CHAPTER TWELVE –
MEAGAN POV
I watched in amusement as the scrawny writer stammered and gaped at me like a fish out of water. Jake hadn’t been exaggerating – the kid really was thrown for a loop realizing I, a woman, was the main event boxer he was here to write about.
His wide eyes darted between me and Jane, clearly rethinking every assumption he’d made.
“S-Sorry, I… I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just…” He trailed off, cheeks flushing an even deeper crimson as he seemed to realize how his shock might come across as extremely rude or condescending.
To be fair, I was used to getting looks like that, especially from men who bought into the antiquated notion that women didn’t belong in the ring.
I decided to throw the flustered guy a bone before Jane lost her patience. With a wry chuckle, I waved a dismissive hand. “Relax, writer boy. I get that reaction all the time from people who’re expecting some roiled-up slab of beefcake when they hear ‘renowned boxer.'”
Pivoting smoothly, I slid into one of the rickety folding chairs and leaned back, draping one densely muscled arm over the backrest in an overtly casual display of confidence. “But us little hellcats have to be twice as ferocious to make up for size, don’t we Coach?”
Jane snorted, reaching over to tousle my hair in an uncharacteristically fond gesture. “That’s one way to put it. Though personally, I prefer the term ‘utterly terrifying’ over ‘ferocious.’ Keeps the cloth-headed numbskulls on their toes.”
I grinned up at her, my chest swelling with pride at the subtle compliment buried beneath her typical gravel-toned snark.
Jane had always spoken that unique dialect of tough love that felt like home to me. Turning my attention back to the writer, I cocked an inquisitive brow.
“So, what’s your name, string bean? Or should I just keep calling you writer boy until you give me something else to work with?”
He seemed to recover some of his composure at the friendly ribbing, pulling his shoulders back in an attempt to appear more self-assured and professional.
“R-Right, of course. Chris… uh, Chris Parsons,” he stammered, extending a hand that looked comically frail and delicate compared to my own calloused grip. “It’s an honor to meet you, Miss Williams. And you as well, Coach Jane. Truly.”
I was mildly impressed by his sincere delivery and use of proper courtesy titles, despite his lingering nervousness.
At least the guy had some decent manners instilled, even if his first impression skills needed work.
Rather than release his handshake, I maintained the firm clasp and leaned in slightly, holding his wide-eyed stare.
Up close, I could make out the dusting of freckles across his cheekbones and the faint hint of cologne that reminded me of freshly hewn cedar.
“The honor’s all mine, Chris,” I replied, my tone low and resonant in a way I knew could be disarming if I wasn’t careful. “Jake’s been talking my ear off for weeks about what a promising talent you are. Evidently, he saw something special in your writing that made him think you were the perfect person to capture my… essence on the page.”
I let the weight of that implication hang in the air for a pregnant beat, watching as a fresh crimson flush crept down the thin writer’s neck.
God, they always made it too easy to fluster them – the barely restrained power simmering just beneath my surface still managed to throw people for a loop.
And that was without them getting the full brunt of the intimidation tactics I tended to carefully modulate.
There were times in the ring where I needed to go full raging force of nature in order to unsettle and demoralize my opponents into mental lapses before even throwing a punch.
Deciding to ease up and avoid completely steamrolling the bashful kid on our first official meeting, I released his hand and settled back into a more relaxed posture.
“Given the fallout from the disastrous weigh-in and… well, everything else surrounding this fight, we’re going to need complete buy-in and discretion to get the real, unvarnished account of me and my career down on paper. Think you can manage that level of unprecedented access and trust, Chrissy?”
I accompanied the nickname with a sly wink, gauging his reaction to the intended good-natured teasing versus potential disrespect.
To his credit, he rallied quickly with an acknowledging chuckle and slight shake of his head, unconsciously mirroring my relaxed body language as the tension bled from his narrow shoulders.
“I’ll admit, Miss Williams, when Jake first pitched this idea to me, I had my reservations about blurring the lines between impartial writer and, well… potentially being drawn deeply into your personal orbit,” he confessed candidly, straightening the lapels of his jacket.
