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What was there to say about Terry's?

Just as I passed the doorway in, I saw a meerkat swatting at the punching bag like it was a rogue fly. The knuckleheads around him were doing all-the-wrong exercises on all-the-wrong machines. It looked like a preschool playground more than a gym and, at the center of it, the cherry on top, was that asshole tiger sparring in the ring.

"Do you have a membership? Oh no, do you want one?" No! Beat me dead first.

The vixen at their front desk finally asked for my name when the word 'no' sunk in. I nearly gagged when she read it out loud off their guest list.

To the average gym goer, gym rivalries don't make sense. Normies think it's the money or the competition for customers, but that's only part of the story. These aren't two businesses, these are two political parties entirely.

You see, the real egregious part about Terry's is their message. With Ringtail Arena, you know damn well how dumb and rough it is to actually box. People wanting their names on billboards go back home quick at Ringtail. The place is just real. It's raw. It tells a story in all of its worn-down equipment and sweat-stained wood.

Terry over here tells everyone, on an actual sign outside for fucks sakes, that "you can be the next Goldfang." Just any random college girl slurping up their adult milkshake they call a coffee is told they have what it takes to die a boxing legend. Don't say I'm overreacting here or taking this too far either. The message is ingrained here. Just one look around and it's just all just so... so damn casual.

They have fucking kick-boxing classes with middle-aged moms held here. Their premium boxing league is composed of a bunch of rich assholes paying to win their way. Yeah I can train hard, but I don't have a personal trainer, dietitian, and the latest equipment and research behind me. It's unfair. They punch like mules kick, but also swing wildly without much technique at all. They win fights by brute force and read up on only the most useless information.

It's all about their horoscopes and superstitions. They sit around with each other going over how cougar's box like this and have this style. Terry's boxers memorize these dumb generalizations by heart. They practically look at the phase of the moon over there to figure out how to best their opponent. Who needs technique or form when you have that voodoo witchcraft on your side?

Approaching Bucky reminded me of the worst part about all of these shit boxers: It's how they pay their coaches, their trainers, and the people declawing them to never say a bad thing about them. They can't be shit at this, how could they? They sunk too much money into this and, hey, they were daddy's favorites after all.

And it made too much sense that Bucky was one of them. But Bucky was... actually kind of good at this shit.

The minute Bucky caught me from the corner of his eye, I frowned.

"Roger! You made it! How is it going, buddy?"

I shot daggers at him from the side of the ring. Dropping my duffel to the ground, I pulled out two long threads of hand wraps dangling down into my bag. "I'm not here for your shit. Tell your buddy to leave the ring. I'm taking my title back"

His smile faded as he looked me up and down. I hated how I could hear his thoughts. My alcohol binge showed well all over me. I pulled my hoodie down as if that would help hide my gut. "What are you looking at?" I grew more irritated. "What the fuck are you looking at?"

His sparring partner hopped out of the ring on the side farthest away from me. He looked like a furry turtle in his shell of protective gear. Bucky didn't seem dissuaded one bit. "Nothing. Why don't you come up here?"

Without really thinking, I'd wrapped my paw so tight it lost circulation. I had to redo it and that only irritated me more. "I'm coming."

Bucky had a lot of words stirring on his face. I could tell. But it only made me want to punch each one off. I hated how he looked to me from above. His eyes reflected a child that didn't know better. That was worst than the title shenanigans.

When it came to be, I was holding up gloves across from him once more. We both nodded near the center of the ring and I bit tightly against my mouth guard.

Bucky was sloppy. He must have been at the gym for too long or maybe it was just a side-effect of Terry's. I saw openings everywhere and I took them. The issue was that, my punches were so weak that I'd be better slinging a pillow at him.

Worst was how he didn't punch back. He just looked me up and down a he shifted and moved around. The punches did nothing to him, maybe even less than they did in our last fight.

I hated him more and more as my arms were jell-o already. He still had yet to throw a punch. My breathing was labored, I could hardly keep my mouth shut and I felt like death. My body resisted me and I felt like he had beaten me up badly already. So bad that I guess it warranted advice from his end.

"Don't dip your paw before you punch. It telegraphs it," he said.

I snarled and he dodged my next punch practically before I threw it.

"Keep your balance. You're leaning into your front paw. It lessens the amount of oomph you can put into your punch."

"Fuck you!" I went for a hard right punch on his abdomen only to feel my fist slip through the air as it missed. A shock traveled up right up my arm as my shoulder strained to hold it within its joint.

I slipped. Hard.

Before I could hit the ground, I smelled leather and saw black. I was stumbling, desperately trying to find my footing. My scowl burned as I flailed my arms. Bucky shoved me off from his glove sending me back onto my foot paws.

"I'm going to level with you."

I took on his stance. Dropping my gloves to either side of me and exhaling deeply. "If this is some more 'advice,' then just stay quiet... You've done enough."

"Nothing of that sort." He flashed a sign of concern. "It's just that you could be great. Truly great. I saw your fight with Terminator before he went pro."

I raised an eyebrow, but didn't want to entertain him with a response.

"You have all the makings to be a great boxer. With one of my licensed coaches--"

"What is this all about really?" I slouched my shoulders.

His tail swished to life. "It's about my business and about scratching each other's backs. You read my card, right?"

"No," I lied. "But I'm broke anyway."

Bucky moved in closer to me just as I was ready to write him off entirely. His arm swung around my shoulder as he pulled me in. "If I get you to go pro, then I can say that my business trained the Roger Carlson to greatness."

Of course he'd still give me the sales pitch.

"You're an untapped market." He poked my chest with his best salesman smile. "Hell, I bet half of the people you fight recognize that you have the blood and name of a legend."

I looked away from him, averting my eyes from his bullshit.

"...And I'll do it for not a dime from your pocket. Just think about it. A fine coach, gym membership, lessons, and fights setup for you that I know you'll win."

I shot my face towards his. "I don't give a shit about any of that."

"R-"

I tossed his arm off of me and begun to hop out of the ring. "Stay the hell away from me and Ringtail Arena."

"What if I told you that I could give you a shot at becoming the next middleweight champion?"

My blood went cold as I froze. I shot my head back to him. "You couldn't arrange that shit. What the hell do you take me for?"

The tiger scrambled through his bag before stopping me once more with a piece of paper shoved into my face. I swatted it away before snatching it from his paw.

"With my help you'll qualify and then it's up to you. One shot at it all," he said.

I looked up from the paper to him and ran my tongue across my lips. I weighted it, truly gave it my handful of hungover braincells before shoving it right back into his face. "No thanks."

Continuing my march out the door, I pretended I didn't notice him following me every step of the way. I'd be lying if I said part of me didn't enjoy this.

"Fine by me then. I'll take my business elsewhere," he said.

"Good!" I shot out turning my head to see him in my peripherals alone as I closed in on the door out.

"Usually I'm off tonight treating a special someone though," he said faking sadness.

"Sucks you're a loner." I stopped at the door without looking at him.

"Yeah it does suck, doesn't it? I'd pay for their drinks, their food, even arrange them a ride home. If only I had some sort of broke drunk to hangout with."

I turned around biting my lip. His smile took up half the gym as his confidence tripled.

"But surely you wouldn't be interested at all," he raised his eyebrows, "I'm sure you'd hate the Velvet Vixen anyway."

My ears shot up straight before I relaxed them again. "Oooh how fancy. But still dumb nonetheless. I can hold my liquor well. I know you couldn't afford me."

"Oh, I got money." he opened up the door for me and beckoned with his paw. "I'll just call a business expense."

"I'd call it a waste," I smirked.