Champ

by Rhona Davis

  “It’s all right, Alex,” Connor assures him. “She’s never been backstage before, just a few pre-fight nerves.”

  Alex sighs and pushes to his feet. “Okay champ, you’re the boss. Do the wraps feel good and secure?”

  Connor tightens the last part around his right thumb and nods.

  Alex throws me a slightly suspicious glance and then smirks. “No sex before the fight. You hear?”

  My cheeks flush and I snatch my gaze away from him. Connor laughs in response. With that, Alex leaves us in peace.

  “Don’t mind him, Soph. He can be a crude ass sometimes. He’s only messin’.”

  I stare at him for a moment, watching him stand up and tense both fists. Then I run into his arms, needing the security of his embrace.

  “Hey, Soph, what’s wrong? You’re shaking like a leaf.”

  “You never told him about tonight, did you?”

  “I couldn’t. He’d talk me out of it.”

  I press the side of my face to his chest and hold him tighter. “Good.”

  He leans back slightly and runs his fingers through my hair. “We can’t back down from this. Angel, you know what’s at stake here.”

  “Yeah, you’re life!”

  “Baby, I need you to be on board with this. We have to smash this. Tonight. It’s the only way. I can’t leave boxing knowing these bastards are getting away with this. It will be fine . . . I promise.”

  “How can you promise me that? You could—” Choking on my words, tears begin to run down my cheeks.

  He lifts my head up with his fingers and locks his gaze to mine. “Don’t cry, baby. I promise it’ll work out. I need you to trust me on this. I need you to be only half as strong as I know you are.”

  After a beat, I reluctantly and slowly nod. He draws closer, readying his mouth for a kiss. Before our lips touch, I’m snapped out of his spell by roars coming from the TV on the changing room wall.

  “The undercard is finished already? Connor, you said it was a twelve round fight.”

  He takes a deep breath. “KO, baby. It can end at any time.”

  As a crowd of officials gather in the center of the ring, and the winning trainers lift up their new middle weight champion, the TV feed swaps to a slow motion highlight of the eighth round knockout. Watching the brutal conclusion to the bout, I shudder. I’m not normally so squeamish, but knowing Connor could be on the receiving end of something far worse, magnified by the loaded gloves his scumbag opponent will be wearing, has me reeling with dread.

  “I can’t let you do this,” I cry, turning my back on him and clutching my forehead.

  He spins me back around to face him. “It’s too late to back down now. We have to catch them in the act, you know that. Please. I’m begging you. Do this for me. I’ll dive when I have to, I promise.” He bends down and roots through his leather gym bag.

  “What are you doing?”

  Pushing back up, he holds out a small picture in front of him. “Here, take this.”

  I take the photo from his hand and hold it up to the light. The man on the picture is smartly dressed, with thick horn-rimmed spectacles, a shock of gray hair, and a round and friendly face. He’s around fifty. “You expect me to find this guy in an arena of twenty thousand people?” I feel sick and dizzy. “This is madness.”

  “Baby, relax. He’ll be sitting three rows down from you, right by the commentary box. You can’t miss him. When I get to the end of the first round, I’ll give you a signal. I’ll lift both arms up and shake them so Garcia doesn’t get suspicious.”

  “And then what?”

  “Pretend you’re going to the bathroom and then slip the document his way. But be discrete.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and look away.

  “Sophie, please tell me you have the document with you?”

  Agitated, I reach into my bag and pull the folder out. “Of course I do.”

  “Good girl. Being a reporter you should be good at covert operations like this.” He shoots me a broad smile. How I wish I could smile back.

  “I don’t think I can—”

  “Sophie, baby, we don’t have much time. We can’t keep going round in circles here!”

  I freeze, startled by his new impatient tone.

  His face softens almost as quickly as he just exploded. “Shit. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.” He pushes close to me, cupping the side of my face with the palm of his hand. His touch is warm and comforting. “In less than thirty minutes, this nightmare will be over. This is for the fighters, for us, for my brother.”

