His Flower (Rewritten)

Chapter 32

       Thirty minutes later I was feeling pretty damn good. I had boxed Bob, and a few others who had seen the match. The anger I had felt earlier was dying away and I was almost, almost happy that I had looked into the place.

       The underground was much more vicious than this, more violent and a little more satisfying when I won. But this I could do every day, any time. I didn't have to wait for a place, or a text that might come once a week. And with the gym's boxing matches I could make just as much money—I would just have to fight more. Which I did not have one fucking problem with.

       And she wouldn't give me that damn worried look anymore.

       "Alright man, I got one more guy for you if you're up for it." Bob called from the floor after my third match as I was drinking from a water bottle Trey had gotten. I didn't apologize to him for snapping earlier—I never did. But I did nod in thanks and he nodded back so I knew we were good.

       "I'm always up for a fight."

       "Awesome." I didn't miss the excitement in his pale brown eyes as he smacked his hands on the ring's ropes and all but hopped away. Just another fucking asshole eager to make money off me. At least I'll be making it too this time.

        I wiped my forehead with a gym towel and just about finished off the water when the owner came back with the last guy. The guy was about my age, same build, but hair so blond it almost reflected off the dim lights of the gym. Déjà vu slammed into my stomach with one look at the guy, but I couldn't place what was so familiar about him.

       "Alright you two. Square off, no dirty shots." Bob didn't waste any time with introductions as blondie climbed into the ring, especially since I told him I didn't care about their names. I wasn't here to make friends.

       It wasn't until we squared off and my eyes locked on the bright, cold blue of his that I realized why he looked so familiar. It was that look—the look we all had. The one all of us were fucking stuck with. He was a foster kid.

       That wasn't going to stop my fists from pounding into him though.

       The match started off slow and steady, neither one of us willing to make the first move. A part of me appreciated that. He was waiting to see my signs, what I did right before I moved—just like I was with him. One of us would have to cave first though.

       Turns out that one was me.

       It usually didn't take long to win, or for the other guy to back down. This dude was different. He matched nearly all my hits with blocks of his own and was even able to get a couple of punches in I hadn't see coming. I found myself actually starting to like the guy the longer the match went. No one lasted long in the ring—when I was trying at least.

       My busted knuckles were screaming in the glove, but I didn't mind the pain. I actually thrived on it. It reminded me why I fought like I did. Protecting my busted lip was a whole other fucking ball game though.

       By the time the match was over both of us were breathing hard, sweat dripping off our bodies. I had won, but just barely. We were both hanging over the side of the ring's ropes, the owner chatting away happily with Trey about how blond boy was his best fighter and how 'completely awesome' it would be to have both of us at his gym.

       "You're a good fighter, man." Blondie panted beside me, as he tossed his gloves at his side to grab one of the water bottles a worker was holding up for us.

       "Yeah, you too." I nodded before grabbing a water myself. I appreciated a good fighter, especially if they made me work for a win. The guy had been quiet too, unlike the others who would get pissing mad.