by Rhona Davis
I scoff. “What could be so bad, huh?”
“Did you not hear me? I hid something from you.”
“I don’t—”
She bolts up from the stool, her posture stiffening. “Christ, just look at the damn folder.”
Her outburst catches me off guard. I lean back and examine her face, wondering who this stranger is opposite me—where this all came from.
I start over to the table and slowly draw up the thick spiralled folder of notes. Choosing not to look inside, I wave it in my hand and shoot Sophie a smile. “What’s this? Nah, fuck it. It doesn’t change anything. Things are cool, baby.” I fling the folder back down on the table and walk back toward her.
“Your career . . . it’s all a lie,” she roars.
I stop dead in my tracks like someone’s just thrown a bucket of ice cold water over my face.
Sneering, which almost turns into a half smile, I examine Sofia’s demeanour. She must be punking me.
“My career?” I pause for a beat. “My career is a lie? What the hell are you talking about?”
She sheepishly points back to the folder, her voice much softer than before. “The paper dug that up from your promotion company.”
I narrow my eyes before quick stepping back to the folder and scooping it up.
For a brief moment I’m sacred to open it. Instead I wait, and hope, for Sophie to break character, laugh, and run into my arms boasting that she pranked me good.
She shakes her head, despondent. “I tried to tell you, I mean I wanted to tell you, but I—”
I bring my hand up, motioning for her to stop. My attention locks to the folder and I begin to thumb through it.
Page after page after page . . .
“Connor. I’m so sorry. You had to know. I was scared to tell you, but—”
I slam the folder down on the table and storm out the kitchen.
Bounding upstairs in shock, I hear Sophie chase after me. She pleads with me to calm down and talk.
When I get to the foot of the bedroom we share, she grabs me by the arm. Sharply, I pull away from her and spin on my heel. “How long have you had that? Known that?”
“A few days ago—”
Like a volcano, molten rage bursts from my core. I punch the wooden door, creating a splintered bloody crater in its surface.
“You’re hands,” she cries. “Be careful.”
“What?” I hold both fists close to her face and shake them. “These hands? Why? Huh? So I can fight in fixed matches? So I stay world champ . . . a fake fucking paper champ? Well?”
As I push closer to her, she steps back. Her once confident shape is now bent by a meek and fearful posture as she shies away from me.
I feel awful for scaring her. Christ, I don’t know what I feel. I don’t know who I am anymore.
“Connor—”
“Don’t,” I bark.
She flinches at the venom in my voice.
I take a deep breath and shut my eyes tight, trying to control the anger within. “Just . . . don’t.”
As we both stand on the landing, I feel my body sway. I can’t bring myself to look at her. Not because she hid this from me, but because she knows me for what I really am now—a bum, a chump. Certainly no fucking champ.
My eyes remain closed as I try to calm my breathing and quell the dizziness that rattles around inside my skull.
“Connor, please.”
With my eyes still shut, frightened to open them and allow this warped reality back in, I feel the softness that Sophie’s blessed with run across my cheek—her fingers gently glide over the bone of my jaw. For a split second it feels good, but when I open my eyes again I snatch her wrist away and charge downstairs.
“Where are you going?” she calls down from the top banister.
“For a run.”
“But it’s late, you just got back—”
I slam the door behind me before she has a chance to finish. As soon as my trainers land on the tarmac of the road, I pick up pace—running without a destination in mind, without a reason to turn back.
25
Sofia
Two o’clock in the morning and he’s still not back from his run.
For the last hour I’ve considered packing up and heading home. Although I’m hurting for him, I can’t be punished for something I’ve unwillingly unearthed. This situation, this new horrible reality, is the fault of the people he’s surrounded by—promoters, advisors, and fair-weather friends who’ve used him all along as some kind of puppet. A puppet whose strings they decide to cut at a time that makes the greatest financial sense to them. Seems that greed really does kill.
Just when I decide to crawl into bed, exhaustion burning my eyes, I hear an almighty crash outside. I race over to the bedroom window and pull open the Venetian blinds. Connor’s slumped across a sun lounger by the swimming pool. He looks drunk.
Dashing over to the bedroom door, I snatch my robe off the hook and make my way downstairs.
I need one last chance to get through to him before I drive home at daybreak.
If tonight’s bombshell means that this is the end for us then I’d like to leave on an understanding, however threadbare that is, rather than an argument.
Pulling open the kitchen’s double glass doors, which lead out to the backyard, I slowly creep towards Connor—the soles of my bare feet gliding over the freshly cut grass of the lawn, the chill of night making me shiver and pull tight on my robe.
Gingerly, I edge close to him.
Too nervous to form the first word, I wait patiently for him to acknowledge me. He’s shirtless, wearing just his jogging pants and sneakers. Resting by his foot is a half empty bottle of bourbon. Although I’m braced over him, he doesn’t look up.
“Connor,” I break.
Reaching down for the bottle, he mumbles something inaudible.
I join him on the edge of the lounger, my eyes now level with his. “Connor, we need to talk about this. Please don’t shut me out.”
