Jordy
Grizz and I spend the day together, doing whatever we want. After a quick stop to get tacos, I tell Grizz I love his bike and he takes me on a long, meandering drive around town. His Harley circles lazily up ‘A’ Mountain—the mountain with the giant white A for University of Arizona—and we eat at the overlook. Afterward, he takes me to a small park and we walk a trail through the cacti, holding hands like a couple. Dinner is at a diner, where Grizz shocks the waitress with the amount of food he plows through.
“Gotta fight tonight,” he tells me. “Need to fuel up.”
“Is that why you took it easy today? To get ready for the fight?”
“No.” He sets down his fork and cups my cheek. “I wanted to spend time with you.”
I can’t stop beaming at him. It’s stupid and inelegant. I should play ha
