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"You wreak of smoke." Bucky frowned from the bench.

I lazily tossed down my duffel bag next to him and sighed. "So?"

"So, you need to quit," he said.

A quick glance and he's serious. I stop trudging through my bag long enough to notice that much. I exhale. "I'll do the trainings, okay? It's enough."

"You'll quit smoking." His eyes narrowed as he stepped up to me. "Drinking too. It's holding you back," he said.

"Pst," I smirk, "Am I becoming a priest now?"

"No, you're becoming a boxer and a damn good one at that."

I matched his eye and scowled, but his face didn't so much as twitch. "It..," I sigh in frustration, "...It helps me though. This shit, it's all mental. Drinking keeps me ready. Helps me relax myself. It keeps this shit simple."

Bucky lifted up the fresh elastic ropes of one of the rings and stepped up inside. "Just paint or get a hobby like a normal person then, I don't care. I just need you at your best."

I threw my jacket off my body and had to fight the sleeves. "One night a week?"

"Nope."

When my jacket sprung off, I caught a view of him fiddling with a remote pointed to the ceiling as he spoke, "Every boxer worth something isn't pumping themselves full of shit. I'm not wasting my time here. I'll need you on a diet too."

Shit. Of course. "Fuck this," I sighed. I threw off my sweats and shimmied under the ropes. "It's not like this is even that serious. It's just some shit tournament."

"It's the biggest one in the nation," he said lost in a daze playing with the remote and looking off.

I was dazed staring in the same direction as I wrapped my paw in hand wraps. "Also we don't need these special lights just to train," I said. "These giant ones above are plenty."

"I agree," he said getting lost in thought working them.

The last spotlight above me turned slightly at the press of his remote. His tongue lightly stuck out as he made one final adjustment.

"I'm really getting sick of all the extra shit. It's just boxing, not some pageant," I said.

He threw the remote into his bag and zipped it up as loud as could be. His ears perked up. "They're cameras. One from each corner. I'll send you the tapes. Outside the ring, I'll also need you watching them every day like it's your favorite show. I want you studying them well, seeing what you're too damn stuck up to see when you're in the ring."

I rolled my eyes. Bucky nodded to me and pulled out two thick punching mitts to put over each of his paws. The long flat leather pads looked like oversized mittens. Any punch today was going to be far too cushioned for this asshole.

I looked across to see the spotlights from earlier had lenses and blinking red lights. They stared down at me from above. Soulless and somehow judgmental.

I lifted my gloves as he kept his paws down by his sides. My jaw clenched as I shifted my right leg behind me. "I got a job outside of this. A life too. You know, the normal shit people have."

"Punch." He raised up his right punching mitt and I jabbed it back. He took this whole coach thing too seriously. He was better when he was salivating over me like I was some cheap hooker. "And are you going to argue with me the entire session?"

A left up-high and I swung to meet it. "Maybe," I curled my lips up. "Maybe you're also just not getting it. You want me to be a Henry."

He continued throwing up mitts for me to hit and keeping his eyes focused. "That's because Henry gives a shit."

"I do give a shit!" My gloved smacked right up against his mitt as my jaw tuckered down. "I just also have more to do than this. This isn't my life. It's just a hobby."

I kept my eyes focused now. Waiting for the next mitt to be raised as both his paws were locked in my field of view. He shuffled them, moving them around slightly before they went still.

"This isn't going to work," Bucky began to work off his punching mitts.

I lowered my own gloves. "Exactly."

It went quiet between us as he wrestled off his punching mitts. His bottom lip brushed up and down against his teeth as his tail wiggled back-and-fourth in slow waves.

I threw off my gloves letting my handpaws breathe. The cameras seemed to choke me as they stared me down.

"What are you feeling?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Good. Happy? Hell, it's great we're giving up here."

"No, dummy, I mean what are you feeling?"

"Is this like a therapy session now?"

"Practically is. Look, just tell me what it is stopping you because I'm sure as hell not playing a guessing game to figure it out." He was on the verge of being agitated and I was far past that point already.

"Well, you can stop guessing," I turned away, but his paw held my shoulder tight.

"Nobody is here to give a shit," he said bluntly. "Besides me."

My ears shot up and my maw shot open. I looked around the gym and back to his solemn expression. "Honestly?" I retraced the floor for a second as it grew too quiet. "Honestly, I just don't care about this. Those days of me giving a shit. Thinking I'd be someone and make all the money I want. Those days are just over. I'm not in this to be some sort of great anymore. Hell, you'd be better training Henry. He's too stupid to know any better."

