Page 4 of On the Ropes
The rowdy table at the back finally decided to start shit. We could hear them, drunkenly trying to get my attention. Benny’s was small and crowded. As Rowan cursed beneath his breath, I tossed cash onto the table and knocked my knuckles against the bar top.
“Let’s go,” I said, clapping Rowan on the back. We weaved past crowds and out into the muggy summer night. The group followed, hot on our heels. This wasn’t our first rodeo, so we hung a sharp left to cut across the street.
“Hey, Dean,” a slurred voice called out. “Dean the Machine—that’s you, isn’t it?”
“Don’t they know your fists are literally lethal weapons?” Rowan whispered.
He meant it as a joke. The potential for harm, however, was real. I’d worked hard the last three years to control my body’s instincts to use my hands instead of walking away. Because guys like that—die-hard sports fans who believed I was the scourge of the earth because I’d let them down—only wanted to poke the bear and see what happened.
“Deeeaaaaaaan,” the guy taunted. The block we walked down was free of kids, thankfully. But full of folks on their stoops or lawn chairs on the sidewalk, gossiping with their neighbors like they did every night.
If I hit this asshole, the whole neighborhood would know by dawn.
Rowan and I nodded as we passed houses, greeted a few people we knew. They were very aware of the tiny mob behind us, their eyes wide. I kept my body language loose. Comfortable. The second we turned onto 11th Street, in front of an old, boarded-up deli, a hand grabbed the back of my shirt and pulled.
I stopped. Rowan spun and said, “Come on, man.”
I waited for the guy to release me. He didn’t. His fingers tightened in the fabric. “My friends said I couldn’t take Dean the Machine himself.”I felt him wobbling. “But I said…I said…that piece of shit quit three fucking years ago.Pretty sure I could beat his ass.”
“Chad, let him go.”
“Yeah, Chad,” Rowan said. “Listen to your friends over there. They seem smarter than you.”
Chad yanked, but it was pointless. Being steady on my feet had been a requirement in my fighting days. As gently as I could, I reached behind and gripped his wrist. Squeezed, just a little. His fingers popped open.
“Hey, watch it—”
I turned on my heel. Chad was red faced, swaying, and about a foot shorter than I was. Drunken bravado had his right fist sailing sloppily toward the middle of my chest. I caught it midair and stepped into his space. He audibly gulped.
“I don’t fight anymore,” I said firmly. “I won’t be fighting you either. Now go home.”
“You scared?”
Behind me, Rowan started laughing. Even Chad’s friends were starting to shift uncomfortably on their feet.
“Not at all,” I said.
“Then let’s do this.”
I released his fist with a grunt of frustration and stepped away. It was an almost monthly occurrence, the way guys like this felt the need to show me up after one too many beers. Turns out prioritizing your own health over winning a championship belt was never gonna sit well with this city I’d disappointed.
Chad huffed a half-laugh, half-hiccupping sound and charged me. My hand shot out, connected with his chest, and then I shoved him back against the brick wall of the deli. I didn’t do it as hard as I could. I did it as softly as I could. He still flinched, and I felt bad about it.
Real fear flickered across his face.
Sometimes I had to meet their stupid intimidation tactics with my own to avoid an actual fight. I didn’t like it. It wasn’t in a ring. It wasn’t regulated. There wasn’t a ref or pads or gear. My body was a road map of injuries that never healed right, making my muscles and joints ache like I was forty-five and not twenty-five. I was overly cautious of inflicting that onto others. Even if Chad’s boozy, smug face had me questioning my ethics.
“Knock it off,” I snapped. I took a step closer. He gulped again. A zap of power shot up my spine. It was only a taste of how I used to feel. But it was enough to be confusing. I didn’t want to feel that when I was being a bully. Problem was I didn’t know how to feel it now that I couldn’t fight. And I sure as hell hadn’t found another way.
I let him go and rejoined Rowan. We didn’t turn back around to engage. Didn’t say a thing when Chad shouted, “Next time, you asshole.”
We walked in silence for a minute. Then Rowan said, “I know it sucks every fucking time.”
“I’m used to it by now,” I said. “It doesn’t bother me.”
That was a lie. And he knew it.
We hit the turn toward Emily Street, toward the giant trash heap I couldn’t stop being mad about. As we passed people on stoops and kids running in packs, I tried to carry myself like I was still Dean the Machine, the pride of this city. A man to be revered and respected.
But the only stray glances our way I saw were full of sympathy.
And not the nice kind.
