Champ

by Rhona Davis

  I blow out an exasperated breath, the heat and lack of sleep playing havoc with my temperament. It’s neither late at night nor early in the morning—it’s that horrible in-between.

  I hate insomnia. What makes matters worse is that the more I try and force myself to sleep, the more Connor creeps into my head.

  Events from a few hours ago on the beach proved to be an exercise in major restraint. As much as I hate to admit it, Connor is an exceptionally handsome man. He has that dangerous and irresistible mix of chiselled beauty and raw, dangerous magnetism. Visions of his ripped body have started to bleed into every waking second of my thoughts these last few days. He is like a disease that seeps into every cell and poisons me with irrational impulse. The more I try to medicate such thoughts with my normally unwavering resistance, the more the disease spreads.

  Seems that there is no known cure for Connor Patrick. He’s a prick, for sure, but I can see the appeal he has with women. It’s like an epidemic.

  I’ve been here for two weeks now. Two weeks without sex. That’s not to say I’m some kind of crazy nymphomaniac, sleeping with every man from New Jersey to the West Coast, but at least a play with myself would be nice—just a little touch, to quell the burning ache between my legs. I dare not masturbate, though. I’m pretty sure a guy as crafty as Connor will have hidden cameras dotted around the place.

  As I continue to aimlessly stare at the ceiling, I start to wonder if Connor has had a play himself. My heart races as I imagine him tugging wildly on that cock of his. I bet he is huge when aroused.

  Stop it, Sofia!

  I toss and turn on the bed, scrunching my eyes tight and willing my lustful imagination away . . .

  My eyes pop open.

  Screw it!

  I jump out of bed, pull on a robe, and leave the room to grab a midnight snack. Food has always had a calming effect on me. Normally when I can’t sleep, which is a habit of mine being a stressed out work addict, eating relaxes me.

  When I reach the kitchen I head straight for the refrigerator and fetch out a carton of full-fat milk, some cream cheese, and a slice of smoked salmon. I take the items over to the kitchen island and place them down on the worktop. Opening the bread bin, I take out a soft white bagel and prepare my tasty snack.

  Satisfied with my collection of treats, I place the food on a tray and tip-toe down the hall toward Connor’s study.

  Fuck it.

  I can’t sleep.

  If I’m just going to stare at a ceiling all night then I may as well be productive.

  In Connor’s study, I lean back on his leather office chair and prop my bare feet upon his large oak desk. Now comfy, I stuff my face with the cream cheese and salmon bagel I’ve made.

  Hearing a clock slowly tick by, and looking at the dull orange light of a lamp spill onto the desk, makes feel a little more relaxed.

  I spend a few minutes munching away before wiping off some rogue cream cheese from my lip and getting stuck into the first part of my article: ‘The man behind the myth.’

  Hmm . . . nice title.

  I put on my spectacles and pop the cap off my fountain pen. First task is some light editing. My notes are nothing but a jumble of incoherent thoughts. As I begin striking through any irrelevant details, I realize my pen is out of ink. I take out a piece of scrap paper from my folder and violently scribble over its surface . . .

  It’s no use. I need another pen.

  Running my hand along the underside of the oak desk, my fingers find the handle to a small hidden drawer. I pull it open and root through it. My palm lands on some pencils and pens. I pull a few out and fling them down on the desk.

  Before I close the drawer, my eye catches something. A collection of newspaper clippings are buried beneath a stack of printing paper. My brow furrows as I dig them out. They’re old, evident by their musty smell. I hold them up to the lamp light. It’s a keep of articles from Connor’s past fights. Maybe I can extract some info from them? Try to make a line between the past and the present?

  Spending a few minutes scan reading, one catches my attention more than the others. It’s a story dated from 2007 and regards the previous champion; Connor’s brother, Adam. Printed alongside the article is a picture Adam with his trainer, Monty Weathers. What interests me more than Adam and his trainer, though, is the kid on a punching bag in the background: A fresh faced, teenage Connor.

