by Rhona Davis
As the master of ceremonies calls my name as winner—and a throng of press hijack the ring, looking for the first post-fight interview—I slip out of the square circle and shoot my trainer a look. He can deal with their questions. Right now, all I care about is starting my one-on-one with Sofia.
I run right out of the arena; dodging the outstretched arms of thousands of fans all desperate for a touch of their champ. My bodyguards quickly follow behind me.
As I sprint down the corridor toward the changing rooms, I ask my handlers where Sofia’s at. I couldn’t see her in the crowd. I’m sure we agreed she’d cover the fight. I just hope she hasn’t chickened out of our arrangement—I spent a lot of money on that suite of hers.
As I approach my dressing room, a gathering of media buzz around the door like flies around shit. Before I get too pissed off, I spot Sofia amongst the pile. She cuts a nervous figure—knees pressed together, a folder of notes held tight to her groin, a wide-eyed look riding across her soft face. I can tell she’s a rookie reporter. I did the very first time I saw her. A veteran of the boxing game can smell it.
As I approach, some schmuck sticks a mic right in my face. I push it away, hard. “No questions.”
He carries on regardless, as I’m busy trying to get Sofia’s attention.
“Connor, do you think that was you’re best win?” the annoying reporter pushes.
My handler grabs his microphone and throws it to the floor. “Hey, asshole, he said no questions. You deaf or somethin’?”
I take Sofia by the wrist. She flinches at first, but I’m sure she’d rather me direct her to safety than leave her to get crushed by the crowd.
Opening the dressing room door slightly, I pull her close to me. The media all swoop forward but are quickly pushed back by security.
“Connor! Connor!” they all shout, like damn robots.
Sofia grimaces.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Someone hit me.”
Normally I’d launch for anyone who’d strike a lady, but all my focus is on her and her immediate welfare. “Just stay close to me.”
Eventually, after tons of shoving and pushing, I drag her inside the dressing room and leave my team to deal with the baying mob.
I march over to the other side of the room and slump my ass down on a metal chair, throwing my head back and laughing in relief. “Shit, those bastards never quit.”
“I’m sorry.”
I look at her, my brow creasing. “Why?”
“You must really hate the press.”
I stand up and begin to remove my hand wraps. “Present company accepted.”
Her lips curl up at the corners.
Fuck me, she’s so sexy. I love her Latino look: A curvy, yet tight figure, which is decked out in steel-gray slacks, and a figure hugging white blouse. Her dark hair is fashioned into a feathered bob which sets off her beautiful dusky olive skin. And those almond shaped eyes of hers, chocolate brown—man, I could drown in them. She looks like Jessica Alba . . . or something pretty damn close.
I’m certainly not short on pussy—being filthy rich and the baddest fighter on the planet leaves my social calendar hardly starved for choice—but Sofia’s fragile and awkward way around me has my cock super fucking hard. Good job I can hold it together otherwise I’d be coming in my shorts right about now.
My gaze trains on her the whole time I take my wraps off. I haven’t been able to get her out of my head all week. I’m surprised I even made it through the week’s training without going to her hotel room, just next door to mine, and wooing the fuck out of her. Not that I needed concentration for the three rounds I’ve just breezed through. That fighter was nothing but a sack of shit—a weak punching bag at best.
Sofia starts to scan through her crop of notes. She’s certainly prepared.
“I’ll just grab a shower,” I say, jerking my chin to the stall at the back of the dressing room divide.
“Oh, okay then. It’s all right, I need to figure this stuff out anyway . . .” her voice trails off as her concentration sets deeper on her mess of a folder.
I walk away and turn on the shower; whipping off my boots, trucks, and protective groin cup.
I turn the hot water straight to cold, to open up the pores of my skin. Braced under the head of the shower, the hairs on my balls stand on end—the icy chill of the water waking me up more than the fight ever did.
“Ask your first question, angel,” I shout over the stream.
“Your brother, Adam . . .”
I can’t quite hear, so I turn the pressure down slightly. “What was that?”
“Adam,” she shouts, “what happened with him, on the night of his last fight?”
I turn the water back on high and squeeze some shower gel into my palms, instantly running the cool minty liquid through my short hair.
I spend around three minutes in the stall, not answering her question.
When done I snatch a small white towel from the rail and walk around the corner, brushing the thing through my drenched scalp. “What do you want to know about it?”
Her eyes briefly look at me and then dart away, her face turning as red as the leather of my boxing gloves. I look down and remember I’m fully naked. A smile plays across my lips at the sight of her reaction.
As she covers her eyes, I wrap the towel around my waist to cover up my huge semi-erect cock.
“Why are you bringing my brother up?” I ask.
She turns her body away from me, clearing her throat. “Do you know what happened that night? I mean, you don’t have to say if you don’t want to.”
She looks embarrassed by her own question.
“It’s okay.” I pause. “You can ask. It’s been a few years now. I’m not sure I can add anything that hasn’t been already said, though.”
She shakes her head, her gaze glued to the floor. “Forget it . . . it was insensitive of me to ask.”
“Well you are a reporter, but I’ll give you a pass.”
