Fighter (A Liam Payne Fanfiction)

Chapter Two - Arabella

But she's a modern lover,

It's an exploration, she's made of outer space.

And her lips are like the galaxy's edge.

And her kiss the colour of a constellation falling into place.

- "Arabella", Arctic Monkeys

....

I was jerked awake to the symphony of rumbling dump trucks, barking dogs, and speeding cars. Living in an apartment right in the city has its perks—for one, you get a free morning alarm.

Making the stream of the most disgusting noises humanly possible, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, planting my bare feet on the carpeted floor. My eyes scanned my apartment bedroom—at the wall of boxing trophies and ribbons and belts, at the posters of Muhammad Ali, Manny Pacquiao, and Floyd Mayweather. I saw my same computer desk that held my laptop, and my flat screen TV straight ahead from me. My computer chair held an extra pair of boxing gloves that were way too worn to practice in. My comforter was still navy and white striped. Everything in my room looked exactly the same, but I felt so weirdly different.

Was the fuck-up last night that was bugging me? I rotated my right shoulder—which was still sore as fuck—and sighed heavily. With my elbows braced on my kneecaps, my weighted head lolled forwards and fell into my open palms. Jesus. My phone buzzed with an email, and suddenly the thought of platinum blonde hair and red full lips flashed over my vision like lightning.

Isabella.

Fucking Isabella.

My memory of her was a bit fuzzy around the edges due to the alcohol I'd consumed, but her deliberately messy blonde hair was like a beacon of light in the darkness of my head.

I stared at the folded-up Wal-Mart receipt she'd given me that I'd placed neatly on my bedside table, her phone number scrawled on the back.

Did she text me yet?

I dove for my phone like a fucking cheetah for prey, and pressed the home button. My heart leaped with two missed texts, but disappointment showed up just as quickly, over my excitement.

Sam: Practice today is from 11:30 am to 6:30 pm. I've got the file on Styles, so be here a little early so we can read it and discuss fight plans.

Zayn: Have you heard from Sin on Legs yet?

I decided to answer Zayn's text, as that one sparked more of my interest.

I texted the number she gave me last night. She still hasn't responded.

Zayn replied immediately: Oh shit. You think it's fake?

It can't be. She was all over me, why would she give a fake number? Maybe she wrote one number down wrong or something?

Zayn: No way. Girls like her hand out phone numbers like business cards.

So are you saying she's a slut? I hated using that word, but I couldn't think of anything better at the moment.

No way. I'm saying she's a tease. Try calling her, see what happens. Be careful.

I immediately went to the contact for her I had in my phone. Isabella.

With each ring, nervousness held in my stomach like a ball of lead—heavy, and unmoving. Finally, I heard a click, but with an automated answering machine. "Your call has been forwarded to an automative voice messaging system..."