  Hungry for more, I sift through the collection of papers—the edges of which are rolled and weathered from age. Why he hasn’t put these up with the rest of the artefacts on the walls, I don’t know. He’s kept them, so they must be important.

  I keep reading on, my mind definitely not set on sleep now.

  Just as I trawl through the relics, one story jumps out at me. It reminds me of what my editor said regarding Adam’s death and the glut of sensationalist headlines which followed. I try to find something which could give weight to those old tabloid claims. That way, I can present the evidence to Connor and hopefully get a slither of truth from him. I still don’t understand why he’s so matter-of-fact about the situation. If it were me I’d be breaking down doors. It could be that after all these years he’s just learned to accept it.

  I reach into the drawer again.

  As I fumble inside, my fingers glide over something smooth in texture. I pull it out and hold my breath. It’s an old passport photo of an attractive looking woman, she’s smiling.

  I turn the photo over. Written on the back, in faded pencil, is: Mary, 1997, New York City.

  Who’s Mary? Could it be his foster mother?

  “Can’t sleep, Sophie?”

  I jump.

  Connor stands in the doorway of the study, his jaw is set.

  “No, I . . . it’s hot, I—”

  “What are you looking for?” he interrupts, his voice tinged with irritation.

  He wears an expression I haven’t seen before—a quiet kind of anger. Not the anger of a fighter but of someone else. It’s disconcerting—scary almost.

  “Well?” he pushes.

  I pull up a pencil from my lap, quickly lowering the photo out of view.

  He narrows his eyes. “What are you doing up so early? It’s three in the morning.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  Finally, his face softens. “I thought I told you that if you couldn’t sleep then come to my room for a cuddle.”

  I release a meek but relieved laugh.

  A smile plays across his lips. As he walks around to my side of the desk, I swiftly jam the photo into my robe pocket.

  “I hope you’re not snooping on me, Ms. Chavez.”

  “No, not at all. I just—”

  “You found all those old stories I see.” He nods to the stack of articles resting on my lap.

  “I was just looking for a pencil.”

  He edges closer and takes the papers from my lap before stuffing them back in the drawer and closing it. “Well you found one, so I’ll let you get on with it. Wait a minute . . .”

  My cheeks flush. “What?”

  “I’ve never seen you wear glasses before.”

  I breathe out and laugh, running my fingers over the frame. “Oh, these?”

  “Yeah, you look kinda sexy. Geeky, but sexy.”

  “You think so?”

  He moves closer. My god, he’s only wearing a pair of Calvin Kline’s and I can see everything. He traces his fingers along my cheek. “You’re running a temperature there?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You’re hot.”

  I pull back from the electricity of his touch.

  “The glasses make you look intelligent. I’ve never been with a girl who wears glasses before,” he says with devilish smile.

  “I normally wear contacts, but—”

  He cuts in, taking them off and examining them. “I like them.”

  A loud commotion breaks the scene.

  “What was that? “I gasp, rising to my feet and making space between us.

  �
�Wait here.”

  He runs out to investigate. I have no idea what it was but I’m glad of the respite. I can feel my heart literally knock on the door of my rib cage, threating to explode.

  When he comes back, just a short while later, he informs me that it was some loose pans falling in the kitchen.

  He pushes closer to me. “So, as I was saying . . . about the glasses . . .”

  I yawn. “I’m feeling tired.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Really, I—what time did you say it was?”

  His face hangs long. “Three.”

  “I really have to try and sleep, Connor. God, I have a ton of work to catch up on tomorrow.” I start toward the door and don’t look back. “Night then.”

  “Wait.”

  I jolt to a stop and squeeze my eyes tight. Then I slowly turn and ready myself for one almighty shit-storm.

  “Yes?” I murmur.

  He holds up a pencil. “You forgot this.”

  13

  Connor

  Showing zero remorse for the person in front of me, I double up with a stiff jab to his face. He looks perplexed as he tries to swat off my attack but I’m having too much fun to stop. I pick him off like a sniper.

