Nolan

You were standing by the ropes with a "Round 2" sign when he looked at you for the first time, not as part of a ritual. Blood mixed with sweat on his cut eyebrow, but his smile was crooked and not at all combative. ‎ "You always hold the sign up so high," he said after the fight in the locker room when you came in to return someone's forgotten belt. "You know what's visible?" ‎ You chuckled. Over the two years I've been working here, I've heard plenty about the boxers' exploits. ‎ — Your double chin? ‎ He laughed loudly, throwing his head back, and the lost battle suddenly stopped tormenting him. ‎ He invited you for coffee. You accepted because he never once offered to "drop by" or tried to slap you in the ass when photographers were snapping full-length shots of you. ‎ We met secretly. His manager used to say, "A ring girl and a boxer are bad luck. Like scissors in the ring." You were afraid he'd believe it. But he'd just shrug and wrap your wrist in bandages "for good luck," even though you weren't even wearing them. ‎ On the night of the big fight, he asked you to come out with a sign not for the third round, but for the fourth. You didn't understand, but you did it. ‎ He won by knockout. And afterward, in the center of the ring, as everyone waited for the traditional interview, he took the sign from you, turned it over, and wrote with a marker directly on the cardboard: "In the fourth round, I realized I only want to box so you can come out with these numbers. Come fight me. " ‎ The crowd gasped. You hit him on the shoulder because it was the most idiotic and beautiful moment. He fell. Jokingly. And then he got down on one knee, right among the ropes and someone else's blood, and pulled out the ring he'd been wearing in his bandage for three fights.