by Jinx, Hondo
With every passing day, he grew crazier about her. And unless he was delusional, she felt the same way.
But she was focused on her fight now. Had to be, with so much on the line.
If she won, she might get an offer that could change her whole life.
So he kept showing up and training with her but didn’t push the romance.
Of course, he still stared in wonder while she sat there meditating, her beautiful face pink in the light of the rising sun.
With Lennie away in training camp, Freddie and Johnny started eating breakfast in her room, watching and analyzing old fight tapes.
Freddie’s mom insisted Freddie leave her bedroom door open, obviously not trusting the two of them.
Which was kind of weird, like they were a pair of horny high school kids or something, but secretly, Johnny was thankful for it.
Because despite his promises and best intentions, resisting the urge to throw himself at Freddie was getting harder and harder.
As was he.
So they left the door open, and Johnny minded his manners, took plenty of cold showers, and converted his deferred desire into extra aggression at the gym, where he trained like a maniac, punching faster and harder than ever.
Work was work. Nobody enjoys washing dishes for a living, but he liked the diner and his coworkers and Lou, and the work was simple, leaving his mind and body fully intact for the gym.
With the money he’d gotten from the Vicarus store, he paid his next month’s rent early, shocking Lucinda to the point that she almost forgot to disparage him, remembering only as he was leaving the office to shout after him, “Don’t look so pleased with yourself, kid. Everybody pays their rent. Otherwise, they’re out on their ass. Just like you’ll be if I don’t get my next 30 dollars on time!”
Millie continued tending to his laundry, including hand-washing his wraps, and leaving him amazing origami creatures, which he kept in one dresser drawer, assembling quite the little menagerie. Meanwhile, he continued to tip her outrageously, hoping it would help her get onto her feet—and out of the dumpster.
Whenever he went to work, the mousegirl slipped into his room and went above and beyond servicing it. The place practically shined.
And every night when he came back from the gym, he could see she had been in his room yet again. The room was tidied all over, the bed was turned down, and a little mint sat on his pillow atop a short, sweet note wishing him a good night.
It was honestly kind of nice.
Unfortunately, every few nights, he heard her banging around in the dumpster again.
The sound came to him indistinctly, like the discordant beat of a drum echoing through the fog of a fading dream. He’d lie awake for several seconds, hearing her thump around. Each time, he told himself to get up and look out the window; but he was too tired. He needed every second of whatever sleep he could get.
Things had been going great. Especially sparring.
He was looking forward to having a real fight.
He was also excited for the smokers, unsanctioned amateur bouts that allowed newer fighters to get experience without racking up fights and exiting the novice ranks too quickly.
There were guys, Marvella had explained after Johnny had whipped the Tiger Square kid and Clarence, that fought in smokers every week for a couple of years, avoiding sanctioned bouts to have more than one crack at the city championship because winning that could open up huge opportunities with big-time managers.
“So even in the novice division you can run into fighters with fifty fights?”
“Fifty, a hundred, who knows?” Marvella said. “Which is why the first rule of boxing remains the same.”
“Protect yourself at all times.”
“That’s right.”
“Doesn’t seem quite fair.”
“Fair,” she laughed. “Are you a boxer or a boy scout?”
“A boxer.”
She nodded. “You gonna fight, you can’t afford to pretend, you feel me? Like, you know the way it is, that’s the way it is. You gotta adapt, gotta do what you gotta do to win. That’s why you’ll be fighting in these smokers, too. You need as much experience as you can get. Only an asshole fights by rules everybody else bends.”
Ironically, the very next day, he learned exactly what Marvella was talking about.
Chapter 38
Wednesday night a trainer from Wolf Town brought half a dozen fighters to the 8th Street Gym, looking for some work.
Which was normal enough, of course.
Fighters sparred their own, then got work in other gyms, then fought in a mix of novice bouts and smokers, all in the name of building up to open-class fights and eventually the big leagues, the pros, where a man could die or make a fortune, all with his hands and his heart.