  Peering over at the timer on the far wall, I become agitated. Just a minute of the round left and he’s showing nothing in return.

  I snarl. “Hit me back you fucking softie. What’s wrong with you?”

  I continue to rain shots down on his brittle head. He tries to cover up but I walk him down and go for the body. The level of constant pressure I put him under has his defence opening up like a tin can, and as soon as I see a glimpse of his jaw I swing a vicious left cross over the top. It lands with scientific precision, hitting the perfect spot for optimal damage.

  He folds to the canvas.

  Alex, my trainer, storms into the ring. “What the fuck was that?”

  As I hover over my sparring partner and scream at him to get up, Alex pins my arms to my sides and attempts to calm me.

  “Connor! Christ, man. Get the hell out of the ring! He’s done!”

  I unclip my head guard and throw it to the floor, slipping out of the ring like some pissed off child.

  I scoop up a water bottle from the corner. Damn thing is empty. I crush it between my gloved hands and then snap at Alex. “Ever thought of refilling these?”

  Despondent, I cross over to the water cooler on the other side of the gym and take a long drink from the fountain.

  “Connor, what’s the matter with you? This is supposed to be technical sparring. Not full on war. We’re running out of sparring partners.”

  “Good. They’re all useless anyway. I might as well spar the heavy bag. I’d get more of a fight out of it.”

  “Asshole,” he spits, as he helps the battered excuse-for-a-fighter up to his feet.

  “Alex, you said you’d find me some decent dance partners. These bums are all soup cans, fucking cab drivers.”

  “Connor, please . . . think about what you’re saying for one second. You’re sparring some of the finest fighters America has to offer. National champions—”

  “Do you like your job?” I cut in.

  “Really?”

  He’s lit. Chucking his towel to the floor, he jumps out the ring and marches toward me with rage burning in his eyes. “Is that a fucking threat? After all I’ve done. Turning you from a nobody into . . . ” he hesitates, struggling to find the words as he scans me with his wild gaze. “ . . . to whatever the hell you are these days.”

  I sneer at him. “I did the work, Alex. Me. You just laced my goddamn boots.”

  He looks hurt.

  I turn my back on him. “Fuck!”

  “Kid, what’s the matter with you? You’re losing your mind.”

  “She’s supposed to be here.”

  “Who?”

  I turn around to face him again. “Sofia. She’s supposed to be here, to cover all of this.”

  “What happened? She quit?”

  My brow scrunches up. “I don’t know. Yes. No. Not really.”

  “Then what? Where is she?”

  “She left a note. A fucking note. Said she had to do some research a few miles out of town. Never even stayed for breakfast.”

  “Then go find her. Jesus, is that what you’re so upset about? Poor Kenny over there did nothin’ to you.”

  I watch my sparring partner struggle to keep upright. I start to feel pretty shitty. He staggers, cupping his nose which is pissing blood like a geyser.

  “Give him a thousand bucks bonus money,” I whisper to Alex. “I’m sorry, man.”

  “Do you like this chick?” he asks.

  “Yeah . . . I think so.”

  “Then go sort it out and come back when your mind’s straight. We can’t go through the rest of camp like this. You’re too darn distracted. You know how important this fight is. The other day you just took off without saying a word.”

  I look at him for guidance, an offering of wisdom that I lack right now. He’s around fifty years old. Been in the game for years; crappy fighter in his time, but a great trainer now. The way he’s talking back to me is refreshing. Normally he lets me get my way but he’s showing backbone now—an authority which I like, which I need. I never had a father figure. Well, maybe once . . . but that was so long ago. Monty. I know he wouldn’t have put up with half the crap Alex has taken.

  Alex looks at me with concern and what I read as a short measure of compassion. “Kid, go find her. It’s doing you no good stuck here, moping around like this. It’s not like you.”

  I sigh. “Fuck. I know.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “The old neighborhood.”