She remains quiet as she thumbs through her notes. I can see it bothers her.
I smirk. “Anyway, I’ve a bone to pick with you.”
She looks up, a hint of concern pinching her brow.
“What was that shit you asked me at the presser?” I narrow my eyes. “Something about a padded record wasn’t it?”
“You don’t read what the boxing experts say?”
“Experts?” I snort. “No, I ignore them. What would they know about the fight game anyway?” I spray myself with deodorant and shove on a white t-shirt and navy-blue jogging pants.
Taking a seat by the dressing room mirror, I notice a box of fresh bottled water underneath the table. I grab one and twist the cap off, holding it out to her. “Drink?”
She finds the courage to actually look me in the eye. “No, thank you.”
“Polite little thing, ain’t ya?”
“Sorry?”
I hand her the bottle anyway. “Come on, your lips look dry.”
“They’re not.”
“Really? Then why do you keep running your tongue across them? Unless, you’re horny . . . ”
Just when I thought her cheeks couldn’t get any redder, they do.
“Sorry, Sophie, this must be new for you.”
She straightens up, part frowning and part smiling. “No. It’s my job.”
“Yeah, but you’ve only been at the paper for, what, a year or so? I must be your biggest assignment yet.”
“How do you—?”
“Know that? We can all scan the net for five minutes, Sophie. I can call you Sophie, can’t I?”
Her face stiffens, her gaze dropping back to the floor.
I shrink the gap between us and place my hand on her shoulder. She recoils slightly but stays under my palm after a beat of hesitation. “Hey, it’s okay, we’ve all been there.”
She looks up again, her warm brown eyes focused on mine.
I smile at her. “In the beginning, I was nervous too. Shit-s
cared, in fact. I wasn’t born the champ. I know what it takes to pay your dues.”
Her eyes shift slightly to the right. “I’m sorry about the padded record question. That was rude of me. As was the brother thing.”
“It was.”
She squeezes her brows together, her lips puckering as if about to talk.
“But I forgive you,” I continue. “All that stuff is just someone’s uneducated opinion . . . shit that’s said behind a computer screen. Whoever writes that stuff is nothing but a jealous bastard, someone who can never accept me for my greatness. This is just a job for me, Sophie. I don’t mean it to look so easy, but it is.”
She coughs into her fist. I can tell she’s itching to get back to the subject of Adam.
I beat her to it. “It was an accident, a horrible risk any fighter takes.”
“You don’t think that the rumors were true?”
“What, the loaded gloves?”
She nods.
“You’re clutching at straws, Sophie. It was just one of those dark, horrible, fucked up things that happen. It hurt, still does, but it is what it is. Don’t believe everything you read.”
Abruptly, she stands up and starts toward the door.
“Hey, is that it?”
She glances over her shoulder. “I think I better leave. All I’ve done is offend you.”
I race over to her. “You can always make it up.”
She stares at me, her jaw opening slightly. A knock on the door kills the moment.
I huff. “Christ, what is it?”
Jimmy, one of my assistants, enters. “Sorry to disturb you, Connor, but we’re ready for the post presser now.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
“It’s okay, I have to go now anyway,” Sofia says.
“You sure?” I say. “You don’t want to ask any more questions?”
She smooths her hand over her folder. “I think this will do.”
“Okay then, but you’ll be at the after show party?”
She hesitates. “I really must type out these notes. Sorry. But thanks for your time, Mr. Patrick.”
With that, she heads out of the room and joins the rest of the wolves outside. I do nothing to stop her.
Jimmy presses. “So, you almost ready for the post fight Q and A?”
I rub at the bridge of my nose and exhale. “I don’t think so. I’ll just head to the club later. Hey, you know that girl who just left . . . ?”
“What, the reporter?”
“Yeah. Sophie . . . Sofia . . . don’t let her leave the hotel until you get her number.”
5
Sofia
Two days later
New Jersey Herald Headquarters . . .
“How was the city of sin, bring me anything nice?” Adrian, the editor’s fav reporter and general smart ass, says with a smirk.
I huff and push away from my desk. “Don’t ask.” It’s a drag being back, but at least I’m away from the chaos of the bright lights. Maybe I’ll get another shot at a halfway decent story.
As I start toward the editor’s door, I feel a lump in my throat. I glance back at Adrian, who’s gathering up his jacket from a coat rack.
“How is he today?” I say.
“You really want to know?”
I nod, chewing the inside of my mouth.
“Pissed off, bitter, angry . . . the usual.”
I feign a smile and turn my attention to the frosted glass of the boss’s door, my knuckles hovering over the tobacco weathered surface. Letters spelling out the editor’s name are peeling off from years of door slamming, first glued on circa 1978.
I take a deep breath and knock.
“In,” he booms.
His voice sends shivers of dread rippling down my spine. I curl my fingers around the brass handle of the decrepit door and turn, slowly edging my way inside.
He stands at the window, facing away from me. His shoulders are hunched right up into his fat neck. If a medical journal carried a pictorial definition of what tension looked like then he’d be the perfect model.
