12 Rounds: A Sports Boxing Romance: Fire & Ice Romance Series, #7

1

Idecide to take a more a more offensive tactic as we entered into the final round. I have not gone twelve rounds since I was an amateur boxer; it had only happened once, and I had knocked that fool out within the first ten seconds of the final round. I always KO my opponents, but this guy is putting up one hell of a fight. I deliver two powerful uppercuts followed by three quick jabs right into his unprotected face. Idiot , I think. I realize he’s probably exhausted, hell, I am too –but this fool is letting his form suffer because of it, and that’s exactly why he is going to lose. The crowd is going nuts, but I can just barely hear them due to the serious ringing in my ear that has been going on ever since the second round when this son of a bitch knocked me on both sides of the head at once; I had gotten him back when he had left his body open from that childish display of desperation, but damn it’s got me off my game –the only reason he’s managed to last this long.

From the corner of my gradually swelling eyes I can see my girl, Brandi, standing wide-eyed at me from the center of the front row; she looks completely horrified. She’s used to me going five rounds max and then knocking the other guy out. This is the first time she’s seen me do anything like this, and of course, this is the one where she gets really up close for the show and isn’t at home pacing in front of my television. That’s not to say she doesn’t come to my matches on occasion, but watching it live makes her anxious. She’s probably sweating more than I am. Poor Brandi, she’s going to give me shit about this later.

The guy I’m boxing gets desperate as I start working him towards the corner of the ring, and he delivers a low blow to my sack, and I instantly drop to a knee as the ref comes and yanks the guy back. Through the irritable ringing in my ear and the insufferable throbbing in my groin, I can hear the guy cursing at the ref and the announcers giving the play by play of the illegal below the belt blow over the amplified speaker system. He’s going to get points docked for that one, but if I’m going to win this match I have to get back up off my ass. I see Brandi eyeing me. Get up! her mouth forms the words, but I can’t hear her over the crowd. Truthfully, I know she would much prefer me to stay down and call it a night, but she’s putting on a front to encourage me to do my thing.

I’m up, and I’m ready to go –ready to kick this guy’s ass for the low blow. Desperate mother-fucker. The second the ref gives me the green light; I take out every ounce of frustration that had been building over the past rounds on this guy’s smug face. I don’t hold back –not even a little. I let my temper take over, but not to the point where I am not in control. I use it, my temper, I mean. I let it fuel me, and I am fairly certain I break the fucker’s nose and possibly his jaw before he stiffens after the strongest punch I’ve probably delivered all night. He falls straight back –arms wide apart –out cold.

He lands with a loud thud, and the crowd loses their minds. Just barely I can make out the announcer's voice. That’s right; you saw it here, folks. Stockney almost went a full twelve rounds with undefeated middleweight boxing champion, Jonathan Trial!

The second guy’s voice butts in. That’s right, Jackie. And now, Stockney, as we all know, was making his debut this evening. Everyone, myself included, called this guy nuts for challenging Trial.

That’s right; I think to myself as the ref holds my glove high above my head, he was nuts. I got to admit, though; he really made me fight for it. They’re pulling Stockney up onto his feet now that he’s coming to, so I walk over to touch gloves with the kid. You got some serious fight in you, kid, I say and give him a gentle, friendly jab in the arm to let him know he about had me. I’m buying you a drink, I add, and he grins, even more, spitting a bit of blood down in the ring so he can utter a tangible thank-you.

He nods and grins through bloody teeth and a swollen face. I had almost turned down the fight when I heard about what a short record this guy had, but I went and watched him spar a few times and decided to let the guy give it a go. He had challenged me to try to make a name for himself, and he probably had done just that. The out of the woods underdog had definitely given me a run for my money. I’ll have to keep an eye out for him in the future because he’s going to get him a real manager after this. I doubt this is going to be our last fight, and I sure as hell am not going to let some punk kid take my title.

I hold my championship belt high and invite my girl up onto the ring for a slightly bloodied smooch for the world to see on the televised program. Fuck you, she says to me, her heart clearly still racing after such a close fight.

Later, I say with a wink, and she rolls her eyes at me.

