Page 17 of Love Punch

Bradley

Iwoke up to a torture I thought I wouldn’t find in my parents’ house: the smell of Arthur’s delicious baking. I groaned and rolled over, burying my head in a pillow that was starting to smell far too much of me. But anything to block out the scent of sugar, to take away a temptation I didn’t deserve.

I drifted in and out of sleep as the smells wafted through the room. It had to be Arthur cooking, because God forbid my mother let the chefs bake anything remotely fattening. She was determined that she and Dad would live past a hundred, and I wasn’t sure he had any say in the matter.

Me? My career was over. I could eat as much yummy, fatty food as I wanted. I could get fat and lazy and old—live my best life.

It had ended with the worst possible result, and everything else might as well follow suit. I wasn’t worthy of the belt I’d defended for five years, of the people who helped me get to where I am, of Jason. I wasn’t worthy of the Tyler name. And I definitely wasn’t worthy ofhim.

How could I even look at Arthur knowing how I’d let him down? There was no chance to prove my worth anymore. No way to—

A loud banging on the door interrupted my thoughts. “Wake up, lazy prick!” Arthur shouted.

It wasn’t the first time he’d tried to get me up, but it was the first time he’d been so… aggressive about it. I groaned in response and grabbed another pillow to muffle the noise. I did not want to be disturbed. I wastired,for fuck’s sake.

“I know you can hear me, Bradley. You get your arse up and out of bed right now! I made cake! And bread. And cookies. I may have gone overboard, but your mum won’t eat more than two grams of saturated fats and I can’t have all these to myself.”

“Piss off!” I yelled, cringing instantly at my tone. Arthur didn’t deserve that.

“Right, I didn’t want to do this…” For a few seconds, there was silence. And then, blasting loud enough to make the doors shake in their frames: ”Woop! Woop! It’s da sound of da Police!”

“You prick,” I muttered, rolling out of bed and using the duvet to cover what little modesty I had. I yanked the door open, wincing at the noise before a sheepish-looking Arthur switched off the old-fashioned boom-box stolen from my home gym. My eyes fell to his feet, where two plates sat: one with cookies and one with a mouth-watering Victoria sponge. Behind them—was a floor fan.

“Have you beenblowingthe smell of cake into my room all morning? I asked incredulously.

“Morning would be stretching it,” challenged Arthur. “It’s past lunchtime; I’ve been at this for hours.”

He crooked a brow at me—and I wanted to melt. He was so beautiful. It was like those four days away from his face—longer than I’d spent away in three years—gave me the chance to appreciate his looks all the more. That mousy brown hair, thatlittle curve to his lips like he was always holding back a grin. He was so stunningly beautiful he could make my breath stop.

“You look terrible,” he said, the words like a bucket of cold water over my head. “Have you even showered?”

“That’s not how you talk to your boss,” I said, my hackles rising.

“No? Honesty has never been an issue with us before, and I don’t see why it has to be now, Bradley.” Arthur pushed past me and into the bedroom. “Jesus Christ, it smells in here. And don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been hoarding your plates in here like some kind of dinner dragon.”

I growled. “How I spend my days is none of your business. You are an employee, Arthur. Don’t forget that.”

Arthur whirled around and stepped into my space, and for the first time, he looked furious. “We both know we’re way past that. We’ve been friends for years. And if you speak to me like that again, not only will I be quitting, I’ll take your testicles on a spike with me.”

I deflated, looking around the darkened room with fresh eyes. The clothes I’d worn home from the hospital were scattered all over the floor, as were sticky, dirty plates and cutlery. I’d even gotten some food stains on the bedsheets and failed to wipe them off. The suitcase Arthur packed for me laid in the corner—untouched. And now that fresh air was drifting in from the house, I could admit that the whole place probably smelled a bit funky. Exactly as you’d expect a thirty-two-year-old boxer who hadn’t washed for four days and wallowing in his own sadness would smell: not good.

“What do we do, Arthur?” I asked.

“First, you shower. And then we talk.”

The mere thought of a shower was overwhelming. Which was stupid, surely? How could I be overwhelmed by something I usually did daily? Sometimes even twice. But the piteous eyeson Arthur’s face were enough to make me realise I had to dosomething. I took a step towards the bathroom before he cleared his throat.

“What?”

“Duvet. Gimme,” he said, holding his hand out. His cheeks tinged pink, but he held eye contact.

“I haven’t got anything on underneath!”

“Well, that’s how showers usually work. That duvet stinks. Give it to me so it can be washed. Or burned if those ketchup stains won’t come off.”

“Turn around then,” I said, uncharacteristically bashful.

Arthur rolled his eyes and turned away, muttering under his breath. “Nowthe man learns about modesty.”

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