Page 4 of Sterling Fight

“Jesus,” Ralson hisses, rather loudly, though the sound blends in with the uproar around us. “He’s so damn good.”

Don’t ask. Don’t ask.

“Ralson, I’m⁠—”

“Have you seen this guy?” His voice rings incredulous, as he finally turns back to me, pointing in the direction of the boxing match.

Of course, I haven’t seen him. I don’t want to look now. I don’t want to ever look.

“Good luck in Knoxville, Ralson.” I say, stepping to the side to walk away. How about losing my number? And thank goodness he doesn’t have my address, although I’m momentarily nervous my mother will give it to him. Telling me I should help a friend of a friend and do the damn man’s laundry for him.

Another thing that is never going to happen.

“I didn’t know Judd Sylver was in Knoxville.” Awe fills Ralson’s voice.

My head whips back toward the ring so fast my neck cracks.

“What?” I drag out the word like the sharp crook of a right arm before—bam!—a hook to the jaw.

Staring at the ring, I see the man in purple shorts turn into a beast of aggression. His arms move like a pinwheel. Left. Right. Right. Left. His vision is tunneled on the man before him who slowly moves backward until his back hits the ropes.

The view is both disturbing and intoxicating, and there is no way that spiraling man in the ring is the thoughtful, quiet, poet-souled Judd Sylver.

A bell rings—ting-ting-ting—breaking me out of my reverie.

Then Purple-Shorts-Guy is stepping away from his opponent. The once-reserved man I knew is now a heavily breathing machine, layered in perspiration with a wickedly delicious energy coming off him and his eyes are trained in my direction. The referee dressed in black pants with a white shirt is lifting Judd’s arm by his wrist and declaring him, “Winner”.

Ralson is on his feet letting out an impressive whistle. One of those where he inserts his fingers into his mouth. The inflection is perfect, ear-piercing and shrill.

And that’s my cue to leave.

I don’t want to be here with Ralson and the last person I want to see is Judd Sylver.

I march hastily to my car, parked purposely underneath a bright lamp in the middle of the lot, and click the button on my key fob to unlock my Camry. It’s not a glamorous car but she’s been dependable and I’m grateful for how easily she unlocks without the trouble of inserting a key into the handle.

“Genie?”

I close my eyes as I near the side of my car, wishing I could disappear in the dark night, but the lot’s light illuminates me.

Clenching the door handle in my fist, I spin to face Ralson.

“Hey.” He bends at the waist and clutches at his knees like he just ran a marathon instead of crossing fifty feet of pavement. With exaggerated breaths, he stands tall again, winces as he pinches his side, and then speaks. “We didn’t have that drink.”

Yeah, and we aren’t going to have one either. “I’m sorry. I have a sudden headache.”

Ralson slowly smiles. “I thought you weren’t supposed to use that line until date number three.”

Does this sad man ever get to three dates with a woman? Does he not understand complaining of a headache isn’t a positive thing?

“Maybe we could reschedule,” he continues.

“Ralson.” I sigh. It’s never easy to let someone down. Even if he is the son of a friend of a friend of my mother’s. Despite the distant, nonconsequential acquaintance, I don’t like hurting anyone. However, I’m good at knowing how these things work . . . and when they don’t.

“Like I said inside, I wish you all the luck living in Knoxville. It’s a great city.”

“You could show me around.” He steps closer to me and my hand squeezes tighter on the door handle.

And I also could not. There’s a thing called the internet and map searches. Even GPS. “I’m . . . sorry.” I don’t know why I’m apologizing. I’m not sorry. “I have a big meeting coming up in a few weeks. One that could change my career and it’s really my only focus right now.” Not playing tour guide to my city.