SWOLLEN: A Secret Baby Sports Romance Read Online Free Page B

barbecue joint, and El Toro Loco, a Spanish tapas bar up in Williamsburg, both of which are super supportive of my situation.
    I’m still writing, although super slowly, because, you know, real life, and when I’m at work, which seems like pretty much all the time, I use almost half of my salary some months to pay for someone to look after my girl. The rest goes on what she needs, on credit cards for the stuff I don’t have the money for immediately and on rent, which my jackass of a landlord is putting up at the end of the month.
    It isn’t all bad. I’ve had a few articles accepted for publication, and if that continues, I’ll think more seriously about going self-employed full-time. If I can work from home, sell my work to newspapers, magazines, and online media, I’ll be able to spend way more time with my little girl, who is growing up much quicker than I’m able to catch up with.
    That’s the long-term plan, at least. Right now, I’ve got to focus on a mountain of other things. And the love live? If that night with Liam is the last time I ever get laid, it’ll probably be worth it.
    I’ve not had a sniff in the best part of a year, but then again, only perverts seem to like pregnant women, and nobody’s interested in someone who has a kid. Believe me, men in this city fall into two categories - spineless and ball-less. Liam was such a one-off, it’s no surprise I haven’t seen him again.
    I guess my luck might change tonight. This has got to be the most masculine environment available. A horde of angry men watching two others pummel the living shit out of each other. That’s right, I’ve finally got my shit together to do my piece on the bare fist fighting rings that are rife in this city, and tonight I’m going to the heart of the network.
    Thank fuck I’m not doing it alone. I have a chaperone, a ‘security’ team, and I’m in disguise. By that, I mean I’m pretending to be someone interested in fighting, not someone that’s going to write about it. I haven’t changed my appearance to look like a man either. If any of you are imagining a fake beard and my tits strapped back, you’re completely wrong. I may be in joggers and hoodie, but I’m definitely all girl. By the looks of things, I might actually be the only girl as well, but I didn’t expect anything less.
    My chaperone is a guy who calls himself Knockout. He’s a veteran of the circuit with something like two hundred fights under his belt. He’s a big man but looks more like a butterbean than a boxer, and despite being as gentle a giant as you can imagine, clearly has some kind of on-going trauma from having his head pounded in so often.
    That’s what interests me about this environment. Boxing is a brutal sport, even in the ring, yet it attracts people from all different environments. It can be graceful, perhaps even down here, but it’s also deadly. Two men against each other to leave one man standing.
    I get a few odd looks from the punters, but much fewer than I expect. I thought there would be uproar or worse, and maybe it’s because I’m wedged in between these two monsters, but after we take our place in the crowd, I’m practically left alone. Maybe the joggers were enough to put people off.
    We are in the belly of an abandoned psychiatric hospital out near Sheepshead Bay. Here, the blood stains on the walls and floor could be part of this scene or the one that preceded it. There is old equipment lying about, broken tiles on the floor, an eerie sensation that fits the way the venue has been repurposed.
    There is a palpable sense of nervous excitement and as the hooded fighters make their way to the makeshift ring, the crowd swell in spits and aggression. With the bend and wave of it, I’m pushed out towards the center dangerously, before being pulled back to safety by Knockout.
    I’m scared and I feel trapped, but there is nowhere for me to escape to, and nothing else for me to do but take it in and hope I don’t get