There’re rules to a fight—hit or be hit, win or lose,kill or be killed.
But women? Women are a goddamn mystery. A beautiful, confusing enigma I’ve never managed to uncover.
The fairer sex has always reminded me how big, tactless, and dumb I can be. I’ve never been smart enough to understand their emotions or how to make them happy…
Still, Bridget seems to like me despite my lack of game. She’s cute and friendly, and I’ve found myself with that funny feeling in my stomach when she’s around.
I figure I should at least try. I bang out a reply.
Missed you too. Where were you?
Her reply comes fast.
ughhh it was my time of the month cramps were SO bad I had to leave early. felt like death lol
I frown at the screen, thumbing out another response.
You should’ve told me. I would’ve stopped by your place. Brought you something.
The second I hit send, I wonder if that’s too forward.
We’ve been flirting, sure, but it’s not like we’ve gone on a date or anything. I’ve never even kissed this woman before.
Maybe offering to come to her apartment is crossing some kind of line. She’s probably going to think I’m a creep now.
A minute passes, then that turns into two, and no response comes.
She’s left me on read.
Fuck.
I shove the phone back in my pocket, scowling at the sidewalk. This is exactly why I stick to fighting. At least when I fuck up in the ring, I know how to recover. With women, I’m swinging blind and hoping for the best.
The dry cleaners comes into view; the faded sign barely visible in the meager glow of the streetlights.
My apartment’s on the second floor—a cramped studio that’s barely big enough for my bed and gym equipment. The place has spotty hot water and is cheap and modest, especially considering what Ireallycan afford, but the pros outweigh the cons.
It’s simple and fits my lifestyle. Most importantly, it’s close enough to both my favorite gymandmy favorite pub. What more can I ask for?
I reach into my pocket for my keys and come up empty.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”
I check my other pocket, then the first pocket again.
The keys are gone. Which means they’re probably sitting on the table back at the pub, right where I left them after tossing down the cash.
They say boxers are dumb and maybe that’s for a reason.
I’ve obviously taken too many fucking punches to the head. My memory’s turning to shit.
I turn around and start walking back the way I came, swearing under my breath.
The keys better be at the pub. Otherwise I’m breaking into my own goddamn apartment.
The walk back to the Banshee takes about ten minutes, and I spend every single one of them cursing my own stupidity.
Fucking keys. Fucking braincells. Fucking boxing turning my skull into swiss cheese.