He briefly glances at me, the neck of the bottle now pressed to his lips. Just as I hope he’ll start to talk, he takes a large swig of booze and looks off into the distance. Angry by his blatant dismissal of me, I knock the bottle out of his hand. “Don’t ignore me!”
He breaks out into a wry smile, like he’s taunting me.
“We need to talk, Connor. This could be our last chance.”
With the back of his hand, he wipes booze from his chin. “Last chance, huh?”
I push to my feet. “I’m going back home tomorrow. I’m done here.”
He smirks. It’s not the reaction I was hoping for.
“Seriously, Connor, I’m not joking around here. I’m through. I can’t follow this story anymore. I shouldn’t have slept with you. I should never have got involved in the first place.”
“Sit down.
I freeze.
He nods to the space next to him, gesturing for me to sit back down. “Please.”
Slowly, I give in and take a seat. Rather than looking at him, my gaze focuses on the swimming pool—the reflection of a half crescent moon skimming over the water’s still surface. Any other time and the scene would’ve painted a romantic picture. Tonight, though, it looks ominous.
Now I finally have my shot at reasoning with him, after hours of worry and guilt, my mind goes blank.
“I spoke with Monty,” he says after a long, drawn out pause.
My attention shifts to him in surprise. “You did?
He nods.
“How did he look?”
“I didn’t visit. It was just a phone call. Hardest five minutes of my life.”
“What did you say?”
“Not much, mostly radio silence. Shit, after so long you’d think we’d have endless stuff to talk about.”
I stay muted as I study his face, waiting for the first cracks in his virtually impenetrable armor. He doesn’t have to play the tough guy to impress me. I want in. I want to share in his pain so I can under
stand him better, deepen our connection.
“Sophie, I’ve been such an ass. The guy—” He pauses, his face hardening, “The guy sounded broken.” His head sags. “I really fucked up.”
I push closer. “He really loves you.”
Connor looks at me, confusion pinching his brow.
“I could just tell,” I continue. “The night I went to visit him, the way he spoke when I mentioned you. Remembering how he helped raise you and your brother . . . I don’t know what it was, something in his expression. Pain.”
“I know,” Connor whispers, like the admission is cutting the inside of his throat. “I want to make it up. Take him out of that slum.”
“Then go to him.”
He smiles. “If only it were that simple.”
“It’s not?”
He begins to talk, but says nothing.
I bend down to pick up the bottle of bourbon, most of its contents now seeping into the grass. “I didn’t think boxer’s drank.”
“I knew all along,” he continues.
“Sorry?”
“The fixed fights.”
I turn cold, blood draining from my face.
He looks at me and straightens up. “I knew about the fixes a long time ago.”
“But . . . your reaction, when I told you about—”
He cuts in. “I didn’t want to believe it. Too busy enjoying the trappings of fame and fortune, I guess. I convinced myself that they were just stories spread by other jealous promoters and fighters. Even when my brother died, I ignored the truth. The truth Monty tried to tell me and warn me about.”
I stand up and clasp at my forehead with both hands. His stark confession sends me into a tailspin.
“Sophie—?”
“Don’t do it.”
“What?”
“Don’t take that fight. Don’t do it.”
“I have to. You don’t understand.”
Frustrated, I throw my arms in the air. “Why? What will it prove? You have to take a dive anyway. What’s left to fight for?”
“You.”
I frown.
“I told Garcia to go fuck himself when he first made his proposition. Even though I had my suspicions, I never thought he’d actually sell me out like that. I should have knocked him out right then and there, but he played a wicked card. He knows all about you. About us.”
My frown deepens. “I still don’t follow.”
His gaze drops, mournful. “He said that if I liked the way your face looks then I’d do well to follow his order.”
“They threatened you? Using me?”
He doesn’t say a word, his face seems blank of emotion now.
I pace back and forth on the lawn, the news sending me into a vortex of confusion and anger. “No. He’s bluffing.”
“Sophie, don’t think he wouldn’t do something bad. His little goon squad is not to be messed with. Gangsters. Every last one of them.”
“We’ll take that folder to the cops. First thing in the morning, we’ll—”
He slowly shakes his head, stopping me mid-sentence.
“Why?” My voice breaks with frustration.
“I may be able to protect you now, tomorrow, next week, next month even . . . but I can’t protect you forever. I can’t watch your every move. If we go to the cops he’ll just deny the whole thing. He’s done it before.”
“You mean . . . ?”
“Another fighter, a few years back. Hell of a prospect. He was bribed by Garcia. Take a dive. Round six he told him. But the fighter didn’t. He won. Inside three rounds. You’ve read it I’m sure, in those documents?”
“Well, yes . . . but I didn’t know they killed him?”
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly?”
“Put it this way, the kid never jumped rope again. Garcia had him thrown down a nasty flight of stairs. One of Garcia’s goons, out of the blue one day.” Connor takes a deep breath. “Hard to prove of course, but we all knew who was behind it.”
“We?”
“All the guys at the gym. It never came from the poor fighter’s mouth, but we all had our suspicions. I tried to ignore it. Bury my head in the sand.”
“You sure it was connected to the company and not just some random crazy?”