What wasn’t normal was the tall loudmouth in the shimmering blue track suit who swaggered through the door howling, “Wolf Pack Boxing, baby! Instigating and dominating!”
Which was annoying… and disrespectful, Johnny thought, though he was working too hard to pay much attention.
Johnny had been in the gym for an hour and a half, training his ass off, pushing it hard despite the extreme heat. Freddie had stopped in earlier but headed home to take it easy since she had a fight the next day.
“Y’all better wake up!” the loudmouth from Wolf Town shouted across the gym, “cause the real fighters are here now!”
The 30-second buzzer sounded.
Johnny fought through his fatigue and finished his final round on the heavy bag with a flurry of heavy shots, wishing he could slug the loudmouth, who was tall but looked around his weight.
The bell rang, and Johnny stripped off the bag gloves and started toward Marvella, who stood at the front of the gym, talking to the Wolf Town trainer, an old, skinny dude missing half of one pointy ear.
“Four novices, two open-class fighters,” the guy was saying. “You got any work for us?”
“Easy work!” the loud guy barked.
Marvella squinted at him then looked to the trainer. “Novices, huh? That one there, the one with the mouth?”
“He’s 3-0,” the trainer said. “Still a novice.”
“Novice, my ass. I’ve seen that kid in smokers for the last year. If he doesn’t have twenty fights, I’ll eat my cane.”
The Wolf Town trainer grinned and spread his hands. “The books is the books. You know how it is, Marvella.”
“Oh, I know how it is. You’re always looking for an edge, Willis.”
“Hey, this is boxing. Everybody’s always looking for an edge. Now you got any work for us or what?”
Marvella half-turned and saw Johnny standing there, and in that instant, he understood she was thinking of matching him with the big mouth.
He nodded.
Marvella blinked at him, then turned back to the trainer. “Yeah, I got a light-heavy for you.”
“Woo!” the loud guy shouted. He grinned, stuck out his tongue, and made a spanking motion.
His teammates cracked up.
“All right,” the Wolf Town trainer said, ignoring his fighter. “I got a middleweight and a light-heavy with me. Maybe do some round robin?”
“Sounds good,” Marvella said.
She pounded fists with the trainer and led Johnny over to the mats by the mirror.
“Get a drink and rewrap your hands,” Marvella said. “I’ll be back. I gotta talk to Jimmy for a minute.”
Somebody punched Johnny’s shoulder lightly.
Johnny turned and tensed.
It was Jobbo, sweating like a pig in his winter getup. He smiled, showing his missing tooth. “Do me a favor, buddy, and shut this motherfucker’s mouth, all right?”
Jobbo held out a ham-sized fist.
Johnny smiled back and pounded his fist. “Will do.”
“Ward-style!” Jobbo said and drifted away.
Johnny’s smile lingered.
That was the power of neighborhood, he supposed. He and Jobbo were desti
ned to kick the shit out of each other sometime in the near future. But this loudmouth was from Wolf Town, while Johnny and Jobbo were both from the Ward. So tonight, at least, they were in the same corner.
It reminded him of life with his brothers. Growing up, they were always fighting, always knocking it over stupid shit.
But woe to anyone who fucked with one of the Rockledge boys, because if you fucked with one Rockledge, you fucked with all six brothers.
That was family.
And here in Fight Town, apparently, that was neighborhood.
Johnny hit the water fountain. He was tired, but he could dig deep to teach this loudmouth a lesson.
The guy was laughing now, dancing in front of his teammates and shouting about how good he was. You would’ve thought, based on his smack talk, that he was the undisputed professional champion of the world.
But he was a novice, just like Johnny.
Even though the loud bragging was annoying, Johnny didn’t mind it. In his experience, guys who felt the need to shout and strut were usually cowards at heart.
Let the guy holler.
They’d see how much shit he talked after taking a hook to the liver.
