Page 114 of Forgotten Comeback
“Guess we’ll find out.” I scramble off her, and Taylor shifts to her knees. “Same rules?”
“Same rules,” she says with determination.
New to this relationship thing, I should probably let Taylor win.
Yeah, I probably should.
But I’m not.
“You gonna squirt across the room again, man-eater?” My hand wraps around my dick as I give it a tug.
“Ga-vin,” she moans my name, running her fingers through her pussy lips. “Be a good boy for me and come on my tits.”
Be a good boy for me.
Gavin
Thirteen-years-old
“You are telegraphing your punches.” My coach barks as I throw a wild jab, and my sparring partner clinches me. I’m sucking wind with my arms trapped beneath his, and then the fucker head butts me. The cut above my right eyebrow busts open, blood gushing down my face.
We’re broken up, and I return to my corner, our cutman holding a towel over the right side of my face. “He can’t do that,” I argue.
“Leave your face unguarded, and yes, he fucking can,” Coach informs me. “You got caught cold; that’s on you, Rocco.”
“He’s bleeding like a stuck pig,” the cutman comments, switching out towels.
“That’s all for today,” Coach calls loudly. He turns to me, disappointment in his voice. “You wanna be a professional boxer, don’t you, Rocco?
“Yes, Coach.”
“Then you’ve gotta learn that not everyone fights fair. You can be a better boxer, but if your opponent has nothing to lose, he’s going to wipe the mat with you. You’ve gotta be hungry for that win, you understand me?”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Prove to me you belong here.”
“I will, Coach.”
He ducks beneath the ropes, a group of pretty women waiting on him. I don’t get why he does that with such a beautiful wife at home, but it’s none of my business.
After the cutman gets the bleeding stemmed and bandaged, I’m helped out of my gloves, and I shower in the locker room before changing into my street clothes.
Stepping outside, I begin the five-mile walk back to the house. Mama won’t let my brothers use her vehicle, and I know better than to ask her to do me any favors.
A car pulls up beside me, the window rolling down. “Rocco, what are you doing?” Coach’s wife, Mrs. Silva, asks.
“Walking home.”
She tsks. “You don’t need to be walking these streets at night. Get in.”
“It’s alright, Mrs. Silva?—”
“Get in, and I’ll feed you,” she offers.
My growling stomach decides for me as I slide into the passenger seat.
She drives me to her house, where I take a seat at the table as she works behind the stove. “I’m reheating you arroz de pato.”
