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Roger was on a hot streak. The matches kept coming. Burton from Ringtail worked like a used car salesman just to keep 'em coming. Anyone in the right mind within the amateur league wouldn't dare get into the ring with the Roger Carlson. Son of a legend, that million-dollar blood was in him. It jolted around and promised him more right as he smacked another neck around of another boxer.

Man, myth, legend. Eyes watching now. Asses in seats. The blossoming hot start of a career. The buzz was real with a heavy helping of speculation. All across, the question arose, "Will he fill those gloves his father gave up?"

The answer they found: Terminator.

A toned, white rodent with a name, reputation, and one hell of an uppercut. He earned his keep in every fight it took to do so. If anyone was going to prove the nay-sayers wrong, it was Roger beating him.

Anyone following amateur boxing wouldn't shut up about the two red hot, powerhouses facing head-to-head. It was no surprise that Burton had to shake paws with Terminator's coach and give the people what they wanted--especially after the dollar signs came into his eyes.

Betting was for drunks and crazies. Who really knew which one would be raising a glove by the end of this? It was close as hell. Roger had everything to gain. Terminator had nothing to lose.

Sunday night, you'd be counting your blessings to have a seat. The bout was streamed for some thousand watchers. The biggest audience Roger or Terminator had ever had. Of course, the young roo was nervous, enough to feel like he was about to puke. Whatever nerves Terminator had were swallowed down his throat as he was raising gloves.

It pushed Roger to bleed. He'd feel this fight in his body for days after. Burton was teetering with him on whether or not Roger should call it quits before it got serious. Roger's face was swollen like a balloon, nose bleeding down it, and--much to his relief--the ring's nurse wasn't calling the bout off.

It was close. Seven rounds of back-and-forth. Roger was huffing and puffing. Terminator was hardly getting water down. The rat's muzzle bent up in a way it shouldn't.

Yeah, the fight should have been called off. Nothing good was coming out of another round, but history took precedence. This match was the real start of either one becoming a pro. Who'd call off something like that?

So they continued. Blow-for-blow. You ask anyone in the audience that day what stuck out and they'd all say it's that glimmer in Carlson's eyes. It spoke of hope, of need, and it went beyond the sport. You knew he was Sam's son without a question. You'd be blind as a bat to say this was just two random boxers throwing gloves. This was life in the making.

In the last seconds of round 7, Terminator huffed out air. Roger changed his stance. And then the rat's head spun around with spit splattering right against the audience's muzzles. Roger's punch slapped Terminator's neck around to that sweet spot--knocking the damn rat out cold. He was lucky to have his fall cushioned by the ropes.

Just like that, people knew Roger. The narrative of him passing on the torch rang true. They hungered for him. His career was ahead of him. His whole life awaited him and it looked golden.

But, by the time his glove was raised, that glimmer was gone in his eye, and, much the same, so was he--for good.

I couldn't breathe. My beer gut jiggled with each step as I ran far behind the pack. Sweat drenched my fur and damn I smelled worse than anyone just after a warm-up.

I questioned everything. I questioned why all of this was so hard for me. Why it wasn't hard for all the others? And why the hell did I ever agree to this? My dumb mistakes came back to bite me in the ass and, the worst of them, the tiger not even breaking a sweat.

Shit, it grossed me out. They all practically held hands and skipped as they jogged. Terry was in his own dreamland leading this entire mess and occasionally taking glances at his worst student.

I wasn't just rusty. I was complete ass. Outperformed in push-ups, sit-ups, and whatever else Terry came up with.

The worst part was that damned rope. That damned fucking rope. It hung from their tall ass ceiling and somehow Terry had his dick hard over it. He loved that shit. I bet he was just using it as an excuse to get a good view under my tail... that is if I reached that far.

I couldn't fucking climb it. Not even enough to get off the floor for more than a couple of seconds. I'm not a climber and never have been. How the fuck does climbing translate to anything? How the fuck does any of this translate?

We didn't even spar at all, but, deep down, all of these assholes would beat me. They outperformed me in every single dumb, exotic physical activity. There is a certain point where it goes beyond "this is just their gym. They just have been doing this for a while" to "My body is just for show."

I checked my phone after I was drenched in it, just soaking in damn sweat. It wet the sloppy screen as I ran a finger across it and, low and behold, my silver lining, fucking Jess sending me more messages.

Immediately, I clicked the damn thing off.

I hated this. I hated this bad. Even more, I hated watching how Bucky seemed to just do EVERYTHING better than me. He just outperformed me by miles even in stuff I thought I was good at. That dumb tiger jumps higher than me. get that? He fucking jumps higher than a goddamn kangaroo.

When Terry's glorified workout routine was all over. The others spoke casually, but I couldn't breathe. My head throbbed with an aching pain and my body played second fiddle to it all over. I swear it's been hours.

