Page 23 of Fighting Spirit

“Well, you do bear a striking resemblance,” she teases. “How was the brawl?”

I hold up the gloves. “It was tough, but I think I came out on top.”

“Managed to avoid getting chopped?”

“Still got all twelve fingers.”

“Lucky, you wouldn’t want to be down a digit.”

“It might have been worth it. I’m shooting for a handkerchief here.”

She dramatically roots around the stuff on the table, almost scattering pins across the linoleum. “I’m sorry to disappoint.” She holds up her empty hands in apology.

I shrug. “Well, I suppose a gentleman needs no reward.” Her face when I place the gloves on the counter is pure elation. I wonder what else I’d do to get her to give me that look again.

“How do you even have them?”

“You left them at the house,” I reply. “You’re lucky I picked them up before one of the guys started screwing around with them.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly have much say in the matter.”

“I guess not.”Not with that asshole dragging her out the door.My mood sours at the memory. At first I’d assumed that he was her boyfriend from how he’d been acting, but Ruth’s reaction quickly put that to bed. Half of me had wanted to stop her from leaving with him, but what would I have done? Told her not to go with the guy that she obviously knows, and stay with me in a disgusting house that she didn’t want to be in?

“Can you pass them over?” She reaches toward me from the dining table and I quickly acquiesce. The movement disrupts a drop of water on my elbow. It runs down my arm and lands on the fabric she’s working on, drawing her eye to the state of my shirt. “Oh god, you’re soaked!” She rummages around until she finds a kitchen towel that she promptly launches at my chest.

“Dry off a bit before you go,” she commands, gesturing at the seat across from her.

My feet move before I realize what they’re doing.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Just some costume stuff.”

“For the mascot thing?”

“The mascot thing?” She eyes me warily.

“Sorry.” I smirk. “Your esteemed profession as a foam toad.”

Hurt flashes across her expression, all our easy banter gone as I hit a tender spot. I hate it. “If you’re gonna be rude, you can go.” The hurt shifts into something angry as she glares me down.

“Sorry, I’m being a dick.” I shift awkwardly in my chair.

“Yeah, you are.” She raises an eyebrow. “I’m just as much of an athlete as you or anyone else on that field. Just because I wear a costume and make people laugh doesn’t mean it’s not worth taking seriously.”

Has someone told her she’s not worth taking seriously?

“I know, you’re right.” I stare her down, wanting her to know I mean it. “I’m sorry, Ruth.”

“Good.” She huffs, her back straightening like she’s trying to stay mad.

“Besides,” I continue, “I’m hardly one to talk, I just run up and down a field hitting guys in tights.”

She snorts out a laugh. “That’s true.”

“So come on then.” I lean forward, rubbing the towel over my hair. “What are you actually doing?”

“Still trying to get me to spill my secrets? I thought you’d do better than that.”

---