At the height of my pro boxing career, there was a lot of interest in me from women when I went out. I’d had my fair share of one-night stands, where things like talking or being nervous didn’t come up in the dark with a stranger you weren’t gonna see again.

It scratched an itch. I didn’t always feel that good about it afterward though.

“I’m still fine.” I pushed my empty beer away from me. “And not interested.”

The rowdy table at the back finally decided to start shit. We could hear them, drunkenly trying to get my attention. Benny’s was small and crowded. As Rowan cursed beneath his breath, I tossed cash onto the table and knocked my knuckles against the bar top.

“Let’s go,” I said, clapping Rowan on the back. We weaved past crowds and out into the muggy summer night. The group followed, hot on our heels. This wasn’t our first rodeo, so we hung a sharp left to cut across the street.

“Hey, Dean,” a slurred voice called out. “Dean the Machine—that’s you, isn’t it?”

“Don’t they know your fists are literally lethal weapons?” Rowan whispered.

He meant it as a joke. The potential for harm, however, was real. I’d worked hard the last three years to control my body’s instincts to use my hands instead of walking away. Because guys like that—die-hard sports fans who believed I was the scourge of the earth because I’d let them down—only wanted to poke the bear and see what happened.

“Deeeaaaaaaan,” the guy taunted. The block we walked down was free of kids, thankfully. But full of folks on their stoops or lawn chairs on the sidewalk, gossiping with their neighbors like they did every night.

If I hit this asshole, the whole neighborhood would know by dawn.

Rowan and I nodded as we passed houses, greeted a few people we knew. They were very aware of the tiny mob behind us, their eyes wide. I kept my body language loose. Comfortable. The second we turned onto 11th Street, in front of an old, boarded-up deli, a hand grabbed the back of my shirt and pulled.

I stopped. Rowan spun and said, “Come on, man.”

I waited for the guy to release me. He didn’t. His fingers tightened in the fabric. “My friends said I couldn’t take Dean the Machine himself.” I felt him wobbling. “But I said…I said…that piece of shit quit three fucking years ago. Pretty sure I could beat his ass.”

“Chad, let him go.”

“Yeah, Chad,” Rowan said. “Listen to your friends over there. They seem smarter than you.”

Chad yanked, but it was pointless. Being steady on my feet had been a requirement in my fighting days. As gently as I could, I reached behind and gripped his wrist. Squeezed, just a little. His fingers popped open.

“Hey, watch it—”