American Sweethearts

53

I look away from the screen. Tyler watches my response, and pauses the video.

"Tyler..." I whisper. "What is that?"

"My job."

"No," I shake my head. "You can't be serious."

"That's my job," he insists.

"You're a boxer?"

"Yep."

"Tyler!" I scold. "That's so dangerous!"

"It's not as bad as wrestling or bodybuilding."

"How could you do that?"

"I like it."

"How did you even get started?"

"I don't know," he shrugs. "I was in middle school, and some guy saw me fighting some kid and told me to come to his gym."

"And you just agreed? Was it this gym?"

"yeah," he nods. "It helped me."

"How? How can you enjoy something like this?"

What kind of person enjoys making someone else suffer? I would never be okay with doing something like that, especially not in a physical sense. I could never hurt someone unless I didn't have a choice.

"This is why I didn't want to tell you," he grumbles. "There's so much you don't understand."

"Then tell me."

"I'm so full of anger, Sarah. I can't even begin to tell you the shit that goes on in my head."

"Then, try," I insist.

I place my head over his, trying to let him know I'm here for him. Even though I don't exacly like the sound of this, I'd be a shitty person if I just left him now. He glances up at me, his eyes full of emotion. He runs circles over my palm.

"Boxing just helps me deal with this shit," he says. "There's nothing I like more than beating some guy down, and this way, I can do it with no repercussions."

"Why do you like that?" I ask. "Why are you okay with beating someone up?"

"Because it feels fucking good. It's like a drug. And winning is just..."

"Euphoric?" I ask.

"yeah," he nods. "And I fucking love it."

I purse my lips. I don't know how to respond to him. But it makes perfect sense. Tyler likes the power and the strength. He likes being the toughest guy in the room, even if it means beating someone up. In fact, it's probably preferred considering the emotional relief he must get through it.

"Arent you afraid you'll get hurt?" I ask him.

"I don't get hurt anymore."

"I don't believe that."

"There's nothing my opponents can do to me that I haven't experienced before."

My eyes shoot up at him. I hate the sound of that. He's acting as calm as ever, but my thoughts are spinning.

"Is this why you're always injured?" I ask.

"Mostly," he nods. "But sometimes it's just stupid fights."

"Like with Christian?"

His body tenses when I speak the name. His eyes turn to stone, and he squeezes my hand.

"That wasn't stupid and you know it," he spits. "That motherfucker deserved everything he got."

"But now you're in trouble. He's pressing charges, isn't he?"