Page 18 of On the Ropes
“I’m okay,” I finally said. “What are you doing here? Home for a visit?”
She nodded and ran her fingers through her red hair. It was shoulder-length and wavy. She had a ring in her nose and flowers tattooed down her left arm. She had the same cluster of freckles across the bridge of her nose. But more freckles now, on the tops of her shoulders.
“I’m back for a little longer than my usual whirlwind weekend. A whole two weeks this time,” she said, eyes searching mine like she really had missed me. “Before this I was out in Sacramento, working on a video series about a nonprofit that helps middle school students publish their stories and poetry. They hold these glamorous publishing events where the students read their work in front of an audience. There were photo shoots and autographed signings. It was maybe the cutest thing I’d ever seen, and I once spent a week in St. Louis where I literally filmed rescue puppies all day.”
I was having a hard time keeping up. Tabitha was making movies about…puppies? Not in LA? And, most importantly, back home for a bit.
Chris, the bartender, walked past and grabbed my empty bottle. “You want another one of these?” he asked.
I made eye contact with Tabitha. I’d already had one drink. Two would be a mistake with the grueling workout I had planned at dawn the next morning. She was chewing on her lip, flushed.
“I’m down to stay for another if you are? We could always share a cocktail.”
“Share? A…drink?”
“A bold concept, I know,” she said. “Is there a delicious cocktail that you like?”
My lips twitched. “Yuengling.”
She laughed. “Philly’s most famous beer is your favorite cocktail, huh?”
I lifted a shoulder. “I like what I like.”
Her eyes narrowed playfully. “Only twenty-five and already firmly set in your ways. Such a curmudgeon, Mr. Machine.”
Chris sighed. “I don’t got all fucking night for you two to flirt. Are you having anything or not?”
Only the fact that I’d known Chris for years kept me from doing some version of the scowl. Besides, Tabitha was from this neighborhood and could hold her own against an asshole bartender.
“I’ve already been drinking tequila, so I think a margarita is the one true path forward,” she said. “Can you make one with salt on the rim for the two of us to share while flirting all fucking night?”
Chris scoffed but then relented. “Yeah, sure. Is the cheap stuff okay with you?”
“Oh, definitely.”
The second he was out of earshot, she turned back to me. “What a charmer.”
“Want me to scowl at him for you?”
She touched the center of her chest. “I am Dean’s Lady, after all. And you can have half of my margarita if you want it.”
I shifted in my chair. “I don’t usually have more than I should.”
“Ah,” she said. “Are you still on that strict regimen because of your training?”
Chris returned and placed a margarita on the table, then left without a word.
Tabitha brightened, her tongue darting out to taste the salt. Her eyes closed with satisfaction. I was grateful she was no longer sitting in my lap.
“Yeah, something like that,” I said.
Once I knew I was going pro, I gave in to the structure and restrictions that came with elite-level training six days a week. As a teenager, I adopted a classic boxer’s diet: meat, vegetables, carbs. No sugar, no soda, very little alcohol. I didn’t indulge because I knew how it would make my body feel later, and that wasn’t a risk I enjoyed taking. And when I was near the height of my career, wasn’t a risk I even wanted. There was too much riding on each victory—money, reputation, and the weight of the fans sharpening my focus.
The fight nights might have stopped but my diet and workouts hadn’t, a weird vestige I hadn’t been able to give up.
Tabitha held the cocktail across the table. “Do you do cheat days?”
I shook my head.
