Dedication

For those who take up space, demanding attention and justice in the face of larger forces trying to make them silent or invisible. Here’s to loving loudly and proudly.

And for Philly. This jawn’s for you.

A Quick Note from Kathryn

ON THE ROPES is a friends-to-lovers romance. It’s flirty, steamy, and extra adorable. However, I did want to mention that this story touches on a few topics that may be sensitive to some readers, including healing from a concussion, racism toward a family member and homophobia/biphobia. It occurs mostly off the page (and is not graphic).

1. Dean

One

Dean

I leaned back against the wall outside my neighborhood bar and called the same damn number for the tenth time this week. I knew the recorded message by heart now: Thank you for calling the City of Philadelphia’s after-hours hotline. Please listen to the following menu of options.

I tipped my head back and hit 5. It was supposed to send me to a cheerful operator who would help with my “property emergency.” All I’d ever gotten was an endless phone tree maze. I scowled, turned my head as the automated music filled my ear.

It was a hot July night in South Philly. People were either drinking beer on their front stoops or drinking beer in the bar behind me. The sound of the baseball game filtered out onto the block.

Thank you for your patience. We are experiencing longer than usual wait times.

I caught the attention of two guys walking across the street, still in their suits from whatever job they had uptown. What they were doing in this neighborhood, I had no fucking clue. Their watches flashed, their suits looked tailored. Even their teeth looked too white. I probed the back right of my jaw where two of my own were missing. A consequence of going nine rounds with Ricky Hernandez when I was nineteen years old.

I pressed the phone hard against my ear as they whispered to each other. Their wariness was obvious, even from here. People gave me a wide berth in this neighborhood. It didn’t matter if I was just on the phone, standing on a street corner.

I was still Dean the Machine even if I was a quitter.

A rough-sounding voice suddenly came through. “Yeah, this is Fred. What’s the emergency with your city property?”

I shifted on my feet, startled someone had finally picked up. “Uh…sorry. I’ve been calling about a vacant lot on my block. The one at Tenth and Emily. City tore down my neighbor’s house a year ago. It’s just been sittin’ there.”

Fred coughed. “Okay. And?”

“And…I want to know what the city plans on doing with it. ’Cause right now everyone on my street has to live with an abandoned lot that’s turning into a neighborhood dump.”

There was grumbling. Some clicking noises. “I don’t know what to tell ya, pal. Based on what I’m seeing here, there’s no movement. And no interest.”

“No interest in what?”

“Doin’ anything about it.”

I raked a hand through my hair. “So, the city wants…what? A trash heap filled with rats on a block with kids running around?”

Fred made a frustrated sound. “I don’t know what this city wants, okay? I’m just the guy who reads the reports, and this report right in front of me, on my computer, is saying they wanna let it sit there.”

My shoulders twitched. My right hand curled into a fist. Uncurled, slowly. “What do we do in the meantime?”

There was a beeping sound and a few rustling papers. “I don’t really know, and it’s not really my problem. No offense.”

“Okay,” I said through gritted teeth. I’d spent the past week glaring at the empty space on our street. Being in a boxing ring was awful on a good day and absolutely brutal on a bad. But at least I knew how to handle my opponent. How to get what I wanted from him.

Now I couldn’t even get some underpaid city employee to listen to me.

“Hey,” Fred said. “The zip code for this lot. It’s where I grew up too.” His voice dropped. “I’m only saying this because I’m guessing you and me went to the same school. But I ain’t ever seen this city move fast to clean up anything in that zip code. Have you?”

I looked down at my running shoes. The sidewalk was cracked. Uneven. “No.”

“What’s your name, by the way?”

I hesitated. I wasn’t in the mood. “Dean,” I said. “Dean Knox-Morelli.”

He barked out a laugh. “Are you shittin’ me?”

“I am not.”

“Me and the guys used to watch you down at Snyder’s Tavern, off Oregon Ave. You know it, right?”

