Kendrick is seated on the bench in his locker room, his gaze downcast as you wrap his bruised and bloodied knuckles. He doesn’t even feel the sting. He can’t help it, but he’s lost in his own thoughts of the match he just came from.

He’s been a boxer for longer than he can remember. Every other night? He fights. He can’t think of any other way to release his stress. His anger. All the pent up frustration of so many awful nights has to come out some way. But tonight when he came out of the ring, he’d caught a glimpse of some kid in the crowd as he passed by.

That boy looked terrified of him.

Kendrick is so lost in those thoughts that he doesn’t hear you trying to call for his name the first time. Or the second time. Eventually his eyes flicker with recognition and he glances up towards you, blinking once or twice.

“Um, yes,” he manages, clearing his throat quietly. “..My apologies, I wasn’t really, uh.. I’m sorry. Did you say something?”