The excitement settles, and I head to the locker-room to clean up and to get someone to free my sweaty hands from my gloves. I grimace slightly on the way back to the locker-room; my right glove is shot. Damn, I like these gloves. It was a small victory tonight, but it’s probably going to be trending all over the internet after that amateur went twelve rounds with me. My manager is going to want to set up a press conference after that one because everyone’s going to want to talk about how I almost lost my belt –keyword almost. I’m still undefeated, but the press is going to give me hell about Stockney. I say let them. I don’t really care. The kid put up a good fight –I don't have anything bad to say about him. He had certainly surprised me.

Once I’m back in the locker-room, they get me out of my gloves and bandages, and I stretch out my fingers and pop my knuckles. A doctor looks me over and cleans my wounds, telling me I’m going to need stitches. Fine, I grumble, But I’m taking a fucking shower first.

He tries to argue with me. I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist that-

Shower, I say and stand up off the gurney they had me sitting on. I throw my thumb behind me towards the locker showers. I’m showering off right here. I won’t be far. You can stitch me up once I get the blood out of my nose.

I hurry because the doctor is really impatient. I let the water wash away the sweat and blood, and it feels great apart from the sting along my hairline where the doctor had said he would need to stitch me up. It’s worse than I thought, but I bear through it until I can breathe out of my nose again.

It was a good match. It’s been a while since anyone made me fight like that, and I catch myself grinning ear to ear after such a riveting experience.

2

The lights from the cameras are slightly blinding as I sit behind the small table at the front of the room. The reporters are all impatiently waiting for me to give my post-match statement and to ask me a series of what will likely be bullshit questions about the match with Stockney from yesterday as well as any potential upcoming matches.

As soon as my manager gives the okay, the questions start flowing in fast as each reporter attempts to speak over the other. This is probably my least favorite thing about boxing –talking to the damn press. They are always more than happy to twist your words to help make headlines. I have been pretty lucky thus far to have maintained a half-decent relationship with the press, but I know they would turn on me in a heartbeat if it meant better ratings.

Beside me on the panel is my trainer Damion and his assistant, my friend, Gabriel. Damion is an old, retired boxer who had had his ass beat by Ali back in the day, but he had still gone toe to toe with some of the best heavyweight boxers of the era and had won. He’s a little washed up now, but he is one hell of a trainer. He has been with me ever since my amateur boxing days; I had started training at his gym, and he had picked me up –no manager –and started training me. Damion had been the one to introduce me to my first legitimate boxing manager, so really it’s thanks to him that I am where I am today.

Gabriel had been the stock boy at the gym Damion owned. He basically had been in charge of bringing the boxers towels, but after having his ass whooped in the locker room at the gym a few times, Damion had started training him too. Now he was Damion’s personal assistant and not just a towel boy. He had just been a kid to me back then, but now he was my closest friend. He is a young guy –still just twenty while I am pushing twenty-seven, but he is really professional now. He works close with my manager as well as Damion. During training, Gabriel is always the unfortunate soul holding the boxing bag still or sparring in the ring when actual boxers are unavailable. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve accidentally clocked the guy.

Brandi is standing in the back of the room –always supportive. We’re just now getting started, and she already looks bored out of her mind, though. She looks really sexy standing there quietly in the corner; her eyes cut towards me, and her bright pink lips pierced together in a slight smug. She's a dancer, so she’s a bit of an athlete herself which I’ve always liked. A much more elegant sort of athlete –but an athlete nonetheless. I always get trapped going to her boring ass ballets, but I suppose if she can sit through watching me get punched repeatedly I can spare some time to watch her prance about the stage.

Mr. Trial! Mr. Trial! One of the reporters has managed to push her way to the front of the crowd. Damn, I think and have to remind myself that Brandi is literally standing right there in the back of the room. The reporter is wearing this tight suit and unless she really is just that ridiculously perky, a serious push-up bra under a low-cut, bright red blouse. I give her the nod so that she knows I’m listening. I was hoping you could comment on the incident at Belmont High School.