"If I wanted Henry, I would have taken Henry. But I took you. Signing him would be just as hard as giving him a pen and telling him when he starts. But I don't want him or anyone like him. I want you."

I cocked my head. I hated how I believed him, but hated more to tell him I did. "You wanting me isn't enough for me to give a shit. Just leading a dead horse to water and telling it to drink," I spout. "I thought I wanted this. Got my hopes all high again, but I really don't. I never wanted this."

He rolled his eyes. "That's bullshit, Roger. From what I can see, you're just scared."

"I'm not scared of shit."

"A lot of people are." He took a pause and nodded at me. "Giving a shit is hard, but anyone can do it. It just takes guts to do it. There are tons of people that live wishing they could try, wanting this same opportunity you have, but they never make it. Trying, really trying, only to see it all crash and burn is too damn scary for them. I can see it in your eyes, Roger. It's the same thing I saw when I took your title." He took a step closer. "You're terrified you'll crash and burn, but, just as well, you're even more scared to be guessing 'what if' for the rest of your life."

I threw off my gloves and got up into his face. "Like hell I am! I was never scared. I don't give a shit if I lose anymore. I don't give a shit about any of this, and I'm done with you trying to make up shit about how I think. It's just all wrong."

He looked calm as ever. Bastard knew he won already. "Tell me you don't think about going up into that ring and getting the shit beat out of come qualifiers. That yesterday you weren't putting on a show in training acting like you didn't know how to throw a punch or climb a couple of feet up some rope."

I stared at him and my lips tightened up. My face scorching beneath my fur.

"If you try and fail here, right before me. If you get to the qualifiers and drip blood, then I won't look down on you for it, Roger. You have my word. But if you kick and scream the entire way scared to say you gave this an honest effort, then we'll both be sour in the end."

"You just want the money," I dug in.

"Oh, I'll get my money. I made my bet on you already. But you have to be okay with getting this wrong as many times as it takes to get it right." He strapped back on the punching mitts. "And you're welcome to fail as many times as it takes. I'll keep my laughing for when I'm behind your back." He flashed a smile. "Promise."

I tried to stop the smirk, but it came on anyway. "Fine."

I started smoking cigarettes just a year back. Bumped into some buck at the bar with Jess. A Tyler, Trevor, or something like that. He put the cancer stick to his lips outside and flicked his sparkly Zippo at it. Got one of those big butane flames and it got a fat, red cherry burning hot on the end of it.

Damn, I know it's dumb, but it looked so fucking cool. He had one of the higher-end packs of smokes that filled my nose with this earthy smell of organic tobacco. Most cigarettes you can tell they are going to make your lungs a swimming pool of tar and chemicals, but, a look at these and a quick sniff, and I couldn't help but think maybe it'd kill you a lot slower.

And he could see that. It's why he tossed one my way. I was drunk trying to impress some chick of the month, so I took it up to my muzzle, saw the flash of his silver zippo, and breathed in like he told me to.

That fresh, crisp tobacco burned bright and it tasted like burnt leather on my tongue. I took a swig of my alcoholic what-have-you as he laughed at my eyes watering up. A splash of my drink cut the taste and I calmed down. Really calmed down. I felt like I was floating as the nicotine hit my brain.

I talked to that buck for a good bit. Taking tries to copy the way he smoked it. I adjusted my grip on it, tried to breathe in the smoke, and spit it back out casually. The taste and burning sensation made this tricky, but, with every puff, my body fought it a bit less.

I didn't order another drink. The buzz in my head took over and something in my head clicked off nicely. I still remember thinking that day that I could get used to this. I could really get used to smoking if I could feel this way anytime I wanted to. That's how it started.

I never became a pack-a-day type-- at least most days--but I still burned through more of them than I'd like to say. Before long, I was known as a smoker, something I didn't really identify with. I smoked the good expensive cigarettes until the cost caught up and the cheap ones did the same trick.

The option of whether I'd smoke or not died off faster than I'd hoped. Cravings came in and sometimes I'd smoke as a chore. Smoking for fun took a good couple of cigs before it really got me a good buzz and, the next day, I'd pay the price for every puff of smoke in my body.