“But seeing you command that lobby out front with such poise and… and fire?” He let out a rueful chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “It was like getting a tantalizing glimpse behind the curtain at who the real Megan Williams is past all the hype and showmanship. A woman who’s traversed immense personal adversity to arrive at this pivotal moment as a true force to be reckoned with.”
His words rang with sincerity, gentle earnestness swimming in those intelligent brown eyes, and I felt the tightly coiled anticipation within me begin to unwind.
It was official – Chris Parsons was someone I could work with, someone who just might be capable of capturing the essence of my tale in all its beautifully raw, uncompromising truth.
This unassuming man understood, even if just peripherally, the seismic magnitude of the journey that had forged me into the battle-hardened yet unbroken pillar of perseverance I’d become.
I was so caught up in that overwhelming realization that it took Jane gruffly clearing her throat to snap me back to the present moment.
I blinked twice, refocusing on Chris and the sheepish look now coloring his features – he’d clearly registered my prolonged, assessing stare.
Shit!
“S-Sorry, I didn’t mean to ramble or overstep, Miss Williams,” he said contritely, his cheeks blooming with color once more. “I just… I have such profound respect for fighters like yourself who’ve overcome immense personal and physical adversity to reach these rarified heights. If I came across as obtuse or condescending before, I truly didn’t intend to-”
I waved him off with a dismissive chuckle, recognizing the sincerity behind his flustered back-peddling.
For someone seemingly so reserved and professorial, the guy wore his burgeoning idealistic passion on his sleeve in a way I found surprisingly refreshing.
“No need for the overcompensating apologies, Chris,” I reassured him with an indulging grin, idly tossing up the worn hand wraps dangling from my wrist in a practiced, almost unconscious rhythm. “We’re all good here. In fact, if you keep that earnest streak alive and well throughout this process, I have a feeling we’ll get along just fine.”
The creases at the corners of his warm brown eyes crinkled as his broad, charming smile blossomed into view.
I couldn’t help but respond in kind, flashing him a brilliant, unguarded grin of my own – the first one that had felt truly effortless in ages.
Somehow, within the span of our brief interaction, any residual doubts or apprehension about inviting this unassuming writer to document my turbulent life story had all but dissipated.
Jane, naturally, chose that tender moment of shared levity and optimism to once more exert her characteristically reality-checking presence like a cantankerous raincloud.
“Well, now that you two have sufficiently made eyes at one another like a couple of horny teenagers.” She paused looking at us both.
“How about we hash out the actual plan for this ‘process’ you’re both so gung-ho about?” she interjected gruffly, pinning me with a look that brooked no attitude in return.
I cycled through the motions of faking an exaggerated, eyeroll even as my face grew warm at her typically unvarnished no-nonsense assessment.
Damn, Chris hadn’t even spent fifteen minutes in her presence and Jane was already peeling away layers of my devil-may-care persona with laser precision.
“Whatever you say, Coach,” I sighed with exaggerated boredom, pointedly ignoring the way Chris’ cheeks flushed an adorable shade of scarlet at her provocative ribbing as he ducked his head.
Jane brought the meeting to order by briskly launching into a succinct overview of the boxing event itself – its history, cultural significance, and the various ancillary events, promotional circuits, and red carpet shindigs that Chris would need inside access to as my authorized writer and shadow.
I listened with only partially-rapt attention, my mind occasionally wandering to study the writer’s reaction in my peripherals.
One thing was for certain – awkward as things might’ve started out, this Chris Parsons character was in for one hell of an immersive, no-holds-barred expedition into the frenzied, often chaotic eye of the boxing media storm.
And something told me that, beneath that bookish, fumbling exterior, burned the heart of a keen observer and storyteller just yearning for his chance to capture all the gritty, visceral details.
The real question lingering in the depths of my soul was whether he also possessed the mettle and compassion to bear witness to the deeper, more intimate aspects of my complicated personal journey that had inextricably shaped me into the woman I was today.
Only time would tell, I supposed.
But for the first time in longer than I could remember, I felt the faintest stirrings of hope flickering to life in my battered heart that someone might finally be able to see the real me.
This might be just who I need.