Page 14 of Strelitzias in Spring

My mom calls them lying eyes, and she’s not wrong.

“Hi, Wolf.”

I nod. “Kelly.”

Her lips turn down, a frown marring her beautiful, vindictive face. “What, no hello?”

I sigh, shaking my head. “You expect me to say hello to you after the shit you put me through? Where’s Gage?”

She has the good sense to look sheepish, faux embarrassment dotting her cheeks. Kelly and I dated for two years, and I thought we had a good thing, something that could last. CeCe was wary of Kelly from the start, warning me that she was with me for clout and social media followers. I dismissed that idea like a goddamn fool.

As soon as I announced my impending retirement, Kelly left. She packed up the shit in the house we shared—the house I paid for—and immediately started dating Gage, a prick from the gym with a mean right hook and an even shittier attitude. He’s predicted to win the welterweight title, and that’s all Kelly needed to shift her interest from me to him.

“He’s speaking with one of his sponsors. How are you doing?”

“Do you care?”

“Wolf,” she gasps. I can’t stop my eye roll in response. “You know I care. I just have dreams. Dreams bigger than being a small-town artist’s girlfriend.”

“I have a two-year-long waitlist and tattoo some of the biggest names in the tri-state area, but fuck me, right?” I murmur, shaking my head. It’s the same excuse she gave me when she left. “Someone like me deserves to be seen. I can’t support a starving artist on my Instagram sponsorships,” she’d told me right before she drove off in her little pink Audi. I would have been upset if her comments hadn’t made me so fucking angry.

“Listen, I don’t want to fight with you. Have a good night. Say hi to Gage.” Pushing off the wall, I down my drink, wishing it was something stronger than carbonated water, and set my glass down on the cocktail table beside me. Without sparing Kelly another glance, I walk to the center of the room where Jedd holds court like a king. Kelly’s sputters and unjustified outrage follow me as I walk away from her and the bullshit her presence brings.

I’m stopped in my retreat by a booming voice to my right. “Wolf fucking McCleery, you fucking giant. How you doing?”

“Hey, Johnny,” I respond, turning to offer my hand to the energy drink promoter I’ve known since I began training with Jedd.

“What’s this shit I hear? You’re retiring? No, man, that’s got to be a mistake. Blue Grizzly needs their fucking top athlete to keep selling their shit.” Johnny’s grip on my hand tightens. He may be strong, but his grip is infantile compared to mine.

“No, man, not a mistake. I need these hands to create my art. You know that’s always been my end game.” I emphasize my point by squeezing his palm until he winces and finally releases my hand.

“Fucking hell, Wolf. What are you thinking? You’ve got a shot at the heavyweight title this year, and you’re going to throw it away for goddamn tattoos? Did you take one too many hits to the fucking head?”

I feel my jaw clench. I’m so sick of this question. I love MMA, jiu-jitsu, and the financial freedom it’s afforded me, but I’m done with the rigorous training, the early mornings and late nights, watching every single piece of food that goes into my mouth. And I don’t need Johnny, or anyone else in this room, questioning my decision.

Johnny’s face grows red, no doubt concerned at my sudden hostility. Good, prick.

“What I’m thinking is that I’m retiring from this sport and living my life away from assholes who don’t know when to quit. Have a good night.” Offering a nod, I brush past Johnny, purposely clipping his shoulder with my arm. I smirk as he stumbles back, muttering about “asshole fighters” under his breath as I keep walking.

Finally making it to the center of the room, I throw an arm around Jedd, not giving a shit that I’m interrupting his conversation. The older man looks up, a bright smile decorating his face when he realizes it’s me.

“Christ, McCleery, ye gave me a feckin’ heart attack,” Jedd says in his deep Irish brogue. Originally from Cork, my trainer came to the States in the eighties and has been terrorizing fighters ever since.

“Like anything could kill you, old man.” I laugh, shaking my head. “Listen, I’m going to head out. I have some clients in the morning and need to work on their sketches.”

“What, club Farrell not good enough for ye?” He pauses to look around at the lights and cocktail tables decorating the walls, wincing slightly when he catches a string of balloons tied to the ropes on one of the rings.

“Feckin’ hell, I’m gonna eat Lauren’s head for this. I told her this was an event for fighters and promoters, and she’s made it into a bloody sweet sixteen.”

“She means well, but listen, I need to go before fucking Johnny comes over to talk to me again.”

Jedd’s face darkens, disgust and contempt written on his features. “A feckin’ chancer, he is. Go before ye use his body to wipe the scuff marks off the floor. But listen—” He hesitates, looking back toward the group of men I interrupted. He leans in, lowering his voice until it’s barely a whisper. “Come by tomorrow after yer appointments. I need ye to take a look at Gage’s form. Something’s off with him, but I need yer opinion.”

Shaking my head, I try to push away, but his arm is locked tight around my neck. “You know I can’t be objective when it comes to him. He throws a punch, and I’m going to say it’s shit because he is. Ask someone else.”

“No, boy. Yer the best fighter this gym has. I respect the decision to retire. I think it’s damn smart to go out on the top of yer career, but I still need yer help. Come by, check his training, and then come for supper upstairs. I know the missus will be happy to see ye.”

“For fuck’s sake, Jedd. Don’t throw Miriam into the mix; you know I can’t say no to her.”

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