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When I was a young roo, I saw a young buck on TV tumble out of the ring and bounce his face against a stool below. 14 stitches and a face that would never show on another TV. His opponent stood with a trickle of blood from his right nostril as his eyes locked onto me from the screen.

The crowd was howling and shouting over the announcer's voice. My mom had a rare smile. History became a memory locked in my head. I didn't move from that sofa in our one-story fixer-upper. I only took a gulp--one that tasted of adrenaline.

The kangaroo on TV lifted his gloves for the crowd and I lowered my gaze to the ground. Mom was cheering, but there wasn't much for me to celebrate that day.

---

Ringtail Arena Boxing Gym was a ghost of a home I once belonged to. Rival gyms in Chicago boomed with new equipment, shiny gizmos, and fresh talent. All the while, we become more and more of a dive in the wrong part of the city.

The few furs here more than easily noticed my entrance. The front door squeaked and the laminated wood floor gave its own encore. I swear this place would kill one of us. It was a side effect of our good-for-nothing, penny-pinching coach.

Though, I still knew the old raccoon well. By the time I was setting down my duffel bag, coach was already by my side. His smile went ear-to-ear across his graying muzzle. "Well if it isn't Roger Roo himself!"

I rolled my eyes as he put an arm around my back.

"Today is all routine. Bucky's a no-name, a real damn claw-sucker like the rest of 'em. Your title is as good as safe here. You listen to me and this will be a cakewalk."

I began wrapping my right paw and gave a side-eye. "I'll throw it. I swear I'll do it, Barry."

"Ah come on, you'll really throw all this away? You spoiled shit. You throw this and you'll be a real brat who doesn't know what ya got."

"You lose your champion and you won't be able to keep a light on." I pulled the paw wrap tight with my teeth.

His black mask around his eyes scrunched up as he squinted. "Throw this shit and it'll be the last game you'll ever throw. I'll charge ya every dime of the membership fee. Hell, I'll even raise it. Get to the bag and shut the fuck up, will ya?"

My paw wraps were rigid as could be as he tied up my gloves around them. I smirked taking in the coach's irritation as it rubbed off of him.

Across the ring, I tuned out the mixed crowds of amateurs, families, and college kids on metal chairs. I'd gotten used to the attention by now. What I focused on instead was the tiger ducking his head under the red rope and putting his icy blue eyes on me. Losing eye contact was fatal--even before the fight started.

Already I began to tune out my surroundings. My thoughts were running, jumbling into circles that became spinning wheels. I was racing. Heart-pumping, jaw-clenching, and long, kangaroo legs tensing. Coach was going on about something, spinning his own wheels, but I couldn't lose momentum now. I tasted the bitter jolts of hatred and got myself over-clocked.

As I walked to meet in the center, I was sizing him up. Taller than me--that's expected, calm-surface--also expected, but he had these calmer, solemn eyes that looked bored already. Maybe his friends put him up to this, I thought as I shook gloves with him.

"Ready?"

I lifted up my gloves to either side of my face. Benjamin? Taylor? I missed the name, but I'll remember the body. My opponent was cut and etched. Tender abs beneath trimmed cream-colored fur. Black-striped, burnt-orange furry arms thick as my own gloves.

"Fight."

I was quick. Bouncing, darting, and side-stepping. It's the speed I got known for at this gym. Already it was a dance for me: cornering my opponent and leaving the tiger stuck to take a couple of hits on his sides. He didn't seem phased by this.

He took a jab at me, one sure to bruise, and I readied my right hook. I puffed from my nostrils. Wheels spun with hatred as I looked over to that exposed stomach and I slammed my fist against it.

That's when I felt I'd lost.

It felt like punching a steel beam. My arm and hand paw hurt worse than what I'd imagined he'd felt. My eyes widened, jaw opened, and the air whooshed around me as he countered.

Every bit of air in my body left along with my mouth guard flinging to the ground. The audience stood up out of their seats. My wheels stopped and I found the ring's floor with a hard punch under my armpit. I clenched my eyes shut as they cheered. The fluorescents burned me from above as all I heard was the coach's voice.

"Unbelievable folks! Roger Carlson is down! Just like that our champion's title might be up for grabs."

"S-shut the fuck up," I hissed stumbling back to my feet.

The coach sprayed my mouthguard with water before shoving it back in. He spoke the most nonsense strategy to me as I got myself together.

He said something about aiming for the stomach and going for small punches. As if I'd settle this fight with points alone. It was about blood now for me. My few friends in the crowd were about to hold this over my head for weeks if I stopped now and my chest ached.

