The Boxer and the Blogger

Chapter Two: Friday night fights

Chapter two: Friday night fights.

This is all his fault. Grayson’s the only reason why I’m stuck in a holding cell at one o’clock in the morning, with an overweight police officer who probably pigs out on free coffee and donuts, watching my every single move.

I turned my head to the right, and glared at the side of Grayson’s godly face. Sure I was deathly afraid of the loner who could easily beat me up in five seconds flat, but right now my anger was overpowering the logical side of my brain.

One punch, one video camera and one freaking fight was all it took.

Four hours earlier

Monday faded into Tuesday, and Tuesday leapt into Wednesday, and Wednesday just appeared out of thin air. Nothing interesting happened after my little run-in with Grayson. That is until Thursday crept it’s ass up to Friday.

I was sitting on the couch, stuffing my face with potato chip and blogging alone…in the dark…under a blanket…waiting for my viewer status to spontaneously skyrocket.  And I’m proud to say that this is how I spend my Friday nights. Okay, maybe I’m not that proud, but it is what it is.

My phone pinged, signaling an incoming text message from a number that I didn’t recognize. And between you and me, there’s not that many numbers in my phone, therefore not that many I need to know.

Fight tonight. 12 @ Madison Garden. Be there or be square.

I rolled my eyes at the last part. Madison Garden is probably where they think one of Grayson’s famous fights will be. They’re always wrong. Always wrong. But a little part in my brain wondered. What if they’re finally right? What if Grayson’s fight is really at Madison Garden? Nah, they’re probably still wrong.

I maneuvered myself out from under the blankets, and looked at my clock. 11:45 blinked harshly at my eyes. A rustling was heard outside my door. Intruder Alert! I grabbed the closest thing next to me, which happened to be a lamp, and crept out of my room.

Darkness covered the whole house, and shadows danced around the walls and floors. The rustling got louder as I approached the linen closet. My mind was screaming, “Don’t do it! Nothing ever good comes from sounds in closets, and you know it!”, but the rational part of my mind was telling me, “This is not a scary movie! Get your butt up, and figure out what is in that closet!”

I counted down. 3…2…1! Swinging open the door, I was not met with a monster, but my twin brother holding a cellphone close to his ear.

“What the heck Travis!” I whisper-yelled, in fear that our parents would awaken. I examined him closer. “And why do you look like you’re about to go out?”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s like you didn’t hear about the fight that’s supposed to happen at midnight, which you did. I made sure of it. And Tatum,” he looked at the lamp firmly gripped in my hands. "put the lamp down."

It was my turn to roll my eyes. Ever since Travis started football in freshman year, he’s been pushing me to join the popular crowd with him, but he doesn’t understand that I stand alone and that I prefer quiet nights compared to getting drunk and doing something that you won’t even remember in the morning.

Travis probably got one of his friends to text me about the fight. I put the lamp down. “It doesn’t matter whether I heard about it or not. I’m not going and neither are you.” I crossed my arms, trying to make a point.

“Tatum!” he whined. “What if you filmed the fight and put it on your blog! Do you know how many people would, what do you call it, tune in?”