This bitch. Seriously? I should have known better than answering the chick’s question. I know exactly what she is talking about. I did some stupid commercial a while back –my manager’s idea –and they gave me a slogan: If you can’t go twelve rounds, you’ve not worth the fight. Lame. Well, apparently a few days ago a couple of kids beat the shit out of some other kid at their school; the whole thing had gotten recorded on someone’s camera, and the little punks signed off with my slogan. The video has gone viral. I’ll even admit that I’ve watched it.

What do I say to her? Of course, I go the sarcastic route. I can’t help myself. What’s wrong? I question, don’t know a damn thing about boxing, sweetie, so you got to ask me about some online video to try to get a response from me that doesn’t take you having to actually do your job as a reporter and study up on what you’re reporting?

The woman is a bit taken back, but she doesn’t back down. This is about much more than some online video, Mr. Trial. Children in our public schools are imitating you. Do you believe that you are in any way responsible for the actions of these children?

What’s your name? I ask, my lips practically touching the microphone they have laid out in front of me.

Get her out of here, my manager starts to say, but I hold up my hand to let him know I got this.

"Alison Lial from The Morning Cup." She says, and I try not to snort. The Morning Cup is far from serious reporting; I have no idea how she even managed to get let in here.

Well, Ms. Lial, tell me, what do you think? I ask, putting her on the spot. Do you think I am responsible?

She shoots me these sharp eyes, but she still does not back down. My opinion is irrelevant to my piece. Do you believe that we, as functioning members of society should be displaying such intentional acts of violence in public spheres for entertaining purposes for not only adults but for the youth as well?

My manager looks nervous –afraid of what I might say. I just smile at her. You really want to know what I think, Ms. Lial? I have to bite my tongue to keep from giving a stupid, sarcastic response. I don’t want to give her fuel for a hate piece –even if it is a little paper like The Morning Cup –plus there are real reporters here too with their cameras on me. I think what those kids did was absolutely degrading, and they should be ashamed of themselves. I don’t like bullies, and that’s all those kids are –and I hope they’re watching this so that they can hear me say how I think they’re nothing but a couple of cowards picking on someone smaller than them. I’m always honored to hear from younger fans, but not like that. They’re no fans of mine. Boxing is a sport. Sports are supposed to teach us valuable lessons –they’re not some tool meant to be used to overpower someone. Plus, whoever that poor kid was they knocked around, well, I bet he could have taken either of those little shits if they had taken him in a fair fight. Personally, I’d like to hear from those kids because I sure do have a few damn things to say about what the hell they thought they were doing bringing my name into their bullshit antics. Now, if you would get the fuck out of here, Ms. Lial –I hope I gave you enough to write your gossip column.

I watch as security ushers her out the back door, and there is a small round of applause from the more serious reporters and the line of amateur boxers standing in the background hoping to get a glimpse of me. My manager gives me a subtle thumbs up to let me know I did not fuck up. I bet we could turn this into a killer publicity stunt, now that I think about it. I can already picture it. Me sitting down with the little shits and the poor son of a bitch they beat up –a sort of anti-bullying campaign. Yeah, that could work –and I bet my manager is already thinking something fairly similar.

So, I said while I propped my elbows up onto the table and leaned closer to the microphone, does anyone have any actual questions about boxing they want to address?

The group of reporters all laugh slightly. Over the years I’ve learned to handle this crowd. They fucking love me –which means good publicity. I own these morons, and I think they all know it.

3

Iam always thankful when the press interviews are over. I wind up standing around with Gabe and Brandi afterward, the three of us just chatting in a corner until the room clears out. Damion and my manager head out together, both uttering some stupid jokes about me staying out of trouble and me giving an equally stupid response.

Eventually, Gabe, Brandi, and I get tired of standing around, and we head out the back of the building as well –exiting through the locker rooms into the back parking lot. It’s dark out now, and the place is fairly deserted apart from a few parked cars. Just as we are leaving the building a familiar, bitchy voice squeaks, Excuse me, Mr. Trial. It’s Alison Lial.

Brandi is the first to take defense. Beat it, bitch, she says. That’s my girl.

I put a hand on Brandi’s hip and offer her a smile, letting her know I can handle myself quite well. Brandi just crosses her arms and pokes out her lips. Gabe rolls his eyes and puts forth a similar stance minus the pouty lips. Can I help you, Ms. Lial?

