by Rie Warren
A waiter with a silver service followed Devlin inside. Full-fatty, yummy, greasy breakfast for Dev aaaand barftastic whole wheat, no salt, no bacon breakfast for me. Awesome.
Devlin settled into his runny eggs and crispy bacon. I jammed a triangle of dry toast into my mouth. He choked, his face turning bright red. I coughed, trying to swallow crumbs that stuck in my throat.
His eyes wide, he punched his index finger against the magazine open in front of him. After a glug of coffee, he swore, “Jesus, Mary, Motherfuck!”
I peered at the article he slid to me and suddenly felt like the earth swallowed me whole.
Heavyweight Title Hopeful Liam O’Shaughnessy is Gay!
“Holy Mother of Christ,” I echoed Devlin.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Gay . . . Pride
“IT WAS LEAKED.”
“Ya think?” Devlin was livid.
He quickly flicked through all the newspapers, tossing them to me one by one. The broadsheets, the tabloids, and—whaddya know—E-Network, when Dev flicked on the TV, all carried the big news about my heretofore unknown homosexuality.
“It’s everywhere!” He hissed.
“I can see that.” I calmly folded my hands on the table, taking the force of his anger.
“Who? Who would’ve done this?” Devlin looked in need of new dental work as he grinded his teeth together.
Right then his cell danced on the tabletop with incoming IMs, alerts, emails. He gripped the edge of the table, glaring at me.
When I stood up, I towered over him.
“We were careful, discreet.”
“Not discreet enough. This shit’s probably already been tweeted all over the universe.” His jaw popped with tension. “Who else knew?”
“Does it matter anymore? It’s done. I’m out.” I threw up my hands.
“It matters because we can go after them for libel. Bring a lawsuit. Sweep this under the carpet as rumors. Jesus, Liam, are you really all brawn and no brains?”
I lunged for him. “Yeah, maybe I am.”
Gripping his throat in my hand, I squeezed as his breath expelled from his lungs.
He clutched my wrist, gasping.
“You’ve been riding my back for two years, you cunt. Telling me I can’t be gay, can’t be who I am.” I snarled in his face. “I lost the man I love because of it.”
“Liam!” he gasped.
I heard the door. Seconds later Sean strolled over to us. I didn’t release my hold.
“Well ain’t this a dandy how-do first thing in the morning?” Sean stubbed out his cigar in a coffee cup saucer. “Liam, my boy, maybe you don’t wanna choke your manager to death today?”
Pinning Dev against the wall, I growled at Sean, “Maybe I do.”
“Yep. So we’ll add Murder One to your rap sheet and the broadsheets today. When you have a huge fight tonight. Sound plan.” His crinkled face lit with a wide smile.
“Asshole.” I turned Devlin loose.
He slumped into the nearest chair, unwinding his tie from where I’d wrenched it around his neck. “We need to know who did this.”
“Wade.” Sean and I said it together.
“Why?” Devlin asked.
“Uh, because I was fucking his lifelong partner perhaps?” Duh.
“Yeah. That’s more details than I need to know.”
Please, that’s just the tip of the iceberg. “Doesn’t matter now.”
“Liam needs to focus on tonight.” Sean sniffed at my petrified toast pretending to be breakfast and rolled his eyes heavenward.
I dittoed all of that.
Devlin’s phone continued to ring nonstop.
He scooted to the table, flicked off the cell, and pocketed it. “Right. We are not addressing this until after tonight’s fight so you better hope to fuck you win. Unless you want to issue a denial?”
Even though I wanted to vomit all over the floor and nerves gnawed giant holes in my stomach, and my stomach fell to my feet, I stood firm. “No. It’s the truth. Let it be.”
“That’s what I thought. You’re prepared to meet this head on?”
“Yes.”
“Post fight press conference. Tomorrow.” Devlin pushed to his feet and headed for the door.
“Atta boy.” Sean tacked on.
#
Later in the afternoon, I battled another batch of anxiety. I flicked through the millions of channels on TV, trying to forget all the shit about to go down, and all the crap that had exploded since the morning. I happened to skim past Fox News and dropped the remote when a recognizable face came on screen.
