Page 3 of On the Ropes
Didn’t mean I was ready to carry the weight of people’s expectations again. No matter how minor.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“What if I helped you?”
“You’ve got a lot going on right now. You don’t need one more project.”
Rowan was one of the coordinators at the rec center in our neighborhood. He was trying to get a food delivery program for seniors off the ground. It was hard work. Long hours.
But now he was shrugging again. “So we organize a few cleanup days? Come up with a plan for what would replace the mound of stinking trash? Doesn’t seem so bad to me.”
“What would we replace it with?” I asked, curious.
“I don’t know. A fucking tree? It’d be nice to have one of those around.”
I rubbed my jaw. He wasn’t wrong. Our neighborhood wasn’t known for its green space or whatever. I’d only been thinking about getting rid of what was there. Not what would come after.
I shook my head. “I know what you’re doing. I’m still a no.”
He stretched his arms out wide. “And what am I doing?”
I shot him a look. He chuckled, sipped his beer. I wasn’t a kid who looked for trouble growing up. Especially not after finding boxing at thirteen. Except I had a best friend with Trouble as his middle name. This whole song-and-dance routine was as familiar to me as the squeaky sixth step on my old staircase. The one I’d had to avoid when Rowan would convince me to sneak out.
He nudged me with his elbow. “Will you think about it?”
He knew I’d do more than think. I’d overthink. “Maybe. I still want to push the city to do its job though.”
“I’ll take it.”
There was a burst of noise from behind us. The rowdy table with the pitcher. They definitely said my name this time, loud enough for half the bar to hush.
“Ignore ’em,” Rowan said. He waved the bartender over for a second beer. “Besides, this very pretty lady at the end of the bar has been trying to get your attention the entire time.”
My gut twisted. Throw me in the ring with some bare-knuckled brawler and I didn’t bat an eye. Because I could study fight tapes for hours. Train until I could barely stand after. Mental preparedness was how I won, every single time.
Dating was the mystery to me. And Rowan was basically a walking version of a fight tape but for women. He’d done his best since we were teenagers to impart his knowledge, and every time it was like he was speaking a different language.
I waved off what he said. “Are you sure she’s not trying to get your attention?”
“Nope. Believe me, she’s gunning for Dean the Machine over here. Do you want me to head home so you can go say hi?”
I felt my face go hot. “Um…no. It’s okay.”
Only Rowan and my parents could get away with using that old nickname with affection. The papers used to say a glare from Dean the Machine could strip paint from the walls—and that my hits were so precise they weren’t human. Like I was a robot.
“It’s the middle of summer,” he said. “The perfect time to have some casual fun. And just to be clear, I’m talking about fucking. Easy, casual fucking.”
I snorted. “Say it a little louder. I don’t think Father O’Sullivan heard you across the way.”
Rowan’s smile was devious. “Father O’Sullivan would be very disappointed with some of my actions recently.”
It was true. And Rowan was the king of whatever easy, casual fun was. To me, that sounded like a minefield of miscommunication and hurt feelings. I had never been in love before, but it seemed like being serious was kind of the point.
At the height of my pro boxing career, there was a lot of interest in me from women when I went out. I’d had my fair share of one-night stands, where things like talking or being nervous didn’t come up in the dark with a stranger you weren’t gonna see again.
It scratched an itch. I didn’t always feel that good about it afterward though.
“I’m still fine.” I pushed my empty beer away from me. “And not interested.”
