“Dude, why the long face? Did your dog die?” Nick, another fighter and a good friend from the gym asks me.

Shaking my head, I spin the empty bottle of beer on the bar. “I don’t have a dog. You know this.”

“C’mon No-No, don’t be like that.” He grins and knocks back a shot of whiskey.

“Don’t fuck with me tonight or I’ll take it out on your ass in the ring tomorrow.”

“Leave my ass out of this,” he jokes, before heading across the bar to talk to the pretty brunette making eyes at him.

Nick’s got a great sense of humor and he prefers to make light of situations. There are only two things I’ve known him to be completely serious about - fighting and football.

Glancing around Crows, I take in the rough looking crowd. This place is located within walking distance of Collins Fight Club, the gym we train at. I usually end up here on Friday nights with some of the guys. After busting our asses it’s nice to relax and decompress. This close to a fight I never have more than one drink and I never stay long enough to order another. Tonight, it was a Sam Adams and despite knowing better, I’m still sitting at the bar fumbling around with the empty bottle.

My mind keeps drifting back to less than an hour ago and the feeling of having Reagan in my arms again. Granted the moment could have gone better, but I wasn’t expecting a warm welcome anyway. I wish I could stop thinking about her, but I can’t and it’s driving me crazy. I need to focus on my training and the biggest fight of my career. Everything I’ve wanted and worked for is there for the taking and all I can think about is how good she felt in my arms. I can sense the frustration building up inside of me.

“No-No... What are you doing in here?” Billy Mack staggers over and sits next to me at the bar. “Don’t you have a big fight coming up champ?” He’s had too much to drink and is talking loud enough for everyone to hear. “Perthonally…Persumably…Perfessionally…“He stops and takes a deep breath. “Personally, I don’t think you should be in here drinking so…close to a fight. BUT... what the hell, right? Lemme buy you another... beer.”

Billy is a kid from Southie that I’ve known for most of my life. He’s always been a hard case, drinking and drugging his way into one scrape after another. Like most kids out of our neighborhood, he’s good with his hands and likes to fight. He even tried to make a go of it at Collins Fight Club. Unfortunately for him, discipline, dedication and focus are crucial to making it in MMA. These are not qualities Billy Mack has to spare.

“No thanks.” I’m not in the mood for dealing with him right now.

“Don’t be like that champ.” He elbows me awkwardly in the shoulder. “Drink wit’ me,” he shouts in my ear.

I’m trying to be patient but this is getting old fast. This is the point where I should get up and leave. I should. I don’t. “Go fuck yourself, Pork-Chop.” I smile.

Shortly after Billy started his brief training at CFC; Jimmy called out to him from across the gym one day while he was working the heavy bag. “Let’s go Pork-Chop. Hit that bag like ya’ mean it.” And that was all it took.

Billy quickly let it be known to any who would listen that he did not like being called pork-chop. Of course, once everyone at the gym saw how much it bothered him the name became permanent. It’s been three years since he quit the gym and just to be clear Billy Mack still does not like the nickname Pork-Chop.

“What the fuck you say to me?” Billy stands straight off the bar, staggers back a step and then charges forward. “Motha’ fuckah,” he growls.

I snap up off the barstool, knocking it clear behind me and slip back a step. I kick out his front leg at the ankle and grab the back of his collar, then slam his face onto the bar twice. His back-leg buckles and he’s bleeding from the nose and mouth, mumbling incoherently before he hits the floor. That felt good.

“Heads up.” Nick shouts and points as he runs toward me from across the bar.

Spinning around just in time to catch the last blur of a punch before it hits me above the eye, I tuck my chin enough to absorb the blow, but it still rocks me.

Apparently, Billy has friends here tonight. Three of them crowd around me and each other as they throw punches and a few kicks. In the chaos of adrenaline and violence, most of their strikes don’t even make contact. The ones that do are just glancing blows, without much impact.

My fighter’s brain kicks in and I quickly slide back away from the group. The last thing I want to do now is end up on the ground with three guys looking to stomp me through the floor and into the basement.

“Bitch-ass fucks.” Nick arrives in a big way, ducks his shoulder and spears one of the men on to a nearby table and then the floor. This leaves two for me.

Countless hours of training make my reaction instantaneous and I hit the closest guy with a quick three-punch combination before he has time to react. His knees waver and he looks as if he may fall, so I grab him by the neck with both hands and keep him standing long enough to drive the back of his head directly into his buddy’s nose.

I watch his buddy, now bleeding from what must be a broken nose, fall to the floor covering his face as I shove the first guy down on top of him. I pick my foot up and stomp him once for good measure and leave him with a matching broken nose to enjoy with his friend.

Nick stands over the one he tackled, who is unconscious amid the debris of a broken table and chair. The rest of the patrons at the bar are all sitting and standing in stunned silence at what’s just taken place in front of them. That’s when I first see the cell phones. There are at least a half dozen of them pointing in my direction.

“I think it’s time to leave.” Nick pushes me toward the front door. “Let’s go, damn it.” He continues to usher me out. “Jimmy’s gonna kill the both of us.”

That’s when it hits me. “Fuck - fuck - fuck.”

The last thing I need right now is a story getting out about how I’m getting into bar brawls four weeks out from a major title fight. MMA has come a long way over the last ten to twelve years, but there’s still a strong stigma attached to what some politicians like to call ‘human cock-fighting’. If any one of those six or seven people filming with their cell phones decides to make some extra cash, I’ll be one of the top stories come morning on every major sports-media news outlet. “Jimmy’s gonna kill me.”

“Now you’re getting it.” Nick grabs my helmet and slaps it down on my head as we reach my bike. “You need to go, right now.”

My Harley is running strong tonight and I’m glad to be on the bike right now. It’s just the distraction I need to clear my head. Visions of viral videos competing for attention and the resulting press conference fade as I twist the throttle, weaving in and out of traffic over the bridge on Morrissey Blvd, heading for home. There’s nothing quite like riding a motorcycle in the city at night. All your troubles fall away in a blur of lights and reflections. Your connection to the road and the images and echoes of the nightlife around you take over and put all your worries on the back burner, even if only for a short while.

By the time I pull up at my house and park the bike my focus has returned to the present mess I’ve created. All this thinking about Reagan must stop. She’s renting space in my head at a time when the No Vacancy sign should be lit and blinking. I don’t even want to think about how this will all play out with her. For now, I can’t help but think about what the morning will bring after my actions tonight. I don’t see a lot of sleep in my immediate future.