They promised me he was a professional

That he had a cool, quiet strength and the sort of intensity that left you shaking.

They didn’t tell me he was made of almost six feet of pure muscle, scars, and a bad attitude.

Everything is a fight with him. 

Crass son of a bitch doesn’t begin to cover it. 

And clothes don’t, either…

Day in and day out I have to get down and dirty in the ring with him.

Sweat, skin, and friction.

I don’t think I can fight it much longer. 

Not when he uses his mouth for more than back-talk and his hands for more than punches

Axl Connolly wants me, and Axl Connolly always wins