  My gaze drops to the cold floor. “I know.”

  He traces his thumb along my lower lip. “That’s my girl. Remember, you’re a fighter too.”

  I look into his eyes again and feign a smile, trying desperately to find the courage he needs from me from within.

  His mouth curls. “You wait until we get home.”

  My brows meet. “What?”

  “Ms. Chavez, do you realize how sexy you look in that oversized baseball cap and baggy Yankees jacket?”

  I walk over to the full length mirror on the far side of the room and check my reflection, almost forgetting I dressed up like some sort of dorky tourist for the best part of two hours. His jacket drowns me. The tiniest of chuckles escapes from my lips.

  “That’s better,” Connor says, joining me from behind and gripping onto my waist. He carefully examines my reflection from over my shoulder.

  I snort. “Not much of a disguise.”

  “At least you’ll fit in with the crowd. Anyway, this whole get up has other benefits.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. Maybe after the fight I can make love to you in that Yankees jacket. You drive me wild wearing my stuff.” He smacks my ass, making me squeal with shock and delight in equal measure.

  “You certainly know how to spoil a scene, Connor Patrick.”

  He rolls his eyes. “What, you’d rather wallow in anxiety?”

  The boy has a point.

  Just as we embrace each other for another kiss, footsteps echo down the vast concrete corridors outside.

  “You better go,” he orders me. “Could be the promoter checking up on me. Take your seat and stay out of view.”

  He races over to the changing room door and slowly inches it open, craning his head outside.

  My throat tightens. “Is it him?”

  “No.” He pauses. “It’s just a janitor. But you should get a move on. You get caught back here and the whole plan crumbles.”

  I slump over to the door like a condemned woman. Stopping by Connor, I take a deep breath.

  “Sophie . . .”

  As soon as my eyes fix on his, he presses his mouth to mine. Although his assertive kiss is as electrifying and addictive as ever, it’s now tinged with a strange and unfamiliar sadness.

  As much as it hurts me to do so, I pull away from his soft lips. “Last kiss?”

  “Only until after the fight. First, I’ve gotta lose in style.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Don’t be, baby.”

  “You’re not worried, not even a little?”

  He places his hand on the nape of my neck and warmly smiles. “Silly. Why would I be worried when I’ve got you?”

  To make sure I’m alone, I check each stall of the bathroom before digging out the photo of the official and checking up on the seating plan.

  Staring at my reflection, I search for that tough, thick-skinned, journalist I used to be before I fell so hard for Connor. It’s almost impossible to spot these days but, god, if I ever needed her it’s now.

  I talk to myself in the mirror, repeating a mantra over and over. The price of truth costs, but truth always wins in the end.

  Fuck it.

  I can do this.

  I will do it.

  I have to . . .

  For Connor.

  For me.

  For us both.

  Swallowing hard, I pull my phone from
my bag and dial Adrian’s cell.

  As it rings, noise from the arena turns thunderous. That must be Connor walking out to the lion’s den.

  I press my palm next to my other ear so I can hear the phone call.

  “Adrian.,” I shout. “Did you do it?”

  27

  Connor

  The long walk from the dressing room to the square circle can be the loneliest in the world. The fighter alone, with just the will to win—taking the well-trodden path toward a crucible of violence. No second thoughts now. No way back.

  Up to this point, each fight got easier for me. Boxing was simply another day in the office for another fat pay check, the last one bigger than the previous. The walk tonight, though, feels different. It could feel no other way under the troubling circumstances forced upon us.

  As fans scream and holler my name, expecting the usual from their favorite champ, I inch toward the ring with a heavy conscience. Tonight, they will see their champion fall—and all by design.

  Alex and the corner assistant part the ropes for me to climb through. The middle of the ring is packed with people: Ring girls, officials, cops, and the master of ceremonies. It’s the usual glitzy affair for what is the bloodiest of all sports.

