"We all have," another bridesmaid smiled.
Fluffy skirts surrounded me. The bride grabbed my arm and wriggled as close as her double-fluffed white dress allowed. "Fenton Morris," she said.
"His eyes are as blue as the posters," the shortest bridesmaid said.
"Don't let me keep you from your happy day," I said.
"Come on, Trish, our turn's in ten minutes," the groom said.
"Yeah, Trish, don't be late on my account." I gave the arm she had looped through mine a squeeze. "What would your husband say if he saw us together?"
"Technically, I am still single," Trish said.
Her groom looked me over and swallowed hard. Then, he remembered his posse of groomsmen. "Don't make me fight him for you, honey."
"Oooh, that would make a great picture!" Trish let go of my arm and clapped.
Her husband-to-be took a ridiculous stance. I could have knocked him flat without taking a step. Trish threw her hands up in mock terror. I gave in and held a fist near my smile long enough for the camera to flash.
"Thanks, man. Good luck in the big fight," the groom said.
I decided the hell with navigating the impossible casino floor. The next bank of slot machines led me to a bar. I ordered before I sat down.
"On the house, Mr. Morris," the bartender slid me a beer.
"Suite comp?" I asked.
"Personal opinion," the bartender said. "I'm not a big fan of that Mario Peretti. Too much show and not enough fight."
"Thanks," I said. "All I want is the fight."
"Exactly why you've gotten this far this fast. No hype, no branding, no flash. Just fast combinations and a killer instinct." The bartender poured us both a shot of whiskey.
"Suppose you see a lot of fights working here," I said.
"Almost makes it worth it." He leaned his elbows on the bar and scanned the crowd.
A man with a fanny pack had broken from his bus group to grab a quick drink. The umbrella poked his eye as he tipped it back. A couple with matching rotund waistlines perused the happy hour specials. A clump of young men ordered too much and drank too fast, about to lose all the cash they came with in one night.
"Next one's on me."
Kevin Casey, my slime ball manager bellied up to the bar. The bartender frowned, but went to get the gimlet Kev ordered.
"Guess I'd be surly, too, working here," Kev said. "That's why I've got you, right, Fenton? Fight our way to the top."
A quick jab to his throat and he'd be gasping for air and flopping like a fish on the casino floor. I curled my hand around my beer instead. Kev was worth the irritation, because he got things done. Somehow, he disgusted everyone, but still lined up the best fights, the top suites, and the sweetest deals.
"Speaking of my bank account," Kev said, "how about you sign off on a few endorsement deals while we're here?"
"Why are we always talking about your bank account?" I asked.
"‘Cause my happy bank account means your career is healthy." Kev took his gimlet and sipped from it with a loud lip smack.
"I don't fight better with someone else's name on my shorts," I said.
"Not better, but smarter. You gotta work this thing for all it’s worth right now," Kev said.
He was right – his most irritating habit. I would make a hell of a lot more money fighting with sponsors and slapping my name on any product line that came along. The two heavyweights of my thoughts slogged around the ring again – make a lot of money versus do it all alone and keep my name for myself.