Antonio, a renowned boxer in NYC, revels in his fame, money, and success with the ladies. But as his most important fight approaches, his usual trainer departs unexpectedly and is replaced with his daughter, Danielle. Antonio, fueled by his ingraine...
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ANTONIO
The bastard has not been answering my calls.
My 8 calls and 12 texts to be exact.
I mutter cursing under my breath as I stare at the contact name "Coach" for the ninth time today. The time difference in California is three hours behind, so I know he's awake. He's just avoiding me because he knows he's messed up.
"Hey! It's David Robinson. I'm not at the phone right—"
I slam my phone down in frustration, my head falling with it. I feel a cold, glassy surface on my forehead and look up to see a shot glass handed to me. I down my fourth shot of the night and slam the glass beside my phone.
"Trouble in paradise, huh, Antony?" Santiago says, slinging a towel over his shoulder as he begins to make some concoction for the lady across the bar. By the looks of it, it's her 21st birthday, and she's out celebrating with all her gal pals, downing colorful cocktails. If I wasn't in such a bad mood, I might join them.
"You'd think avoiding relationships with females would keep me from having girl problems, but you'd be wrong," I say, taking another swig of my beer.
I'm reminded of yesterday morning's events when I didn't answer Coach's calls, and it seems like the shoe's on the other foot. Maybe he's punishing me for that. Maybe he doesn't care that he put a girl in charge of the success of my career. Maybe he doesn't care because it's his daughter. That's the only explanation that makes sense. He probably spoils her rotten. Or maybe his wife manipulated him somehow. Women are the devil's gateway.
"Well, you could always have 'quote unquote' girl problems from being friends with women," he smiles outwardly.
I sigh in frustration, "Be reasonable, Santi. Friends with women." I scoff, "What am I, some virgin?"
"No. In fact, you probably sleep with too many women. Which is also where these issues can arise," he says under his breath. It crosses my mind that I've shared too much of my life with Santiago. Being a bartender at my favorite night club, Santi is just short of being my shrink. Barbers are the therapists of salons, and bartenders are the therapists of bars, and I've been a patient of his for three years now.
I eye him skeptically. "Are you advising I become a monk? Because I won't go bald."
"Because the women love it too much?" he jokes.
"Because you love it too much," I wink.
He shakes his head, "not my type, Rivera."
"I'm everyone's type," I shrug.
Santiago rolls his eyes and gazes his attention to the delicate wine glass he's cleaning. "So, what girl is avoiding the calls of New York's number one boxer?"
I would thank him for the last remark, but anger creeps through my veins again. "It's her dad," I tell him.
He stops his tracks, putting the glass down, and leans against the bar toward me. "Dad? What– are you asking for her hand in marriage? How much have I missed?"