It was one of the bars in the city with a dedicated following of boxing fans. Place was packed for every match. It used to be I could walk in there any night of the week and drink for free. I wasn’t welcome there anymore.

“Used to know it, yeah,” I said.

“How long has it been since you quit?” he asked.

My shoulder muscles twitched again. “I retired three years ago.”

“Huh,” Fred said. “Time flies. You were really somethin’ else in that ring. But I guess you already know that.”

“Yeah, thanks,” I mumbled.

I got all kinds of responses from fans who had opinions on my early retirement from professional boxing. Sometimes fans like Fred were the hardest. The wistful ones. Like I was already a has-been, and they were sad for me about it.

“Listen.” His voice dropped even lower. “Take this from a, uh, friend from around the way. But with what this city is facing in terms of fixing up vacant lots, they’re not in a rush. I don’t think they’ll care at all what you do with it. Clean it up, put it to good use? If they come knocking five years from now and you’ve basically done their job for them, for free, they won’t be complaining. You get what I’m saying?”

I spotted Rowan on the corner. I raised a hand in greeting. “You think we should fix it ourselves?”

“Exactly. I gotta go take the next call, but it was a real honor chatting with one of the greats. My buddies aren’t gonna believe it.”

I winced as my best friend reached me. “Thank you for your…advice.”

“God bless, and go Birds,” he said and then hung up.

Rowan cocked a lopsided grin my way before clapping me twice on the shoulder. “Are you about to punch something, big guy?”

I slipped my phone back into my pocket. Shoved open the door. “I’ll tell you at the bar.”

It was darker inside. Cooler. Two giant TVs displayed the bottom fifth inning of the Phillies game. Benny’s Bar hadn’t allowed smoking in years, but there was still a whiff of it in the air. An angry slew of curse words went up—directed at the pitcher on the screen—as Rowan and I moved through the tables to the stools.

The bartender gave me a nod of recognition. I held up two fingers, and he sent Yuenglings our way. Rowan perched on the edge of his stool, legs spread, elbow propped up as he took a swig. Rowan O’Callaghan had been my friend since we were four years old. He’d grown up next door to me, living with his grandmother Alice. Like so many others, her family had moved from Ireland to this part of Philadelphia when she was a little girl. Her accent was as strong as ever. Even Rowan picked it up a bit when he was around her.

Rowan and I had grown up together, gone to school together. Were brothers more than anything else. While I got pulled into boxing, he was a baseball player who’d gotten drafted into the minor leagues right out of high school. He’d even been called up to the majors before he blew out his shoulder. If anyone understood the pain and frustration of a career-ending injury, it was him. He was almost as tall as I was, rangy and too confident, with dark red hair and pale skin.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “What’s that smile for?”

“I’m in a good mood ’cause I had a great date.”

I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was past 8:00. “Did you leave her somewhere?”

He smirked. “The date started at eight last night. And that’s why I’m smiling.”

My eyebrows shot up. “You like her?”

He lifted a shoulder. “I liked having fun with her. She was looking for the same kind of thing, so it worked out.”

I sipped my beer and sniffed. Dating was always easy for Rowan.

He tapped my knee. “Who was on the phone?”

“The city,” I said. “Finally got through to someone about Annie’s old place. The guy said the city doesn’t have any plans for it. He told me on the sly that we should fix the damn thing ourselves.”

He scoffed into his beer. “Figures.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a loud table of local guys sharing a pitcher. I thought I heard my name.

“You could do it though.”

I tapped the side of my beer and looked at the TV instead of Rowan. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve got some extra time on your hands,” he said. “If you started cleaning it out yourself, you don’t think everyone on that block wouldn’t come help?”

My hackles wanted to go up at the mention of my extra free time right now. But it was Rowan. He was only saying a nicer version of the words I heard in my head every day: You retired from pro boxing three years ago. You haven’t moved on, and news flash? You’re not doing shit.

