Two days after the funeral and Brandi still has not come home. I believe that she is staying with her parents, but I can’t be sure because she won’t answer her phone. I don’t really know what to do. I wake up and head downstairs to the kitchen, and I see my cell phone sitting on the kitchen island –a light blinking on it, indicating a missed call. I have a voicemail from my manager, and he is positively irate. Apparently, he saw the news coverage of me accidentally knocking Brandi to the ground after getting into a fight with Donte. He tells me he’s dropping me, and he adds that I’m a washed up drunken asshole.

Well, what a way to start the day. I shake my head. What am I going to do? Boxing is all I know, and there is no way I am going to get a new manager anytime soon. I’ll have to get into amateur shit again, but who is going to even want to fight me? I drag my feet into the den and plop down on the couch. As though life is trying to just taunt the shit out of me, when I turn on the television the news anchor is showing the video of me socking Brandi with my elbow and knocking her to the ground. Just to add salt to the wound, the news guy plays the clip from a few months back of me talking smack about female boxers. It seems as though I have been labeled as an abusive, sexist jackass by the media. Great. I certainly never meant to come off that way, and I definitely didn’t mean to hurt Brandi. I got to find a way to make this right.

My doorbell rings, and I jump up excitedly, thinking for a moment that it could be Brandi. That doesn’t make sense, though; Brandi has a fucking key, so I doubt it is her. I answer the door, and there is this nervous looking kid in a suit. “Hello, sir,” he says, his voice almost shaky, “I’m an intern for Attorney John Braxton.”

“Okay?” I say, awkwardly standing in the doorway.

“Um, are you Jonathan Trial?” he asks.

“How did you get past my gate?” I snap, and the kid looks like he is going to pass out.

“Um, Mrs. Trial gave me the passcode,” he says and then holds up a stack of papers.

I take them and glance down at them, “what is this shit?”

“Mr. Braxton is representing Brandi Trial,” he says.

“Representing her? For what?” I open up the paperwork he handed me, and my stomach drops. “Are these divorce papers?” I snarl loudly, and the kid takes a step down the staircase that leads up the front door. What does he think I’m going to do –punch him? Well, I suppose if he’s seen the news lately…

“Yes, sir,” he says, “Mr. Braxton wanted to make sure they were hand delivered,” he holds up a clipboard; his hands are shaking a little bit, “If you don’t mind signing here, stating that you received them.”

I kind of feel bad, but I slap the clipboard out of his hand, and it goes flying down the stairs. “What the fuck!” I shout at him, “This is bullshit!”

“I’m sorry, sir, but, um,” he slowly makes his way down the stairs and picks up the clipboard.

I sigh. “Bring it here, I’ll sign the damn thing,” I say, and he brings it to me. I read through the slip of paper he wants me to sign to make sure I do not agree to anything, and its pretty straight forward. It’s just a statement of receipt. I sign it and shove it back into the kid’s arms.

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Trial,” he says. There is this short pause, “Um, I don’t mean to be insensitive, but I don’t suppose you would mind signing this as well,” he remove the top page from the clipboard and shows me this headshot of me. He grins slightly. The little bastard is a fan. No wonder he was so skittish –other than the fact that he had to walk up to a professional boxer’s home to tell him his wife wanted to leave.

I sigh. “Sure, kid,” I say and scribble at the bottom of the picture.

I slam my door in his face, bringing the paperwork with me. There’s no way in hell I’m signing divorce papers. I try calling Brandi, and I hear the line pick up. “Brandi?” I ask.

“Jonathan,” I hear her mother’s voice hiss into the phone. “I guess you got the paperwork.”

“Let me talk to Brandi,” I say.

“She doesn’t want to talk to you,” the woman says.

“Are you kidding me?” I snap, “Let me talk to her! I’m not signing this shit. We need to try to-”

“What?” she snaps, “try to work it out? Haven’t you put her through enough?” She hangs up the phone.

I slam the paperwork down on the counter, and I decide to leave the house. I’m not sticking around. I grab my gym bag and head down to Damion’s gym, eager to blow off some steam. I take my car into the city, heading straight for the gym. I jump out of my car as soon as I get to the parking lot and head inside. I’m getting stares from the other boxers from the moment I enter the building. I try to ignore it, but it’s pretty obvious that they’re all watching me.

A few minutes go by, and soon Damion is coming out of his office, waving me over. I head over, and he looks pretty grim as he pulls me into his office. He goes and sits down behind his desk. “What’s going on, Damion?” I ask.

“The other guys want you to leave,” he says. “You got to go, Jonathan. After that video of you smacking Brandi-”

“Damion, you know that was an accident,” I say.

“Do I?” he leans back on his desk. “You’re bad for my business.”

“Damion, come on, man, it’s me,” I say.

“I know, and I don’t really care for who you are anymore,” Damion shakes his head, “You knocked that poor girl flat on her back. You attacked another boxer in the locker room. And, to be honest, Jonathan, I’m pretty sure you got my assistant killed. Now get the fuck out of my gym.”

“Fuck you, Damion, you old bastard!” I stand up and storm out. I can see the other boxers smirking as I make my way out of the gym. What the hell is happening to me? Everything is falling apart.