I was hoping to get a private interview, she said, After you had me thrown out, I was not able to get much to write about.

I had you thrown out for a reason, you know? I snap.

Listen- she looks pissed, and I hold my hand up to her face before she can say much more.

I turn and look at Brandi and Gabe. Hey, man, you think you could drive Brandi home? I’d like to nip this shit in the bud before the bitch writes some article trashing me.

Brandi looks furious at my decision to not drive her home, but she goes with it. Gabe nods and the two of them head off, loading up into his car and peeling out of the parking lot. I turn and look at Alison with the most hateful glare I can manage. Well? You want a one on one interview or not?

Seriously? she questions; she clearly did not expect for me to cave.

Yeah, but I’m not doing it out here, I head back towards the building, and I kindly open the door up for her.

I have keys to a green room upstairs where some of the boxers go to hang out before photo shoots and promo commercials. We sit down on the futon that makes up the majority of the small room, and it only takes a couple of questions before I realize that my assumptions about her were right. She does not know shit about boxing. How did you get stuck writing this article? I finally ask her.

She comes clean. "The Morning Cup wants to take a new direction with their reporting style. You were right. The group is pretty much just a gossip style magazine, but they want to become more serious. I was one of the top gossip columnists, but they decided to get rid of those types of writings completely as they started in this new direction. I had to either become a sports writer or lose my job."

If you’re going to start writing about sports, you might want to study up a little more, sweetie, I say. I smile at her, and I see her wince slightly, turn her head down embarrassingly, and softly clear her throat as though a nervous lump had formed.

I know, she admits, "this is supposed to be my first story, and I got so nervous. So many reporters at The Morning Cup have already lost their jobs in this transition. I just wanted to write something worth reading, and I fell into my old habits, I suppose. I wanted something juicy instead of just reporting the news. I’m sorry for giving you such a hard time. You actually gave me a pretty good answer to my question, though. I can’t believe you agreed to a private interview."

I grin. Well, for a pretty face like that, how couldn’t I? She blushes again. I add, Tell you what, if you ever need to ask a question about boxing, I’m your guy, I snatched her pen away from her, our hands touching for a second. I can tell this makes her nervous. I don’t bother taking her notebook out of her lap; instead, I lean over and write down my number for her –a fake number, of course –I don’t want this nut job calling me all the time. I put the pen down, and I allow my hand to land on her knee.

Alison nervously picked her pen back up, and she says nothing about my hand. We go through a few more questions, and as we do we become increasingly friendly. Soon we’re sitting close enough to where our thighs are touching; I’m practically leaning over her as we speak.

I’ll admit it. I do this sort of thing a lot. I could probably write a book on the art of seduction. I’m good, and I know it. I mean, come one –I embarrassed this woman in front of a group of people, had her thrown out of a building, and made it pretty clear in the parking lot that I had a girlfriend yet here she is completely falling for the charm. I think you’re going to do just fine with this article, I tell her, pushing her notebook away and letting it slide onto the floor. I wouldn’t worry too much.

I offer her another smile, and I can see her melting. Her breathing has changed; her palms are slightly shaky. I decide to go for it; I lean in and let my lips linger, but I don’t go too much further. She gives me a peck and then pulls away, humiliated that she had been the one to cross the threshold. In one quick motion, I pull her legs out from under her and jump on top of her; she lays flat on her back on the futon staring back up at me. Do you want it? I ask her now that we’ve clearly broken all professional barriers.

She does not answer me with words; she grabs me by my shirt collar and pulls my face towards hers, slamming our lips together and slipping her tongue into my mouth. That a girl, I think to myself and get her out of her suit jacket and tight, black dress pants. I pull off her blouse, and I discover that I had been right about the push-up bra. She’s got on bright pink panties and a tan colored push up bra. Mmm… I say when I see her laid out on the futon. I remove my t-shirt that ironically says If you can’t go twelve rounds, you’ve not worth the fight across the front.