I don't know what hurt worse: Terry trying his best to hide his concern when he saw me outperformed in just about every single way or Bucky's stray glances and indiscernible expression as he saw me. When I returned the glances back to Bucky, I swear life felt just a little more confusing each time.

I'm sure all those fuckers want to say I'm a washed-up has-been, but I've never been. Sorry to get your hopes up, I know you noticed Henry.

It felt like the world was just spinning faster and faster. It sucked to say I've felt this a couple of times at Ringtail. All I could think about was being far away from all of these people ever again. I never want to go to another one of these waste of life training sessions.

When the coach dismissed us, I felt like I was running to the showers. An endeavor that ended quickly as a paw lightly grasped my shoulder. Immediately I bristled. "What the fuck is this?" Immediately saw that dumb tiger's face and worsened. "Oh what, do I owe you something?"

"You do." He garnered a smirk. "You still have yet to get coached by me."

I raised my eyebrows at him.

"Oh come on. It'll be light. It'll be easy. All technique and--"

"No." I gulped. "I'm done with this. I don't even give a shit about any of this."

"You were excited yesterday. I know today was a strain, but you can't give up on day one."

"I can."

"Not under contract you can't," he huffed. "You're doing all of this like it or not, so you better start liking it."

"I wish yesterday never happened." Then I added, "All of it."

I knew that would sting and he didn't hide that from me.

He hesitated a second. "Just stay here. I'm not telling you. I'm asking."

I felt it all in my stomach. "I just can't..." I thought of more to say, but I didn't have any energy left.

His eyes drifted off past me and his lips tightened. "I'll drive you back."

To say the least, riding back with him was awkward. He spared me silence in exchange for yammerings about news stories I pretended to listen to. My paw clenching my right thigh for comfort somewhere. It felt like every light turned red along the way.

Worse was how it felt like there was this giant pill dried onto the skin of my throat I couldn't swallow. There were a million more things I wanted to say to Bucky, say to Jess, but it all quickly became complicated. It hopped between good and bad, but never neutral. It held me up by the neck and kept my breath just strained enough to keep it reminding me of itself.

Jess sent me another text. It looked serious but I immediately threw the notification away.

In times like these, Sam would tell me in a long-winded ramble about how life is just simple. That we just can reduce any situation down to a single piece. He talked about how I just needed to think about, really think about, what I needed at this exact moment.

Well, I thought about it and what I needed was right next to me. It was buried under two fresh layers, recently washed up, and it knew me already. Fuck, I wished I didn't. I wish I could write so much off as a mistake, but my ship was already sunk.

Bucky's eyes were up on the road, mind off into a tangent, so I stole a glance its way. That plump bulge outlined well by his sweatpants.

Bucky continued to talk about the upcoming election, but I couldn't stop staring at it. I wanted it something awful. I wanted to throw an apology his way. See if I could cheer him up in a way that cheered me right up.

I wanted him to not ask. Just come into my apartment, call today a wash, and not ask questions. Just pull down his pants and jab it down my throat in all the right ways. The taste was still fresh on my mind, but more so was that warm, fluffy feeling.

It felt like an answer to a question I didn't know the answer to before. It felt like a jolt after a double shot of espresso and the feeling after you recover from the drop in a roller-coaster. It was addictive.

He continued, but I just didn't care. I didn't recognize myself anymore anyway. "Hey, so when we get to my place," I clammed up. "Do you wanna... maybe go up and--"

The tiger snorted at that. I knew I didn't have to finish my sentence and I felt my face flush for just asking. The idea seemed so good, so nice in my head, but the words came out and suddenly I felt like I took another step back in my series of steps back.

"Oh, so you can just use it against me when you get pissed again? Act like you didn't nearly beg for it all the way to the end?" He couldn't pretend it was funny anymore. "That's the problem with 'straight guys.' You pretend that we were the problem."

I shot a glance his way and suddenly I felt the deep, onset exhaustion in my body. "Bucky, I didn't mean to be an asshole. I'm just...," I paused getting frustrated, "...going through a lot and it's all just so damn confusing."

"You're right. Yeah just keep beating me up as you figure out your shit. That's totally fair. In fact, just start calling me a faggot again."

My ears drooped. He heaved air out his nose.

"I'm not even having this conversation. It was inappropriate for me, your coach of all people, to have sex with you at all. So that's my fuck up. Already doing it once made this so damn complicated, so I'm done. You gotta figure out your shit. I don't know what that means for you, but I'm not here for you to just rag on."

I scraped my teeth across my bottom lip for a moment. "I don't even know what that means. Fuck this whole damn situation is a mistake. I was just drunk last night. It was just a one-time thing."

"This is exactly what I mean. This whole thing was a mistake. I want to just be your coach and your coach only. I don't want anything more. We have a tournament ahead of us and it was all a bad idea anyway."

"Fine," I said and he didn't go back to some politically charged ramblings that time. Instead, it was just silence between us all the way back.