Of all the motherfucking people to turn up at a time like this . . . it was my da, being interviewed about the news.
“Were you surprised to hear the rumors about your son’s sexuality this morning, Mr. O’Shaughnessy?”
My father, that handsome devil, that hateful person, curled his top lip half off his teeth. “Man lying with man is a grave sin. An unnatural, dishonorable passion. Man and woman should be one flesh, that’s what Our Lord taught.”
How interesting. The lapsed Catholic who thought Sunday Mass was an excuse to drink gallons of red wine instead of his usual Jameson’s, quoting from the Bible about my queerness.
“Is it safe to say you disapprove of his alleged orientation then?” The dickweed interviewer asked.
“I disowned him as soon as I found out.”
“So the rumors are true?”
“Much as I hate to think of sodomy and my firstborn son in the same sentence, yes.” Da’s eyes sparkled with malicious intensity. “He should never ha’ been—”
Mom appeared and knocked him from the frame. “Liam Shaughnessy, Senior, you shut your mouth right now about our boy.”
She turned to the interviewer and grabbed his microphone. Mom had apparently been to the beauty parlor, because her hair looked glossy, and she had pretty pink lipstick on.
“I have never been prouder of my son, Liam. There is no shame in loving who you love, be it man or woman. People are people. Liam, son, if you’re seeing this, I want you to know we’re cheering for you tonight, and so will all the folks at The Rover.”
“Well, um, thank you, Mrs. O’Shaugnessy—”
“Oh, there’s no O. The sportscasters add that to our name when Liam fights. They think it sounds more Irish, I imagine.” She wrinkled her petite nose.
I snorted, and soon I couldn’t stop laughing.
It turned into huge belly laughs when Sash, Conor, and M-K jostled into the camera’s view.
“We think it’s fucking awesome!” Mary-Kate shouted.
The technician in charge of the network broadcast delay blew it, because M-K’s f-bomb went out loud and clear.
“Young lady!” Mom almost whacked her on the back of the head but thought better of it on live national TV.
Conor grinned and opened his mouth to speak. Then he frowned and complained, “Ow, Ma. I wasn’t gonna cuss.”
She must’ve pinched him.
Sash gave the cameraman the Rock On sign then beat her tiny fist to her chest twice, with a nod.
I fell back on the couch, smiling. What my da had said would’ve been heartbreaking if I hadn’t already known for years exactly how he felt about me. Besides, I had the support of the rest of my family. I quickly switched over to MSNBC and . . . shit. It looked like I had the support of thousands more people I didn’t even know. They obviously used guerilla tactics against Faux News. The tickertape at the bottom of their regular newsfeed ran a continuous stream of tweets showing an outpouring of love for #bonnybruiser.
Did I say shit? I meant Holy . . . Shit. That positive flow of energy from around the world hit me in the heart harder than any negative spin. I started getting pumped up for the fight.
I can win. I can do this. The Tornado from Toronto is gonna eat the mat tonight.
#
Hours later in my private locker room I was no longer pumped up.
I was pacing.
Although the room was cold, care of the AC blasting through the vents, sweat trickled down the sides of my face and into the center of my back. As I paced, I swung my fists. Left, right. Uppercut, left hook. Ribs jab-jab-jab. Sean had left me to check on the situation in the sold-out Grand arena half an hour ago. It was twenty minutes until knock ’em dead time, but the only thing knocking was my knees.
Sean came back in, grumbling under his breath. He took one look at me and grabbed my face between his hands.
I blinked at him. “I’m scared, Sean.”
Lifting two fingers, he pointed at his eyes, piercing brown orbs. “Look at me, kid. You know I’ve done some shit in my days. Hell, I’ve even done a couple guys, too.”
I reared back in shock.
“What? Ya know, circle jerks, you stroke my cock, I’ll stroke yours. That kinda thing. Whatever. I know it’s different for you, but trust me, no one who matters gives a goddamn shit who you bang. Your fans want you to fight your heart out. I want you to give it your all. They want a show, and you can do that any given day of the week.”