  “What . . . on her own?”

  I nod.

  “Jesus. What is she doing in the Bronx? Everything she needs for her story is right here.”

  “I’m not sure yet. I went through her diary.”

  “Her diary? Kid, you’re playing with fire there.”

  I nod. “I know, but she’s been acting really weird. Secretive.”

  “She’s a reporter, kid. It’s their job to act like that.”

  “I don’t know, Alex, something isn’t right. It’s like she’s trying to uncover something. Her diary said she was going to take pictures . . . of the old gym and stuff.”

  “Couldn’t she have waited until you had a rest day?”

  I shrug. “You tell me.”

  “You think she’s there to dig up some dirt? Sure she’s not just fishing for the rags-to-riches angle all those tabloid readers like? I mean, if she’s there to take photos then why would you be suspicious?”

  Before I can respond we’re interrupted by the swaying shape of Kenny, my latest spar victim, slumping over.

  Alex shoots him a look. “You okay? Go get cleaned up.”

  Kenny glares at me. “Motherfucker’s crazy.” Still wiping blood from his nose, he looks at Alex. “I was told this would be light sparing. I have a fight coming up too. Bastard could have put me out with an injury.”

  Alex places a hand on the fighter’s shoulder. “Don’t you worry, son. We’ll pay you for the trouble. Anyway, you’re fine now. A few Q-tips and an ice pack will sort you out in no time. Connor’s sorry . . . ain’t that right, Con?”

  I can barely look at the guy through guilt. “Yeah. Sorry, man, got carried away. You know how it is.”

  Kenny looks me up and down and then staggers away—his ego’s probably more bruised than his face.

  Alex blows out breath and turns his attention back to me. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s all innocent.”

  “Could be. I’m sure she’s not like that anyway.”

  “Connor, listen to what you’re saying. Great legs and a nice rack and you’re losing your head. You gotta be sharp, kid. Yeah, okay, so she’s hot—”

  “And smart,” I cut in.

  He rolls his eyes. “Christ, yes . . . she’s hot and smart and even funny. But she’s just another
girl. And champ, remember, she’s a reporter. Whatever she’s doing in the old neighborhood it’s in their nature to pry. Wise up. Don’t you remember what they put you through when you lost your brother? Remember the shit they tried to drag up? The stuff they tried to use on you to screw with your head? I remember. I remember having to pull you out of a dark place.”

  “I know.”

  “Don’t get too close. That’s all I’m sayin’. Just let her do her thing.”

  “I think I like her,” I murmur under my breath.

  His eyes narrow. “Like her?”

  “Really like her.”

  He laughs.

  “What’s funny?”

  “You ain’t going soft on me, are you? God, you like lots of women. Man, just head over to the club, pick up a girl, and fuck her senseless. Do whatever you gotta do, just don’t let this one mess you up. I can already see it happening.”

  My brows crease.

  “Look in the mirror, Con . . . sloppy, overly aggressive, slow even. You’re gonna leave everything you have in the gym if you’re not careful. Burn out. It’s a real thing. You need to focus.”

  I pace back and forth.

  Alex tuts. “Your mind is all muddled up. What’s wrong?”

  I stop pacing and look him straight in the eye.

  He shrugs. “It can’t just be that girl. What is it, kid? How can I help you if you won’t tell me?”

  “I’m scared.”

  He grins, his brows pulling together. “Sofia scares you? Shit, Connor, she’s really done a number on you.”

  “No, not that. The fight. Alex, I don’t think I have it in me anymore.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I think I’m done. I think I’m through with boxing.”

  14

  Sofia

  After nearly four hours travelling on a stuffy train, from Penn Station to Bronx Park East, I head out to the street, using an app to locate the gym where Connor first started training.

  It takes me around fifteen minutes to find the Bronx Boxing club. It’s situated in a notoriously rough area, but I’m not too fazed. As long as you don’t look people in the eye, and you stand tall, you’re normally okay.