Occasionally to daily. Small pickings to just-in-case stashing. If anyone asked me why I hate myself, it would be this, but, of course, I'd still buy another pack after saying that. I'd still do it again even when I have to try to figure out how to light one of the damn things in the windiest city in the country.

The smell doesn't come out of fur... ever honestly. Showering helps, sure, but those cigarettes wanted to humiliate me. They wanted to tell everyone who could smell me that I was their little bitch and that I'd do what they want. A collar around the neck I clung to.

Now, that smell just haunts me. It plays on that soft spot in my brain as I clean out glasses at the start of my shift at the bar. I haven't touched one of those things for two days now. The guides online tell me the worst is over, but I swear I'm about to break.

I'm clean as a whistle and, as good for me that is, my body would disagree. Can't sleep, jittery, and, if my coworkers thought I was a firecracker before, then I'd hate for them to see me now--especially with a Saturday shift ahead of me.

One look around the bar and the few early birds were already bathing in ashtrays and tobacco. Occasionally, I get a whiff of a cheap fruity flavor and see some sucking on their vape. Even now, I'd still rather die than be a pansy sucking on some electric pacifier.

What sucks the most about the slow start is that it gives me too much time to think. The rest of my coworkers were out back smoking or prepping in the kitchen. I used to join them though none of the conversations meant much. It just felt good keeping my hands busy and getting lost bitching about something I'd probably not remember the next week.

My bar was fully stocked and set. Clean as a whistle. A newbie, some rabbit, was trying to make an impression leaving me to be hunched over it aimlessly. I'd text Jess, but I still haven't said a word to her since I bitched her out here. She's given up on me, I know it.

Hell, withdrawal surrounds me at this point. I don't even get excited to make drinks. The magic is dead after the 500th vodka soda. It's all just work now. Something I bit my teeth to get through.

Even Henry doesn't approach me anymore. Realizes I'm a dry well for conversations and just gives up trying. I never wanted some fan anyway. I'm just holding my breath the entire practice until I get to see Bucky and really learn something.

That tiger gets me talking. The only thing that gets me buzzing. One-on-one my head is in a foggy dream state hyped up so far on dopamine and endorphins that I can't think straight. He tells me I'm getting better and I believe him. He gives me advice and I take it. And, suddenly, maybe all the withdrawal is worth it somehow.

"Could I get a vodka pineapple?" A girl says waving me down.

For a second, I pause thinking her face was familiar before readying a glass. "You want to start a tab?"

She hands me a credit card and doesn't say a word. I pass her the drink and toss her card behind the bar with the others.

My hand paws sweat as I focus deeply on the smell of smoke tempting me from afar, and I ball my hands into fists. Today was the worst of it.

I cleared my mind, taking a glance back at the skinny, white wolf sitting alone and sipping her vodka pineapple. My eyes wander a bit above her drink and onto her cleavage. She takes notice. I shift up to look into her eyes. "Is the drink alright?"

"Yeah," she spouts.

"Oh good. That's good." I turned to the other end of the bar but stopped when another voice boomed from beside her.

"Gimme jack and coke," a bear said plopping down on the bar stool. "And another pineapple thing for my sweetie."

Two glasses. Ice. Quick pours and a quick splash from the soda gun. Then, finally, I was then was free of this dumb situation. Since they were the only ones here, I made sure to stick nearby them in case they needed another drink... and, of course, to eavesdrop a little.

It provided a saving grace. I swear I was two seconds away from bumming a smoke. Hearing their mindless chatter kept my mind busy and withdrawal at bay. Another headache teased my brain. I fiddled with the soda gun to give my hands something to do.

"Ya know, you look like Sam Seater," I hear him murmur.

My eyes widen. The couple is looking at me with the bear cocking an eyebrow my way. I smile faintly. "Thanks, but no. I'm just a bartender."

"Nonsense," he points at me with a smile. "Ya look just like him."

Now I really wanted to pop out back for a smoke. "That's really funny--but no."

"Maybe all roos just look alike." He nestles back into his seat. "Would've been great to meet the legend."

I almost take a sigh of relief as I move a couple of steps away. The bar is still dead even on a Saturday. A puff of smoke rises from across the room and my ears droop. Better him than nothing, I guess. "So you keep up with boxing?"

The bear's ears perk up. "Used to," he says.

"Oh, why's that?"

He chuckles. "You must not keep up with it either."

I lean in. "Okay, Stinger is a shit heavyweight and it's only a matter of time before he's dethroned, but Goldfang's title," I flashed a smile, "damn, she's going to die before she gives that up."

