“It’s all over the internet. It’s getting worse,” my manager snarls into the phone. He is, of course, referring to my comments about women boxer’s I made months ago. You would think that people would have gotten over that by now, but apparently, I am a sexist –a misogynistic jerk –at least, according to social media, that’s what I am. People are losing their minds. I had to delete all of my social media accounts because I’m being harassed by a bunch of feminist groups.

“I know it’s getting worse,” I say hoarsely into the phone. I’m seated in my kitchen, a glass of whiskey sitting by me despite having just been to my first AA meeting this morning. I had lost another match last night. I just can’t seem to get back into the game.

“You’re doing the Donte revenge match,” my manager hisses, and my insides churn slightly.

“I can’t do that, man. He almost killed me,” I say, and the man huffs.

“I’m going to make myself perfectly clear, Jonathan, you’re rapidly on your way to becoming a has-been. You are going to fight Donte in the revenge match-up. I’m throwing my marketing team on this like you wouldn’t believe. And you better listen well here, kid: if you don’t win, I’m dropping your ass,” he hangs up the phone.

Nervously I hang up the phone. I definitely don’t want to fight Donte again –not after last time. I reach for the glass, and it’s gone. Shit. I spin around on the bar stool and gaze towards the back of my kitchen; I see Brandi standing there holding my half empty glass. “Damn it, Jonathan!” she shouts at me, marches around the kitchen island, and dumps the remainder of the alcohol down the kitchen sink. “Where’s the rest of it?” She demands, and I point up at the light fixture. “Seriously?” she asks and climbs up onto a barstool to obtain the bottle of whiskey. She stomps over to the sink and pours it down. “Is there any more?”

“No,” I say.

“Jonathan,” she says my name hatefully, so I point over to the pantry. She digs around for a moment and finds her bottle of wine that went missing during a party hidden inside a jumbo sized cereal box. She shakes her head and pours it down the drain. That was really expensive wine. She then crosses her arms, still standing by the sink, and stares me down. “You’re not fighting Donte,” she says.

“He’s going to drop me. We can’t afford for that to happen. With that stupid video about what I said about women boxing going viral, no new agency will pick me up. We’ll be screwed. I have to fight him,” I say, trying my best to explain the urgency.

“That’s bullshit. You can’t fight him again, Jonathan,” she says angrily.

“Brandi, I can beat him,” I say. She does not look amused. I keep on, trying to convince her that this is a good thing. “Look,” I say, “even if I do lose the match, the payout for the loss will be better than any other match I’ve done this year. The promotion they’ll be doing for this revenge match will be incredible. And if I win, we’ll have enough for me to pay off the house and even have a little cushion money aside if you and I want to take a trip for the holidays. We’ll be set. I can’t pass something like this up.”

“And what am I supposed to do if he actually manages to kill you this time?” Brandi questions.

“Come on, Brandi, you know I’ll be fine. I always am,” I say, and she storms out of the kitchen. I decide not to tell her that my manager is going to drop me if I lose the match. That’s the last thing I need her worrying about. She’s already trying to juggle my drinking, her dancing, and all of the drama associated with my boxing career. We just got back from our honeymoon, and already real life bullshit took over. I didn’t have a single thing to drink on our trip, and I really thought I had been cured… until I lost another match, and I hit the bottle again like an idiot. I don’t know what to do. I want to be better for Brandi, but it’s like I can no longer control myself.

The match is in two weeks. I have to win this one, or I’m screwed.