It’s the same old greeting I’ve been used to for the last fourteen months at the paper. Rather than showing any form of acknowledgement, his attention is always fixed on what’s happening across the street—his eyes scanning the façade of a battered old convenience store, followed by a predictable shake of the head. Simply by looking at him you can tell he dreams of overlooking the Manhattan skyline. Instead, with the paper’s circulation taking a nosedive year-on-year, his view is nothing more than the crumbling walls of other floundering businesses.
It’s kind of tragic really. At fifty eight he’s pushing father time, and he knows it—his passion, and what little he has left of patience, is as thin as the graying strands of hair which sweep over his cannon ball head.
“Sophie, sit down. We need to talk.”
Tentatively, I take a seat across the desk from him. He’s still faced away from me, his shoulders still jammed up into his ham-hock neck.
I decide to pre-empt the tirade which I’m sure he’s saved for me. “I know I didn’t get much, but—”
“Ha, that’s the understatement of the century.” He turns on his heel and blows smoke rings into the air. Before joining the company I never thought newspaper editors like him existed. I always thought he was the kind of boss you’d see in a movie—some cartoon caricature. It would almost be funny if he wasn’t actually real.
He swipes up a sheet of paper from the desk and stares at it, puffing away on his cheap and nasty cigar. I push forward in my chair.
“This, Sophie . . . this . . . ” He shakes the paper out in front of me. “Is this the fruit of your week in Vegas?”
He throws the sheet down on the desk. As it lands, a breeze from the open office window glides it toward me. I drag it up and furrow my brow.
“Didn’t get much?” he continues in a mocking tone. “I’ve seen adverts in the back of automobile magazines with more print space.”
“Sir. Mr. Dunne, I’m sorry . . . but Connor was slippery.”
He gestures to the mock up. “Three paragraphs, Sophie. Three lousy paragraphs. Jesus. I knew I should have sent Adrian . . .” His eyes look upward. “or maybe Tommy . . .”
I look at the sheet of paper, my own words staring back at me. There’s a slight tremble in my wrists as I try to keep a lid on my brewing frustration.
“Haven’t you got anything else for me?” he says. “Something made up, even?”
I shake my head, my eyes still fixed on my paltry offering.
He begins to pace behind the desk, scratching at the five o’clock shadow on his double chin. “You really came up short on this one.”
“Please, Mr. Dunne, it wasn’t exactly a fair shake giving me this story.”
He breaks to a stop and frowns at me.
I soften my voice. “He’s notorious for being a jerk. To all press. You know that as well as I do. Adrian or Tommy wouldn’t have been able to get anything out of him either.”
He examines the thickening ash on the end of his cigar before flicking it to the floor. “Hmm, maybe there’s something I can get you to work on.”
“Really?”
“There’s this community centre, opening a few blocks away—”
I push from my chair. “Christ, not another local puff piece. I need something good, Bill.”
He stares at me in disbelief—the jowls of his face hang loose, his bloodshot eyes wide and glazed. Immediately I wilt back down to the chair. I’ve never had an outburst like that before. I’ve never called him, Bill.
“Sorry, William . . . ” I correct, “I mean, Mr. Dunne.”
He chuckles, chewing on the end of his cigar and rolling it between his bulky forefinger and thumb.
My brows squeeze together. This is normally were I get shouted at or something, instead—laughter. What’s up with him?
“Sofia, I like you. You have . . . passion. You don’t have the experience yet, but
there’s something about you.”
I lurch forward, hands braced on the arms of my chair like a dog about to be fed a tasty surprise—eager, hopeful.
He flashes me a wide, crooked grin. “Eight weeks. Living with the champ.”
“What!?”
“Connor called the office, late yesterday. He personally requested you. He said he tried to ring your cell but there was no answer.”
I look down at my feet. Yeah, fifteen times.
“You obviously did something to impress him,” he adds.
“I did?”
He shrugs. “You’ll spend eight weeks living as a guest in Connor’s mansion, in the Hamptons. You will eat, train, run, and drink with him.”
As I begin to talk he lifts a finger, motioning for me to stop. “And, most important of all, you will write. Write, write, and write some more, damn it. I want to know everything. Every skeleton America’s favorite boxer has stuffed in his walk-in closet. Understood?”
“What? Why? I mean—won’t that be an expensive story to cover? Eight full weeks away?”
“He’s financing the whole thing, and it’s a New Jersey Herald exclusive. We’re running a ten page spread on the cocksucker. The piece could turn our fortunes around.” He pauses and looks up at the dusty clock on the wall. “All right, I’ll email you more details after lunch. But well done, Sophie, this could be the making of you. Now, get back to work before I dock your pay.”
I feel flushed.
I could both laugh and cry hysterically. Although the prospect of hanging around Mr. Ego, twenty-four seven, is hard to digest, this job could definitely put me on a level playing field with Adrian.
I slowly rise to my feet and head for the door, but stop shy of leaving. “Mr. Dunne . . . ”
“What now?” He looks up at the clock again and fidgets.
“Would the public really be interested, I mean now that his fight’s been and gone?”
“You didn’t hear?”
“Hear what?”