He took a big laugh at that and his girlfriend looked up at me with a snicker. "He shouldn't have even gotten that title."

My blood boils. "She earned it."

He shakes his head. "He's a damn tranny. It's just disrespectin' the sport. A fuckin' queer playing dress up in the ring."

"She's the best boxer we've seen in the last decade. She earned her spot. She earned that title and she's got more heart and skill than the lot of 'em." I flare up. "You look at her versus Fernando, Black Bronx, or, hell, even Spice and you tell me that she doesn't deserve that title."

The bear showed his teeth and leaned into my face. "They just didn't want to get canceled for hitting a tranny. They had to lose. It's just how it is."

I grit my teeth. My body freezes up. I open my muzzle only for nothing to come out. Instead, I'm just stuck in place.

"You can even argue that," he snickers.

Finally, I turn to leave, but see the new rabbit with a dumb look on his face blocking my way.

The bear leans back and chuckles. "This world is going to hell," he says to his girlfriend.

I'm clenching my jaw. The anger is swelling, it's building. "Newbie, I need you to take over for a couple of minutes."

Fuck it, I'll just smoke.

"I don't know how," he said.

"Learn," I spout.

He lets me walk away. I'm fifteen steps away from a smoke before the bear shouts, "faggot probably has his dick hard for him anyway!"

I shoved the newbie aside. I walk up to him from behind the bar. He has a grin like he knows my boss is watching. I stare at him, only scowling at him, and he only grins wider.

"You're just a fat-ass, asshole plump as a fucking hog!" Then I sprayed a stream of soda right into his face.

I held out the soda gun and aimed for his eye. The Coke drenched him as it ran down his face. The bear flails his arms but misses me. My boss is shouting something, but I don't give a shit. The bear hits my arm out of the way and the soda gun smashes against the floor.

He's half-the-size now, dripping wet as his fur clings against him. "You fucking asshole!" He lunges for me across the counter. I quickly step back and my boss steps right in between us.

"Roger, step into the back with me. Now," the coyote asserted.

I look over at the newbie and then back at him. "No."

"Just come to the fucking back," he snarled.

"No. I quit. Fuck you."

He's taken aback. "Excuse me?"

I shook my head. "I said fuck you, dumbshit!"

The bar was quiet. Everyone looking my way. I rushed out through the kitchen. My smoking buddies didn't do anything to stop me. Nobody stopped me. Nobody cared to.

I ran to my shit car and threw the keys in the ignition. I was smart enough to drive off. The Coke-covered asshole was surely out here ready to beat the shit out of me if I didn't. Fair to say he'd win that fight too.

When I finally get into a parking lot of someplace I didn't read the sign of, I realized I'm death-gripping the steering wheel. My breathing is uneven and heavy, and I was crying at some point while driving.

Now my eyes burn and I realize, within the light of my phone screen, that I don't have anyone to call. Jess was the one-and-only before. Someone who actually understood it when I said I was a shit person and fucked up.

But I was too much of a shit person for her.

Oh fuck. No. I knew option two, but I sure as hell wouldn't be dumb enough to--

My phone rang and I cringed up knowing hanging up now would still tell him he missed a call from me. I didn't know what fate was worse, but I lost the choice when he answered.

"Roger?" Hearing his voice was a breath of smoke into my lungs.

I look at my phone, fur a disheveled mess, eyes bloodshot, and try to sound casual. "Hey."

"What's up?" He asks calmly.

"I, well..." I traced thoughts through my head. I didn't have a plan, but eventually, I stumbled into one. "I just need some help learning how to cook. For that diet, I mean. Can--could--you come over and help?" My voice trails at that last word.

"Oh," he said. My lips quivered and I feel like even more of a dumbshit. "I'm actually just getting groceries right now for myself. I could pick up some stuff and teach you a couple of dishes."

"Tonight?" What the fuck? No. Why did I ask--

"Yeah, sure," he said.

My muzzle folded up. "Great," I said between my clenched teeth.

He chuckles for a second. "I'll be over in 30 minutes. Oh, and do you have any allergies?"

"I can't do too much dairy."

"Okay! See you there. Try to keep that appetite all ready for me."

"Will do," I lower the phone down as he hangs up. My eyes wide and muzzle hanging open as it sunk in.

"Fuck!" I slam my muzzle against the steering wheel, then I slam my paw against it and the horn blares outside.