I’m panicking, and Tyler is laughing at me like a jackass. “Would you just help me find it, already?” I snap as I tear open another box.

“Easy, man, you’re not going to be late,” Tyler says as he goes digging through another box. “I can’t believe you waited until the morning of your meeting before looking for one of your suits.”

I still haven’t gone through all of my boxes of clothes I had gotten from Brandi… I still can’t believe she packed my suits in boxes! Honestly! “Look, I’ve got to be leaving in the next twenty minutes, and I can’t show up looking like a bum.”

Damion actually did it. He set me up with a meeting with a boxing manager; the guy is low key, but I really couldn’t care less. If it means I could box professionally –or even in the amateur leagues, I’m all for it. “Suits!” Tyler calls out from the other side of his apartment, “I got a box of suits!”

“Thank God!” I hurry over to him and attempt to find a matching jacket and pants. Tyler is still laughing at me when I leave the apartment. I cringe when I climb over the passenger’s side seat of the car to open up my driver’s end. Fuck this car. I peel out, and head across the city to where I’m supposed to be meeting this potential manager.

The guy wanted to meet at a coffee shop; I had hoped to meet at his office, but I’m desperate. I pull up outside the coffee shop and head inside; I have no idea what the guy looks like, so I’m relieved when I hear my name being called, “Jonathan Trial?”

I turn and see… what am I looking at? There’s this kid staring back at me; he looks to be maybe twenty-two. Damion, you prick. “Um, yes,” I say, and the kid shakes my hand. Please, please, please be the manager’s assistant.

“I’m Caleb Aberrant. We spoke on the phone?” he says.

No. Fuck. “Yeah,” I say, trying not to let him see the disappointment. He’s a fucking kid. He’s dressed in jeans and baby blue V-neck, and he’s wearing a ball cap… backwards, of course.

We go and sit down after ordering some coffee. He probably doesn’t have a fucking office –that’s probably why we’re meeting in a damn coffee shop. “So I’m a big fan of yours,” he says, and I nod along.

“Thanks,” I say.

He rolls his eyes at me suddenly. “I can tell you’re thrilled to be here,” he says, completely calling me out. “Should I just leave?”

“Oh, no, please, um, Mr. Aberrant-”

“Come on, man, just call me Caleb,” he says, not looking too happy with me. “I get it. I’m not exactly what you were expecting, and a guy who’s been there done that like you have, well, I guess I’m a little bit of a disappointment. I work with amateur guys mostly, so taking you on would be a whole new experience for me. But, to be honest, I’m not sure I even want to.”

I frown. God, I’m so desperate. “Oh?” I say.

“I have some concerns. You’re not exactly well liked in the public eye right now, your rap sheet is less than impressive, you lost a significant number of matches towards the end of your so-called career, and last I heard you’re a struggling alcoholic. If your name wasn’t Jonathan Trial, we wouldn’t even be here,” he says, throwing me off. He’s straight and to the point –professional, I guess is what you’d call it. As soon as I saw him, I started expecting this to be easy; he’s a kid, but he certainly is not acting like one.

“I understand your concerns,” I say, nervously scratching at the decorative stamp on the side of my coffee cup, “And I’m working on all of that. I have a lawyer who’s helping me straighten out some of the problems with my criminal record as well as some stories that have been misconstrued by the media. I’m in AA now too, and I’m not completely out of practice. I’m working at a gym as a trainer, so I won’t have to start over at square one.”

“That doesn’t exactly help with the whole public opinion thing,” Caleb says, “I can’t take on a fighter if I can’t sell tickets to his fights.”

“Well,” I say, “A lot of the problem was people thinking-”

“That you’re a misogamist prick,” Caleb says, “That video of you beaming your wife in the face isn’t going to just go away. And the clip of you bashing female boxers.”

“I know,” I say, “But I’m trying. The gym I work at is a women’s only gym. I’m helping to set up a fundraiser this year through them for the Battered Women’s House.”

Caleb laughs, “You’re working at a women’s only gym?”

“Okay, come on, did you not hear me?” I ask.

“Yeah, I heard you –a fundraiser for the Battered Women’s House,” he says and waves me off a bit. “All right, look, here’s what I’m going to do. I want you to get a lot of press at that event. I’m sure your boss won’t mind. It’ll be good publicity for the gym. See what your lawyer can do about getting one of the local stations to run a story about you heading up the event specifically. I also want you to stay sober,” Caleb scribbles down something on a napkin. “Come by this gym on Saturday; I’m going to have one of my trainers do an assessment of where you’re at.”

“Are you saying you’re going to sign me?” I ask.

“Oh, that’s not what I’m saying at all,” Caleb snorts, “I’m saying you’re a washed up loser, and the only reason I’m even remotely interested is because I used to be a fan before you screwed yourself over. Get your shit together, and I’ll consider taking you on.” He rises from his seat, “And show up Saturday for your assessment.”

He leaves the coffee shop, and I sink within myself. I’m such a joke that I can’t even get a newbie manager to sign me without proving myself. I finish my coffee and return to Tyler’s, feeling incredibly disappointed.