The gloves are off and he's not just pinning me down for practice

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