The loudmouth was two or three inches taller than Johnny. He unzipped his jacket, threw it aside, and flexed, his long arms rippling with wiry muscle.
His white-and-red T-shirt read, YES, IT’S REALLY ME!!!
Eyeing the shirt, Johnny thought, Just get inside those long arms and hit him in the ME.
The loudmouth shuffled in front of his teammates; his long, bushy tail held very erect, his tall, pointy ears leaning aggressively forward. He threw out a combo of long, loose punches punctuated by a straight left that looked pretty good.
That’s when Johnny noticed the golden bracelet glowing on the loudmouth’s left wrist.
“I’ve seen that kid around at the smokers,” Marvella said, returning from Jimmy’s office with sparring gear under one arm. “He’s pretty good. Long reach and quick. Good footwork. And he’s a southpaw.”
“Is that glowing bracelet juice bling?”
Marvella squinted her good eye and nodded. “Yeah, that’s what it is. But don’t worry about that. You got plenty of juice all on your own, kid. Focus on what I said, him being a southpaw, you feel me?”
She told Johnny what that meant as he rewrapped his hands.
With lefties, everything is backwards. They stand with their right hand in front and bring power shots with the left hand. Since most people are right-handed, lefties had an advantage over orthodox fighters.
They were used to fighting righties; but righties weren’t used to fighting them.
Marvella demonstrated, putting her right foot in front and raising her fists. “Move to your left on this guy.”
Johnny nodded. “Move to the left.”
That was going to be awkward. She always told him to move right. Which he did. In shadowboxing, hitting the bags, sparring. Even in his dreams, it was always jab, step to the right… the idea being, of course, to stay away from the opponent’s power.
“You move to the right in there, you’ll walk into his straight left, you feel me?”
Johnny nodded.
“Keep your lead foot outside his,” Marvella said, then demonstrated. “Throw a few lead rights. Sometimes, those work on southpaws. And you get his timing down, try hooking over the jab.”
“All right.”
“But first, focus on your feet. Keep that lead foot outside his and move to your left.”
She had him get another drink.
As Johnny was coming back from the fountain, the Wolf Town kid threw a fast combination and hollered across the gym to him. “You ready to get spanked, baby?”
Johnny ignored him, figuring he’d let his fists do the talking.
Marvella suited him up and greased his face and worked with him on the mat while the Wolf Town guys got ready.
“You gotta stay sharp, Johnny. This boy’s experienced, so watch yourself in there. This is no different than sparring Malik, you feel me?”
Johnny nodded, and she put in his mouthpiece.
The Wolf Town trainer called across the gym to Marvella.
“We’re ready,” she answered.
Johnny saw the Wolf Town trainer unclip and pocket the loudmouth’s juice bling then start for the ring.
“Come on,” Marvella said.
Johnny thumped his gloves together, rolled his head on his shoulders, and followed her to the ring.
As they topped the stairs and slipped through the ropes, the timer ding-ding-dinged, signaling the end of the round.
Across the ring, the loudmouth entered the ring, spewing shit talk. He stared across at Johnny, grinning and shaking his head back and forth. “I’m the best, baby. Future champ, right here! Apollo Stevenson!” He thumped a glove off his lean chest. “Future champ!”
Johnny had already worked out hard, but his energy spiked now, fueled by his desire to shut Stevenson’s big mouth.
Then spiked again when Johnny triggered his 10-minute Juice Boost, 5%.
Instantly, Johnny felt his body crackle with rejuvenated force.
Fuck this guy and his training bling, coming in here fresh, talking shit, disrespecting Johnny, his gym, and the Ward.
“Keep your foot outside his,” Marvella whispered in Johnny’s ear, “and move to the left.”
Johnny nodded, ready to do this.
When the bell rang, he walked to the center of the ring, holding his left out to touch gloves.
Stevenson surged forward and caught Johnny with a combination that jarred his skull and filled it with sparks.
