Joe Keery Imagines

My Husband, The Boxer-Joe Keery

Joe's been boxing long before we started dating or got married. He started boxing in high school and went pro. I'm not an expert in boxing, but Joe seems pretty talented. He's won a lot more fights than he's lost.

Even though he's been doing this for a long time, it wasn't easy watching him get beat up. Sure, he got some good hits in too, but those didn't stick with me. It was the ones that caused Joe to bleed that I couldn't get out of my head.

Usually, Joe got the upper hand and won the fight. Not tonight. Tonight, he couldn't seem to find his way in. I took a shaky breath, looking away from the fight. I loved Joe more than anything in my life. But it was getting harder and harder to watch him get beat up.

When the fight ended, I let out a sigh of relief. I looked at my husband, cringing when I saw how beaten up he was. Like he did after every fight, Joe found me in the crowd and sent me a wink. I plastered on a big smile and sent him a wink back.

He followed his trainer back into the locker room and I went to the car. I leaned against the hood, waiting for my husband. I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to resist looking at my watch but eventually gave in.

With each fight that he's been in, Joe takes longer to come outside. He tells me it's because he's talking to his trainer or someone, but I knew the truth. He was spending more time with the medic.

"Hey, baby," Joe laughed as he jogged toward me.

"Hey, you," I said, trying to sound as normal as I could. "Nice fighting tonight, big guy."

"Thank you," he smirked. Well, he tried to but his lip was too swollen. He reached into his bag and found the keys. I instantly took them.

"Hey," he laughed. "I can drive us home."

"No, you can't," I sighed. I continued before he could object, "Joe, you've been taking a beating for at least twenty minutes. You're not driving."

"I'm fine."

"Your face says otherwise," I mumbled.

Joe didn't argue with me any further as we walked out of the gym. As we drove home, I could tell Joe wanted to say something. We pulled into the driveway and got out of the car, still not saying anything.

"Go get cleaned up," I said, slightly clearing my throat. "I'll start dinner."

He paused like he wanted to say something, but decided against it. He walked upstairs and I heard the shower turn on. I took a shaky breath, trying to get the image of my beaten husband out of my brain.

I made his favorite pasta dish as he showered. I was just finishing it when he came downstairs. I looked over my shoulder and sighed. I put the spoon down and walked over to him. I gently took his face in my hands.

"We should clean these cuts," I sighed.

"What about dinner?"

"It'll stay warm," I said. I grabbed his hand and led him to the downstairs bathroom. He instantly sat on the toilet while I grabbed the first aid kit.

We were silent as I treated his wounds. He had a busted lip, a cut just under his eye, one on his jaw, and his knuckles were busted up.

"Y/N," Joe whispered when I moved from the cuts on his face to his torn-up knuckles. "I'm sorry, baby."

"For what?"

"I know you don't like these fights."

"Joe," I sighed. I started to walk away but he grabbed my wrist.

"We need to talk about this."

"What is there to talk about?" I asked. "This is your job. You get beat up for work."

"Y/N. . ."

"I don't know how much more of it I can take," I said under my breath.

"What do you mean?" Joe asked, standing up.

I crossed my arms over my chest and gathered as much courage as I could. "Joe," I said shakily, "you know I love you. I just. . . Watching you get beat up. . ."

"It's not like I get beat up every time," Joe tried to laugh off. "I win most of my fights."

"Most. . . Joe, you've had a great career."

"What are you trying to say?" Joe asked, his anger slowly building.

"I'm saying that maybe it's time to retire."

"Retire," he scoffed. "Come on, Y/N. I'm thirty, not sixty-five."

"What if. . . What if. . ." I stuttered.

"What if what?" Joe scoffed. "What if my wife doesn't want to support me anymore?"

"Joe," I gasped, his name getting caught in my throat. "That's not. . . Baby, I will always support you. You know that."

"Then what is it, Y/N? Because suddenly you aren't supporting me."

"Just because I suggested retirement, doesn't mean that I don't support you."

"Will you tell me what is going on?" Joe asked, his anger slowing down. "Because I have no idea why. . ."

"What if you get hurt?" I cut him off.

"I'm a boxer, babe," he sighed. "It's part of the job."

"What about the repercussions?"

"Repercussions?"

"Brain damage!" I yelled, unable to hold back my anger. "Concussions can cause permanent brain damage, Joe. What if you get hurt so bad during a fight that. . . That I have to take you to the hospital and. . . And I lose you or. . . Or. . ."

Joe closed the gap between us and wrapped me in a tight hug. I took a few shaky breaths, struggling to calm down.

"I'm sorry," Joe whispered. "I'm sorry, baby."

"I don't want to lose you," I said a sob getting stuck in my throat.

"I don't want you to lose me either," Joe said, tightening his hold on me. "So, if you want me to stop fighting, I will."

"I don't want you to think I'm not supportive," I said as I pulled just enough out of our embrace to look up at him.

"I'm sorry I said that, baby," he said quickly. "You have always been supportive of me and my career. I shouldn't have accused you of not being supportive. I'm sorry, darling. I love you."

"I love you too, Joe."

Joe leaned down and pressed his lips to mine. I wrapped my arms around his neck, deepening the kiss. Joe broke the kiss, gasping in pain.

"I'm sorry," I stuttered.

"It's okay," he smiled as he wrapped his arms around me. "Kissing my wife, even with a cut-up lip, is not something I'd ever regret."

He leaned down to kiss me again but I stopped him. I smiled when he pouted his busted lip.

"Honey," I chuckled, "our dinner is getting cold."

"I'm not hungry," he said, pulling me closer. I teasingly put my hand over his lips when he tried to kiss me again.

"If you can kiss your wife," I teased, "you can eat. Come on."