Her hands reach out, and she unzips my jeans and pulls out my hard cock that only gets harder with her touch. Her knees bend slightly in anticipation. I palm her between her legs, teasing her with my fingers for a minute before diving –shoving my shaft as far up into her as humanly possible. I think it’s pretty obvious that this woman doesn’t like me, but she’s sleeping with me anyways. Oddly enough, I’ve been in similar situations before, and it always winds up being really fun, rough sex –Alison is no different.

Fingernails and biting are a part of this rough, animalistic encounter. I slam hard into her, making her cry out with a mix of pleasure and pain. I bite down only somewhat gently on her nipples, and she goes nuts over it. I shove my arms up underneath her, pulling her hips up to get a better angle; I pinch her ass hard while my hands are down there. Oh God… you’re going to kill me! she shrieks excitedly. Ugh, Jonathan, don’t stop! Don’t stop!

I ride her until she’s raw and she starts quivering; a loud, orgasmic scream escapes her throat, but I’m not done with her yet. I pull out of her and tell her to turn over, and after such an orgasm she does so willingly. I pull her hips up towards me and press my wet cock into her ass. Shit! she hisses, probably not having expected that, but I shut her up by reaching my hand around to further stimulate her moist pussy. My other hand reaches around and grabs one of her breasts, squeezing and massaging it violently.

Oh, God, I’m cumming! she shrieks, and I certainly can confirm her claim by how wet my fingers have gotten. I can feel her insides throbbing around my fingers and my dick.

You like it in the ass, don’t you, bitch? I say, a little surprised at myself. I never get so raunchy in the bedroom –not with Brandi, at least. She’d probably punch me in my nuts if I called her a bitch while in bed, but I have at it with this stupid ass reporter.

God, I do, I do! she says, her hands sprawled out in front of her as she leans back, allowing me to slide into her even further. I can see her hands gripping the side of the futon, her voice panting. I practically have my entire hand up in her now, and she starts screaming all over again. She’s running out of breath, and I’m honestly surprised I’ve lasted this long. I pull out of her ass and turn her back over just in time to cum on her stomach. I grab her legs and lean down, sliding my tongue into her wet pussy just to make her scream one more time before we part ways. She does, and I wipe myself off and get dressed like nothing happened.

She does the same, and I can see a look of shame on her face. We part ways without saying another word to one another. I grin as I watch her rush to her car to put as much distance between us as possible. She’ll never tell a soul.

4

There are no other cars on the road when I leave the ring after my impromptu interview with the tramp from The Morning Cup , so I take my car for a spin through some more deserted areas of San Diego where I know the cops rarely show. I love making her drag and hearing the sound of her wheels spinning out uncontrollably. I guess I’m just a big adrenaline junkie at the end of the day. I roll down the windows, and I can smell the burnt rubber as I make a sharp turn and let the car drift almost uncontrollably. I keep her on the road, though.

I’ve always been a fan of danger. That’s probably why I became a boxer. I love the rush of just throwing yourself out there –living on the edge. I go speeding down a hill, bringing my vehicle to top speed. My gut does a flip, but I live for that kind of shit. This is the life. Really, it is. I feel like I’m untouchable. Like I can do anything. If I can still K.O. a guy after he knocked me in my ears and got me below the belt, I feel like I can do just about anything. I mean, I just fucked a random woman who clearly hated me in some other guy’s office. And I got a girl at home who’s probably making me one of her killer post-match meals. I grin, also thinking of my regular side chick that I keep around for an occasional booty call. A part of me wonders when it’s all going to end. I mean, I can’t keep screwing around forever if I want things to get serious with Brandi… I shake the thought away. Do I even want things to get serious with Brandi? I’ve never really thought that way before.

The strange thought that entered my mind concerning my girlfriend distracts me just as I am turning a sharp corner, and my car comes up on two wheels. I feel a slight panic rush through me, but I manage to land the car upright. My heart is racing a million beats a minute. After that close call, I decide to call it a night and head home before Brandi starts to worry.