“Yeah. Okay.” I shrugged.
He punched me on the shoulder. “Not yeah, okay. I wanna hear I’m a killer, I’m a machine. I AM the Irish Blight!”
His energy slowly vibrated into me. “I got it.”
“Right now it’s party time. Go kick some ass and show those scandal-sheet shitheads it takes a real man to be a gay man.”
I’d teared up at his earlier words, but when he put it like that . . .
He placed the robe over my shoulders and adjusted my orange, white, and green shorts. He pulled the hood over my head, and slapped me on the cheek.
“That’s better, champ. Give ’em somethin’ to roar about.”
We jogged through the tunnels. The rumble grew louder. The walls shimmered with the escalating noise. The deafening boom traveled from the soles of my feet, up my legs, and straight into my head.
Energy mainlined into my veins. This was better than any manufactured drug known to man. Had to be, because as the noise rolled over me, it filled me with feeling so pure, I could’ve been dosing on E.
We broke free of the final tunnel and into the arena to a vast roar of sound.
The huge indoor stadium shivered it was so alive with people, music, lights, banners, and the massive JumboTron. It was an absolute feeding frenzy. Fists pumped when I appeared. People screamed. They reached out to touch me as I ran down the cordoned off aisle.
The place was wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling rabid.
“You Shook Me All Night Long” blasted from a million speakers.
Another thousands-loud shout echoed across the jam-packed MGM Grand.
I’d steeled myself for slurs and boos, and I heard a few of those, but those assholes could kiss my motherfucking ass. With a feral grin on my face, I swaggered to the ring and waited for Anya to slide open the red ropes. Dressed in hot pink, skyscraper heels, and even higher hair, she winked at me.
As I pumped around the center of the ring, the sheer size of the arena and the wild mayhem of the crowd dwarfed me. Sorry, Tyrion. I made a quick sign of the cross.
The craziness of getting here, to this point, revved me up.
The awesome uproar swelled again when Tristan Delacroix entered the stadium. In red and white silk, he moved toward the ring.
“Rock You” by Helix blared out. He got closer. The fans’ noise, booming at his appearance, humbled me.
When Tristan entered the ring I got my first good look at the titleholder. He had scalp-cut hair, a gap between his teeth I aimed to knock wider, and pure menace written all over features that might look wholesome in any other setting. In all the months of studying him, this was our first face-to-face. We hadn’t had any prefight press parties. And I had one chance to cold-cock him.
We took to our opposite corners as the MC announced our fight:
“For one night only, we bring Canada and America together! Crossing the bold new frontier of the fighting world in this sold-out Heavyweight Title Match! Who will win? Who will hit the mat first?”
The crowd bellowed, stomped their feet, jumped from their seats.
“In theeeee left corner, weighing in at two hundred and twenty-five pounds, ladieeees and gentlemen, the kid who came from nowhere. The challenger who swung his way through UFC, the unrivaled knockout Knockout who has taken the heavyweight world by storm, our Irish Blight, our Bonny Bruiser! Liam Oooooo’ Shaughnessy!”
Chapter Thirty-Six
On a Wing and a Prayer
WHOOPS, HOLLERS! I COULDN’T even hear myself think or digest a single a word Sean said to me, and I barely had time to blink before the MC turned to the Tornado.
“On my right, weighing in at two hundred seventeen pounds, in red and white, a boxing legend in his own right, the undefeated Heavyweight Champion of the Wooooorld! Our defender, The Rumbling Thunder, The Toronto Tornado, Tristan Delacroix!”
The noise blasted to ear-bursting level.
Raise the roof much? For the first time, I truly felt like the underdog.
Sean took off my robe and massaged my shoulders. He fitted my mouthguard and squirted Gatorade between my lips.
“You get the jitters tonight and I’ll make sure you’re fucked in the shitter by someone you don’t like tomorrow, kid,” Sean threatened.
I clenched my ass cheeks, my eyes widening.
“I’m kidding, ya fuck.” Time for another sign of the cross. “Fight hard, fight to win, fight with pride, my boy.”