Two more rounds pass and I swear I can taste blood everywhere. Still, this smug asshole across the ring looks as enthralled as a gas station cashier in the dead of night. It made me crave this win even more.

"Round 4! Fight!"

The coach's advice didn't work. Shocker, I guess. Though my own plans failed too. I wasn't smart enough for this. I tried throwing harder punches at other points on his body, but it did nothing. He'd take each one without sweat and deliver a punch back that would make me spit up blood.

My chest broke down. I didn't know how much the damage was. I also didn't know if I'd be able to pay to fix whatever was wrong with it. The damage made me stay more distant from him across the ring. This wasn't working.

Fear took hold. I stop punching altogether and tried to defend myself. He wasn't too fast at all, but he hit like a tank every time. With a punch to my right shoulder, I lost my guard entirely. I saw red. I saw his glove smack dab in the middle of my muzzle and then I saw nothing.

I fell backward.

The coach began counting and the numbers rolled on by. Down on the floor, moving didn't come easy. My muzzle dripped blood. I saw stars and got lost in a distant stare. Though, my gloved paw wrapped around the rope of the ring, I did nothing to lift myself up. Sure I had it in me to do so--at least I think, but this tiger... there was no way he was on the same level as me.

No eyes were on me anymore as the count rolled towards 10. The floor made me an old newspaper. I showed a bitter expression, clenched up my body, and then released the tension in my muscles. All the while, the crowd cheered down the remaining counts. I didn't quite recognize myself and neither did I recognize 'ten' when my coach shouted it.

I felt hungover though I hadn't drank a drop.

Coach gave me an earful, shoving his muzzle down my ear all the way to the locker room. "You fucking squandered it for both of us. As far as I saw, your dumbass threw it for the hell of it. You piece of shit. You'll never step paw here again, I'll tell ya. You don't even know how much this cost me. How much it cost you. Your career is done, kid. You'll be garbage in the compactor by tomorrow."

What a pill.

Is it bad to say I'm relieved? I'm so damn happy for one day in a long time. Finally, I got the shit punched right out of me. I'm detoxed, a new man, a new life I get a bigger say in. I could never go back to this gym another day and never see a pair of gloves again. I'd never deal with the endless shit my coach spewed out to 'help me along.'

Fuck them all.

The gym showers smelled like a sweaty tail hole chased with a shot of musky armpit. I'm not going to miss this place.

Brian, Brad, or was it Bolt? Whoever kicked my shit was standing over a tall locker. I'm sure he was proud. Hang this one up on the fridge, 'Local jock beats up the drunkard leader of your local back-alley gym.' My hero.

He didn't say a word and I liked that, but he still filled my nose with his pungent smell. Worse even, my locker was two from his. I passed by him and he caught my eye with that douchey wave where you just stick up your hand. Oh goodie, you found your paw pad.

I began fiddling with my lock and it set in. I was never setting paw in this gym another day of my life. I'm done, so let's have some fun with it. Why not? "Hey good fight there, Bruce."

My smirk was deep and onset, but then his locker door shut.

It was normal to be naked here, sure. It was custom even for some to wiggle their junk to their friends and laugh... but this was different.

My eyes had drifted down before the door shut and now I was staring at his pink cock dangling below. I clenched up.

"Are you for real?"

My eyes shot back to him and I didn't want to digest this situation. I could clean out my locker later, I bet. I could leave without showering either.

He continued in that thick, deep voice. "You practically handed me that fight. I've done some stalking and that wasn't you. Not one bit. That was hard to watch."

I forced my eyes to meet his. "Well, you're right. I quit. You get the title this shit gym has to offer. Go and impress some pansies with it."

"I didn't want to take your title, I wanted a good fight. A one-on-one with the son of--"

"I'm my own person. I don't get a free pass for having my father beat up a couple of meatheads." I poked my claw at his chest. "You want him, you fight him."

He took a deep breath and tilted his muzzle down. "I don't want him. I want you." The tiger wrapped a towel tight around himself much to my comfort.

I started tossing items into my duffle bag. "That's some faggot ass talk right there. You want me? Well here," I threw my dirty jockstrap and saw it land right onto his shoulder, "That's the best you'll get."

"You want to stop fighting at this shit gym? You come get me," he brushed off my jockstrap from his shoulder and passed a business card to me. I pushed my paw against the card, but he dropped it into my bag. "Your prime is just beginning."

I squinted at him and then lazily held the card up as he walked to the showers. "Enjoy the free membership here, Bucky Whitman."

"I sure will, Roger."