I pull up to my gated drive; the gate registers my vehicles and opens up for me, and I pull up the long driveway. There is this giant ass fountain out front that I’ve never really cared for, but it was there when I bought the home. I smile as I climb out of my car; coming home to this mansion-like home is still taking some getting used to. It’s really unnecessarily large for just me, but Brandi is here a lot, and who knows –we might fill it up with the mini me’s one day. Again I shake the thought away. I’m not ready to settle down, I think…

Brandi is there to greet me at the door. She has this big smile as she ushers me into the kitchen, and I can smell lasagna. I’m pretty sure she didn’t do a homemade lasagna; the only things she knows how to cook are non-fat, non-gluten, non-dairy… all the kind of crap ballet dancers try to convince themselves tastes good. I don’t really care, though. I love lasagna –boxed lasagna or not. She’s poured wine and tossed a Greek salad. I grin, wondering if I’m going to get lucky for the second time tonight.

We sit down together, and she does the whole post-match let me check over your cuts, bumps, and bruises thing she always does. She looks at me with these pleading eyes as we dive into our salads, and I realize that this is not an I’m-horny kind of dinner she’s prepared. I should have known. She did the whole five-course meal with bread, wine, salad, entree, and what looks like a cheesecake dessert so I would have to sit and listen to her through it all. Here it comes, the same shit she is always spewing. I really wish you would look into doing something else, she says and looks at me with these pleading eyes.

I frown. Brandi, I was a boxer when you met me.

She fiddles with her fork, her salad bowl just about empty. You almost got beat tonight, she says.

Almost? Please, that punk kid got lucky with a few good punches early on. It had me off my game for a while, but I bounced back, I say with more confidence than I probably deserve.

Look at your face! she snaps, and I realize I’ve left her stewing by herself for too long. She’s had time to think about this.

It will heal. It’s just bruises, baby, I say. I’m fine, really.

This is not fine, Jonathan! This is not what fine looks like, she is really livid this time.

Damn it, Brandi; you always do this! I slam my fists down on the table. She does not flinch; if anything, she just looks more pissed than concerned now. I take a calming breath. I smile at her. Brandi, I love boxing. You can’t ask me to be something I’m not.

It’s just so dangerous, Jonathan. I hate watching you hurt yourself, she says. If you loved me-

I cut her off before she dares to give me some sort of ultimatum –one that I admit would not work out well in her favor. I want you to stop dancing, I say.

She does not look amused. That’s my career, Jonathan. And that’s not the same. I’m not hurting myself like you.

Oh? I stand up, go over to where the lasagna has been waiting for us and fix us both a plate. I cut a giant ass slice for her, slam it down in front of her, and then bash a fork into it to where the fork is standing straight up before returning to my seat. I then just stare at her, letting the silence speak volumes as she ignores the plate of fatty pasta. You gonna eat? I snap after a long winded silence.

Of course, I’m going to eat, she snaps and takes a little nibble.

I slam my hands down on the table again. Fuck, Brandi, eat for real! Eat something other than salad without dressing! You scare the shit out of me with your fucking bullshit! Eat, damn it! You think I don’t ever hear you throwing up in the bathroom? Fuck you, Brandi! It’s the same. It’s the fucking same! Let’s just wait and see who kills themselves first over their passion, and let’s just spend the rest of our lives yelling at each other about it!

You know I don’t do that anymore! she snaps. When we had first met, she had pretty much been bulimic, and I feel like a jackass for bringing it up. It really embarrasses the hell out of her. It was before she had really established herself as a dancer. Now that she had made a name for herself, carrying a tiny bit of weight around her hips was slightly less of a big deal. She was still the skinniest woman I knew, but I know damn well she’s not bulimic or anorexic anymore. She looks really pissed off; she ditches her wine glass for the bottle and grabs her plate before ditching me in the kitchen.

I roll my eyes and decide to give her time to cool off before going after her. I finish my dinner. I eye the cheesecake for a minute, but I decide against it. I go looking or her, but it isn’t hard to find her. She’s in the den in front of the fireplace. She’s downed half the bottle of wine, and her plate is empty. Damn, I think. I had cut her half of the pan of lasagna. I go and sit down with her on the floor, taking the wine away and pushing the empty plate to the side. I put an arm around her and offer her a sincere apology. I know you’re just worried, I say, I shouldn’t react like that.

She suddenly speaks, and her voice is shaky as she sobs, "That lasagna was really