Page 1 of Love to Stay

Chapter One

MICK

“Great bout, Mickster.” Harry “O.P.” Maroon nudges my sore shoulder with a bare fist.

I rub the spot. “Careful, O.P., or I’ll have to go to the hospital and not just the trainer.” Even a simple tap by O.P.—short for One Punch because he has so many one-punch knockouts—is hard on my body. I’d just gone five rounds of sparring with the former heavyweight champ. It’s been five years since he’s won a belt, but he’s still got fast hands and quick feet, and his hits haven’t lost an ounce of power. My ribs ache with every breath. It’s a good ache, though. O.P. is the only one who has been able to land a punch on me in weeks. I’ve been getting bored.

He laughs, his slight paunch jiggling. “You're holding your own, son. I'll admit that when they first told me you were coming, I wasn't thrilled because you didn't have any training, but what you don’t have in formal training you’re making up with natural skill. No one can teach that. Keep working hard.”

“When do you think he’ll be ready?” Pedro, my trainer, leans against the ropes.

I stick my tongue between my teeth because a lot rides on his answer.

Harry tilts his head to the side. “I could see him in the ring in three or four months, depending on how dedicated he is.”

Pedro taps his chin. “There’s a fight with an empty undercard in two months.”

“It’s a risk, but I think he can do it.”

I know I can.

“You have your assignment,” he directs to me.

“I’ve always hated homework.” I pretend to be irked, but inside I’m dancing. I shove to my feet and then groan from the pain. Harry laughs.

Some of the younger guys appear out of the locker room, freshly washed and dressed in jeans and tees in varying degrees of wrinkledness. Dee’s shirt looks like he ironed it back there but it’s more likely it hung in the steam room while he worked out. Simba’s vintage Metallica concert tee looks like he just pulled it from the toe of a wool sock. Maybe that’s authentic vintage look, though. I don’t know anything about fashion, unlike some people. I shove that thought down. Can’t haveherfilling up my head when I’m supposed to be concentrating on becoming a world class boxer. Not that she wants me to think of her. Last time we talked—I should say fought—she told me that if I didn’t leave the city for Vegas, she didn’t even want to be friends because she didn’t want me to blame her for holding me back.

“We’re going to contribute to the Vegas economy.” Simba fans a bunch of five-dollar bills in front of his face.

“It’s five dollars for strippers now? Used to be dollar bills were enough back in my day.”

“A dollar bill would get you kicked out and banned, Grandpa.” Simba shakes his head.

O.P. glances toward me. I shrug. “Don’t ask me.”

“Mick doesn’t go to strip clubs and he doesn’t drink and he doesn’t do drugs and he doesn’t run around with strippers. Orany women.” Pedro shakes his finger at me. “You’re a straitlaced virgin until you win the title.”

“Cripes, Pedro, what’s the point of living if we can’t have pussy and beer?” Dee looks like he wants to fight.

“The point is to win a championship belt. If you want to win, you stay away. If you want pussy and beer, then live with being a training dummy for the winners.”

Pedro’s blunt words piss Dee and Simba off. They give him the double finger and then look at me.

I want to win, so I stay seated.

“Fucking loser.”

“Pussy hater.”

“Fuck you, old man,” they shout as they leave.

“Am I the pussy hater?” O.P. asks.

“I’m the old man,” Pedro says.

“That leaves me to be the fucking loser,” I laugh.

“No offense kid, but I have a wife, so I don’t hate pussy. You have to be the pussy hater.” O.P is comically offended by this.

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