Didn’t mean I was ready to carry the weight of people’s expectations again. No matter how minor.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“What if I helped you?”

“You’ve got a lot going on right now. You don’t need one more project.”

Rowan was one of the coordinators at the rec center in our neighborhood. He was trying to get a food delivery program for seniors off the ground. It was hard work. Long hours.

But now he was shrugging again. “So we organize a few cleanup days? Come up with a plan for what would replace the mound of stinking trash? Doesn’t seem so bad to me.”

“What would we replace it with?” I asked, curious.

“I don’t know. A fucking tree? It’d be nice to have one of those around.”

I rubbed my jaw. He wasn’t wrong. Our neighborhood wasn’t known for its green space or whatever. I’d only been thinking about getting rid of what was there. Not what would come after.

I shook my head. “I know what you’re doing. I’m still a no.”

He stretched his arms out wide. “And what am I doing?”

I shot him a look. He chuckled, sipped his beer. I wasn’t a kid who looked for trouble growing up. Especially not after finding boxing at thirteen. Except I had a best friend with Trouble as his middle name. This whole song-and-dance routine was as familiar to me as the squeaky sixth step on my old staircase. The one I’d had to avoid when Rowan would convince me to sneak out.

He nudged me with his elbow. “Will you think about it?”

He knew I’d do more than think. I’d overthink. “Maybe. I still want to push the city to do its job though.”

“I’ll take it.”

There was a burst of noise from behind us. The rowdy table with the pitcher. They definitely said my name this time, loud enough for half the bar to hush.

“Ignore ’em,” Rowan said. He waved the bartender over for a second beer. “Besides, this very pretty lady at the end of the bar has been trying to get your attention the entire time.”

My gut twisted. Throw me in the ring with some bare-knuckled brawler and I didn’t bat an eye. Because I could study fight tapes for hours. Train until I could barely stand after. Mental preparedness was how I won, every single time.

Dating was the mystery to me. And Rowan was basically a walking version of a fight tape but for women. He’d done his best since we were teenagers to impart his knowledge, and every time it was like he was speaking a different language.

I waved off what he said. “Are you sure she’s not trying to get your attention?”

“Nope. Believe me, she’s gunning for Dean the Machine over here. Do you want me to head home so you can go say hi?”

I felt my face go hot. “Um…no. It’s okay.”

Only Rowan and my parents could get away with using that old nickname with affection. The papers used to say a glare from Dean the Machine could strip paint from the walls—and that my hits were so precise they weren’t human. Like I was a robot.

“It’s the middle of summer,” he said. “The perfect time to have some casual fun. And just to be clear, I’m talking about fucking. Easy, casual fucking.”

I snorted. “Say it a little louder. I don’t think Father O’Sullivan heard you across the way.”

Rowan’s smile was devious. “Father O’Sullivan would be very disappointed with some of my actions recently.”

It was true. And Rowan was the king of whatever easy, casual fun was. To me, that sounded like a minefield of miscommunication and hurt feelings. I had never been in love before, but it seemed like being serious was kind of the point.

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—”

I turned on my heel. Chad was red faced, swaying, and about a foot shorter than I was. Drunken bravado had his right fist sailing sloppily toward the middle of my chest. I caught it midair and stepped into his space. He audibly gulped.

“I don’t fight anymore,” I said firmly. “I won’t be fighting you either. Now go home.”

“You scared?”

Behind me, Rowan started laughing. Even Chad’s friends were starting to shift uncomfortably on their feet.

“Not at all,” I said.

“Then let’s do this.”

I released his fist with a grunt of frustration and stepped away. It was an almost monthly occurrence, the way guys like this felt the need to show me up after one too many beers. Turns out prioritizing your own health over winning a championship belt was never gonna sit well with this city I’d disappointed.