What the fuck?
Johnny covered up and threw a counter left but missed by a mile.
Stevenson was already gone.
And then, suddenly, he was back again.
No sooner had Johnny straightened than the taller fighter was back on him, wailing away with a barrage of explosive punches.
Stevenson’s punches lacked the thudding power of Jobbo’s boneshaking shots but made up for it with speed and crispness. Every punch was sharp and jarring. It was like getting hit by a broomstick coursing with 50,000 volts.
Johnny swung, missed, and Stevenson was back on him again.
Johnny covered up and bulled forward… into nothing.
Stevenson jabbed out and danced away, talking unintelligible shit through his mouthpiece.
Johnny thumped his gloves and shuffled forward, meaning to stalk him.
Stevenson circled away—then surged sharply back in, turning Johnny’s head once more into a piñata.
Fighting against his frustration, Johnny reminded himself to keep his lead foot outside Stevenson’s… but soon realized that meant nothing.
Because Stevenson’s foot was a moving target. The guy never stood still, never stayed in the pocket, never paused at middle range the way everyone else did.
Stevenson was either circling or attacking.
Whenever Johnny tried to initiate an attack, Stevenson was out of range.
And then, suddenly, it was raining punches.
Johnny swung and missed. Charged to no avail.
He moved to the left and held his gloves high and tried to jab.
Stevenson surged in from an awkward angle, battering him with half a dozen shockers before zipping away again.
As the round dragged on, Johnny grew more frustrated. Exhaustion crept back in, juice boost be damned. He’d worked out too hard, waited too long to trigger it, the boost apparently having lifted him not 5% from his full juice but from where he’d been when he’d triggered it.
This new exhaustion made him slower and clumsier, which in turn upped his frustration.
Stevenson was too quick, too experienced, too well conditioned.
Johnny fought on bravely, resisting the urge to swing wildly, but he was completely overwhelmed.
It was a living nightmare.
Whenever Johnny tried to punch, Stevenson was gone.
Whenever he quit punching, Stevenson was back on him, hammering away with stun-gun combos.
Sparring is exhausting. Taking punches makes it worse. Missing your own shots is an absolute killer.
As the round dragged on, Johnny felt like a heavy bag with eyes. He wouldn’t quit and wouldn’t let Stevenson put him down—fuck that—but the punches were coming fast and furious and Johnny couldn’t hit Stevenson with anything and couldn’t do anything to change it.
He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t save himself.
Suddenly, the ring was a vast lake. Johnny floundered at its center, drowning.
The 30-second buzzer sounded.
In a move of utter desperation, Johnny triggered his last remaining temporary juice boost, cranking his power by 25%.
Johnny was vaguely aware of Marvella’s voice and other voices urging him on, but their words were lost as Stevenson surged again, driving him backward, forcing him against the ropes. The Wolf Town fighter was going for it, trying to knock him down, trying to knock him out, pummeling him with a non-stop salvo.
With the seconds ticking down, Johnny gritted his teeth against his mouthpiece and tried a Hail Mary haymaker. But as soon as he drew back his fist to punch, Stevenson’s shots caught him clean—smack-smack-smack!—turning his braincase into an exploding electrical transformer.
Johnny didn’t buckle or take a knee.
He just covered up and took an ass whipping until the bell rang.
“That’s enough,” Marvella called across the ring. “My boy’s had enough for tonight.”
Stevenson spit out his mouthpiece and thumped his chest with a glove, glaring at Johnny. “Yeah, bitch! That’s what I thought! I’m the best! Apollo Stevenson! Future champ!”
The fighters from Wolf Town howled with approval. Their trainer called Stevenson over to the ropes and got him settled down.
Johnny felt utterly humiliated. He’d never been so exhausted or so outclassed at anything in all his life. Even after burning two boosts, he could do nothing in there. Nothing but stay up and take the beating like a man. Because Johnny would rather die than let this asshole put him on the canvas.