The ferocity of the blows startled me. I'd been to my share of boxing matches, but somehow it didn't seem as real when it was a performance taking place in a public space. I knew people got hurt in the ring, everybody knows that, but there's always that feeling of theater. Here, behind the scenes, the smack of glove against skin was louder somehow.
That strike to Dr. Brent's jaw was going to leave a bruise.
At any minute, I was going to have to explain what the fuck I was doing here.
Suddenly, I felt silly.
This is real. He got hit. Because of me.
Did I really want to stand here and explain how I was planning to write a senior thesis about the relevance of Fight Clubs to the twenty-first century?
Suddenly, I felt kinda stupid. Kinda small.
I scurried out of the gym. “Scurry” was a shameful word, but it was the right word. Next to Brayden Brent, I was more mouse than man.
Outside, the pickup game was over, and money was exchanging hands. Again, I avoided glancing that way, but I couldn't help seeing out of the corner of my eye.
I didn't belong on this side of the tracks. Nobody looked my way when I drove off...
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