Page 4 of Ringer

Losing focus gets you hurt.

Gets people killed.

Gets you blindsided.

He gives me that big Owen grin. “No worries, man. Let’s do one more round. You just dodge. You’re going to need to be able to dodge Manfredo.”

We’ve studied the tape. He’s right: it’s all in the dodge.

My opponent in the New Year’s fight.

Twelve days.

I breathe, center, focus.

The Christmas carols change, from something about white snow on Christmas to a breathy woman singing something dirty about Santa.

I look up to clear my eyes.

The gym door swings open on a cold gust of air, a swirl of white flurriescascading in around a person that rushes through it.

Small form, female, shapely. She’s wearing a big red winter coat with a huge hood that obscures her face.

Tilts her face up.

Holy shit.

A face I never expected to see again. She’s like something out of a dream, every good dream I’ve had since I was nineteen years old. I’ll be thirty-nine New Year’s Day. That’s a long fucking time.

But the long dark hair and the wide blue eyes. High cheekbones. The curves.

I’d know them anywhere.

Suddenly, I can’t take my eyes off her.

And that’s how I fail to dodge the ham hock of a fist hurling through space straight at my face at lightning speed.

Owen’s swearing even before it makes contact, but it’s too late.

I hear the sound of my own nose break. Snap, crack, spurt.

Explosion of light. Gush of blood. Pain like I haven’t felt in a long time.

Can’t fucking breathe.

I stay on my feet – come on, I’m tough – and even as my hand comes up to my nose, I don’t take my eyes off her.

“Jack, what the hell man?” Owensays, his voice taking on that little kid edge of horror. Big bruiser of a guy hates to hurt people, even with what he does for a living. Owen wouldn’t have made a good soldier. Hell of a guy though.

“Put pressure on it,” he’s saying. He’s tries to push me back to the bench at the edge of the ring, but I won’t budge. I can’t seem to move. When I take a step, it’s not back where Owen’s pushing me.

It’s forward, fighting him, to get to her.

“Molly,” Owen calls, voice rising.

I try to say her name, but nothing comes out. My mouth is dry, there’s blood everywhere, and my nose is crooked.

Great. I’m going to be even uglier.

---