takedown that he easily shakes off. The first round concludes uneventfully as I step to my corner where Dallas is currently hanging over the edge of the rope waiting for me.
“Your head’s not in it,” he deadpans.
“You gotta be a marine to notice that?”
He lifts the bottle of Gatorade to my mouth before I'm ready and squirts the side of my cheek, splashing a little in my eye instead.
“What the fuck, man?!” I yell as I stand up and wipe the orange stream of liquid out of my vision.
“Good. You’re focused now. Channel that anger into the fight because you look like you want to hold this guy and take him out on a date versus pummel in his sick as fuck face the way he certainly deserves.”
“He’s a piece of shit,” I spit back as Dallas nods.
“I know that, and you know that. So go take care of him. Isn’t that why you fight? To right the wrongs in a contained and somewhat-legal manner? This dude’s woman is trapped in a house where he hits her. You deserve to hit him and knock him out. Also, the sooner you do, the sooner you can go make out with your new girlfriend.”
I clench my jaw, shooting him one last glare before I spring to my feet just as the call of round two beginning rings out.
This time though, I come out swinging, with fresh anger at Frank that catches him off guard as I deliver blow after blow to his face and body finishing with a round house kick to his side that brings him to his knees.
Three seconds later I’m on the floor with him, cranking one of his meaty legs backward into a position that I know with an ounce more pressure, will cause it to break.
I want to do it. So badly. This guy deserves to be in a cast - or a casket. Unfortunately, he taps out before I can finish the job.