“Could be. But you read all that shit in the docs.”
“I’ve read about the dives, the loaded gloves . . . but after a fight? Attempted murder? No way.”
“Some coincidence, though, that the poor bastard goes broke only a week later. And what about the rumors regarding my brother’s death?”
“So what did the fighter do when he recovered?”
“Not a damn thing. No proof. Add to that that the IRS took his ass for all he had. Back pay in unpaid taxes.”
“He never paid tax?”
Connor shakes his head and scoffs. “His accountant never paid tax. The accountant who he had assigned to him by Garcia. They covered up his business affairs very well, only to use it against him as a bargaining chip. He lost everything . . . houses, cars, you name it. Gone.”
“Shit.”
“So that was it. Career over, life changing injuries, no money . . . just a future on welfare and food stamps.”
“Connor, we have to go to the police.”
He squares right up to me, his gaze burning into mine. “No chance.”
“But, your career, your undefeated record . . . the other fighters for Christ sake.”
He places a finger to my lips. “Fuck my record. I’d rather lose the stupid fight than lose you.”
Before I can speak, he places his forehead against mine and we slowly kiss—a tender, soft kiss. A kiss tinged with fear. When our lips part, I whisper to him, “I’m scared.”
“Don’t be. I’ll make sure I dodge most of his punches. I’ll make the dive look natural and we can just escape. Run away from this circus. Anywhere you like. Mexico, if want. And about those other fighters . . . this is also for them. Garcia and his cronies have to pay for what they’ve done. And if I have to be the one who blows the lid on his corruption, then that’s a sacrifice I must make.”
I smile, touched by his selflessness. Even though I’m not cool with it I respect his stand.
I stare into his eyes for a moment, my mind trying to process what’s just been said—trying to process the whole eight weeks of our whirlwind love affair.
He pulls back and narrows his eyes at me, his hands clasped on my arms. “What is it, princess?”
I breathe deeply and find a new resolve. “What do you want me to do?”
“Don’t worry about it, that’s all.”
“I’m talking about the folder. You take the dive, Connor, that’s fine, but we have to bust them . . . catch them in the act. If the authorities know about this then the best chance we have is to hand over the folder on the night of the fight.”
A knowing smile on Connor’s face breaks the heavy atmosphere of the situation.
“Great minds think alike, baby.”
I try to repress a smile of my own, chewing the inside of my mouth. “Actually, Adrian suggested it.”
“Who?”
“Another reporter with the paper. We knew it would be hard to get this stuff to stick, especially as we got the documents through, well, unconventional ways you could say.”
He laughs. “God, you media people . . .”
“What?”
“Like damn vultures. Not a rule you wouldn’t break for a story.” He shakes his head. “Fuck. Good job though.”
“So, what shall I do on the night? Give it in before the first bell?”
“No. Wait for my signal and then hand it to Jeff Nate.”
“Who’s that?”
“I’ll dig out a picture later on. He’s the chief official on an independent sanctioning body.”
“You sure you can trust him?”
“Absolutely. He’s known me for years. He tried to investigate the death of my brother back in the day, but the evidence he foun
d was slim. Anyway, he’s our only hope.”
“Where will he be sitting?”
“We’ll figure that out on the night. Don’t worry about the details for now.”
I look down at my feet. Fear grips me, but also a realization of what has to be done.
Connor lifts my chin with the tips of his fingers and our eyes lock once more. “Baby, you’ve got this. I won’t get hurt.”
“Promise?”
He shrugs, his arms held out to his sides. “I don’t need to promise, baby. I’m Connor Patrick . . . champ of the world.”
I can do nothing but laugh as he goofs around.
I wish I could say that his confidence sets me at ease. Truth is, though, that this is the most terrified I have ever been in my life. I can’t lose the only other man I’ve ever loved. Losing Papa was the darkest time. A period in my life that could have so easily destroyed me. I can’t go through that again.
This has to work.
It just has to.
26
Sofia
Fight night and I’m sure, for the first time ever, I see a hint of nerves play across Connor’s face.
Christ, what else would he be but nervous? If he feels anything like I do then he’ll be doubled up with fear. This whole situation is several shades of fucked up.
As I watch him wrap his own hands—a tradition he’s carried in every fight under the watchful eye of his trainer—I claw at my arms and pace up and down the sparsely furnished changing room. No matter how hard I try I can’t seem to calm down or comfort myself.
I’m not sure I can go through with this. Risking his health, possibly his very life, seems like nothing but a reckless gamble.
Screw the story.
Screw trying to catch the bad guys in the act.
We can move to Mexico and settle down to a peaceful life with my family. We would be left alone there, protected by the animosity of a quiet and simple existence—off the radar, the perfect disappearance. I know momma would welcome Connor with open arms and an open heart. She’s already witnessed the good in him. The fight game can find some other hero to expose their scandalous corruption. Connor doesn’t need to be that hero.
“Can you give us a minute?” I anxiously ask his trainer, Alex. He looks up at me from the stool next to Connor’s, his brow low and crinkled as though I’ve just asked him to loan me a million dollars.