I tapped the cross on my chest. With no Michael to be seen, I had to give it over for safekeeping. Sean unhooked the chain and coiled it in his wrinkled palm.
“He’ll come back, ya know? In the meantime, I’ll keep this right in my pocket, ready to put on when you wipe the floor with that tosser from Toronto.”
My throat suddenly clogged with emotion. Too soon, the ref called us into the ring.
Standing before the Tornado and me, he repeated the rules we knew by rote, adding, “Fight clean, fight with pride for your sport. Bless you both.”
Before I knew it, the first bell rang.
The Tornado didn’t take any chances or feel any of my hits. In the first thirty seconds, he splayed me against the ropes. His fists pummeled my midsection until I lost my balance and face-planted on the mat.
I gained my feet, springing right back into action. Tristan was not getting a one-hit knock-out outta me. Fuck that. I’d ring his bell first.
I weaved in front of him to the left and the right with my fists flying at his face from opposite directions. Splat-splat-splat. Just when he figured out my Ping-Pong tactics and moved to protect his face, I double-whammied the left side of his ribs. I repeated my slugger hits on the right side, going for maximum impact as tight vibrations shimmied up my arms.
That shit had better get me some numbers with the scorers.
I held the Tornado in a lock-hold, but he quickly wormed his way out from under my arms. He bounded in front of me, wearing a mean grin between his teeth. Teeth I was gonna knock from his gums.
Surging forward, I amped up my punch-count on his ribs. And when the Tornado bent over in classic protective posture, he gave me a clean shot at his busted right cheek.
Punch-punch-punch!
I tightened my arm around his throat to draw him up.
“BREAK IT UP!” the ref yelled.
Whatever.
Round Two found me on the losing end of the bout. Boos hissed from the crowd. The events of the day—hell, the past three months—threw me off. Shit wasn’t meshing. The magic wasn’t there.
Michael wasn’t here.
The next two rounds weren’t pretty. They were gritty, violent. Tristan was a heavy hitter. Knowing that from studying his matches was a totally different game from experiencing it in action and with hard physical impact on my body.
My face throbbed. My busted lip gushed blood. The iron taste filled my mouth.
But I barely felt the pain I knew would hit me tom
orrow.
The Tornado? Fuck that shit. He’s the goddamn Freight Train from Toronto.
Devlin screamed at me, but my ears were already clogged. Sean placed ice packs on me between each round. Anya egged on the foaming-at-the-mouth crowd. The cut on my lip was taken care of, my split cheek, too.
Sean clasped my head between his hands. “He’s a heavy hitter.”
I rolled my eyes. No shit. Right? I knew that, I needed something better. I needed fucking divine intervention.
I need Michael.
“Stay on your feet, kid, and hope you outlast Delacroix.”
I wanted more than to outlast him. I wanted to blast him to the mat until I carried his belt out of the ring.
Scanning the sea of faces, I sought a glimpse of Michael. I saw a flash of tumbling blond locks, but it couldn’t be him.
The rounds soared past in a flurry of Mach-speed punches and bone-crushing blows that would have sent normal men crawling to the nearest gutter to puke their guts out. For us, it was just part of the extreme job.
I tried to make sure I was tactical, defensive, in full possession of this bout. That strategic shit was difficult when every time my ears rang after another of the Tornado’s blows, I thought it was the sound to end that round.
He snapped, flashed, and danced across the mat. I crunched his cheekbone every chance I got. I pummeled his ribs until the musculature looked like chewed-up sausage meat. The two of us burly bruisers were evenly matched, which meant a lot of people probably made a lot of bucks from betting on us bashing one another’s brains in.
The eleventh round, the second to last, I could hear Michael chanting in my head—the boxer whisperer. That’s right, baby, like a freight train he’s slow to start. All he has is his knuckle-bust finish. You’re faster. Use your jabs, dance on those feet like I know you can. No more hits. You can’t afford to take any more hits.
Swimming through hazy pain, I came out of my corner, blasting the Tornado. I stayed just beyond his reach, pounding him on all sides. Fast, faster, fastest, my fists blurred.