Chad huffed a half-laugh, half-hiccupping sound and charged me. My hand shot out, connected with his chest, and then I shoved him back against the brick wall of the deli. I didn’t do it as hard as I could. I did it as softly as I could. He still flinched, and I felt bad about it.

Real fear flickered across his face.

Sometimes I had to meet their stupid intimidation tactics with my own to avoid an actual fight. I didn’t like it. It wasn’t in a ring. It wasn’t regulated. There wasn’t a ref or pads or gear. My body was a road map of injuries that never healed right, making my muscles and joints ache like I was forty-five and not twenty-five. I was overly cautious of inflicting that onto others. Even if Chad’s boozy, smug face had me questioning my ethics.

“Knock it off,” I snapped. I took a step closer. He gulped again. A zap of power shot up my spine. It was only a taste of how I used to feel. But it was enough to be confusing. I didn’t want to feel that when I was being a bully. Problem was I didn’t know how to feel it now that I couldn’t fight. And I sure as hell hadn’t found another way.

I let him go and rejoined Rowan. We didn’t turn back around to engage. Didn’t say a thing when Chad shouted, “Next time, you asshole.”

We walked in silence for a minute. Then Rowan said, “I know it sucks every fucking time.”

“I’m used to it by now,” I said. “It doesn’t bother me.”

That was a lie. And he knew it.

We hit the turn toward Emily Street, toward the giant trash heap I couldn’t stop being mad about. As we passed people on stoops and kids running in packs, I tried to carry myself like I was still Dean the Machine, the pride of this city. A man to be revered and respected.

But the only stray glances our way I saw were full of sympathy.

And not the nice kind.

2. Tabitha

Two

Tabitha

As the taxi pulled away, I hefted my bag onto my shoulders and faced the busy brightness of the Italian Market.

I stepped around people haggling over the prices of produce, iced trays of fish and clams, giant racks of beef hanging in windows. I dodged honking cars and trash cans lit with fires. I walked past clumps of tourists waiting in line for cheesesteaks, past locals speaking Italian, Spanish, and Mandarin. Tortillerias and taquerias sat cozy against shops selling pasta made fresh in the window.

Curving around Seventh Street, I turned down the block where my big sister lived. Kids raced past on the narrow streets on bikes. I waved to a few neighbors hosing down their front stoops and watering window boxes.

I hadn’t been home for any real amount of time in more than nine years.

My phone buzzed with a text from my dad: Are we a go, or what?

I stopped on the sidewalk and grinned. Almost there, I sent back. Hold your freaking horses.

My sister’s row home was red brick with light blue shutters and Juliet’s chalk drawings decorating the sidewalk like a painted garden. I paused to study the green tendrils and rainbow-colored hearts spilling out across the pavement. Dropping my pack to the ground with a sigh of gratitude for my aching shoulders, I smiled again when I realized how much Juliet’s drawings looked like Alexis’s when we were little.

My smile faltered. Alexis had stopped coloring our stoop when our mom told her they were ugly. That it made our house look trashy.

“Pssst.”

I looked up and immediately disregarded the memory. My dad was peeking through the front window looking like he’d just won the lottery.

“Go inside,” I whispered, trying not to laugh. “You’ll ruin it.”

“I’m too excited,” he whispered back.

Rolling my eyes, I wiped chalk from my knees and dragged my pack to prop it against the side of the house. As I crept up the stairs, I could hear an old Smokey Robinson song that was a family favorite, my stepmother Kathleen singing along. I didn’t want to risk checking my appearance in the reflection of the window—besides, I knew I looked unwashed, rumpled, and sleep deprived after my red-eye from California.

I knocked three times. Stepped back with my hands to my mouth, hiding the squeal trying to get out.

I could hear Alexis as she approached. “…know who it is? Could be a package, I guess.”

She pulled open the door. There was a dishrag over her shoulder and Cheerios in her short blond hair. And the moment she saw me, she screamed and jumped into my arms.

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

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