  Above the ring, high up in the lofty Barclays Center arena, are four screens that show off a highlight reel of my best fights. Every time one of my knockouts plays back for the twenty thousand capacity crowd, cheers erupt like a volcano of noise. The excitement is palpable, electrifying. The atmosphere is at complete odds with how I’m feeling inside. Still, I fake a smile—always the entertainer, always the consummate professional.

  As the announcer goes through the usual tale of the tape stuff, I push back to my corner and let the assistant give me a small sip of water before putting my traditional Irish flag gum shield in place.

  My opponent stalks the ring on the opposite side. He looks jumpy. Although the motherfucker has two secret weapons hidden in those gloves, I can tell he’s still scared. For a split second I feel sorry for him. Like me, he’s just a pawn in this game. But then I remember—this cunt took the bait before and killed my older brother, just like Monty tried to tell me all those years ago when I wouldn’t listen. And here he is again, now playing with my life in case I don’t go down. I almost want to spoil it and really damage this prick, but I have so much to lose. Sofia’s my focus now. Just one more fight, one humiliating and shocking defeat, and I’ll be free from this fucked up game for good.

  The crowd erupt. I’m sucked out of my daze by the end of the announcer’s lengthy introductions.

  Now it’s fight time.

  Now it’s on.

  I gotta act like an Oscar winner. I gotta act like Robert fucking Deniro. And I better play this farce well. Everything depends on it.

  I turn my back on the opponent and quickly go over the game plan with my unsuspecting trainer. He has no idea that tonight is scripted. For him, this is another forgone conclusion. A revenge match with the last fighter my brother took on. This is for pride now.

  Pride. What a joke.

  Panicked, knowing that the first bell is quickly approaching, I scan the third row of the crowd to my right. I can’t see Sophie.

  Just when I consider throwing in the towel before this sham has even started, I finally spot her. In her baseball cap and baggy jacket, she holds a program up to her nose. She looks as scared as me.

  Putting a brave face on to reassure her that this will turn out fine, I wink at her and flash my gum shield smile her way. She offers me a weak smile back. I don’t keep my attention on her though, because right in the front row sits my slime ball murdering promoter: Michael Garcia. He’s wedged between two blonde bimbos, with thugs sitting just behind him. Sofia hasn’t been spotted yet and I need to keep it that way.

  Finally, the bell goes . . .

  Round one.

  How I wish Monty was here. How I wish Sofia wasn’t a part of this. If she wasn’t, and I had my father figure with me, I’d knock the shit out of this punk opposite me. My fights might be questionable on record now, but I know one thing for certain—I can bang.

  The round gets off to a cagey start but I soon find out that I can tag him anytime I choose. This lump before me is old and slow. Coming in thirty pounds heavier than me shows in the way he’s moving. The cunt moves like treacle. The task of making a dive look convincing will be a hard one.

  I dance around him, popping out loose jabs that have him flailing his cumbersome arms every time I connect.

  ‘Round five’ the promoter told me. Deciding that I’ll have at least one or two rounds of fun, I start stiffening up the jabs—popping out sharp, crisp punches to his jaw and flabby body. I can see him wince every time I land . . .

  Soft bastard.

  Before I know it, the bell goes.

  I slowly walk back a few steps, studying his posture. I’ve yet to feel the stone in his gloves, he’s just that slow, but I know he’s packing from the small flakes of plaster which collect beneath his feet.

  I briefly glance at Sofia and then over to Garcia. His face is gray and stern. He holds up his chubby jewellery caked hand, signalling ‘five’ like I would’ve forgot. God, if only I could jump the ring and beat the shit out of him. Not one spectator, aside from Sofia and her fellow reporter, knows the evil of that man.

  A ring girl holds up a giant placard with a number two printed on it.

  Like promised, as I walk back to my corner, I lift my arms in the air and shake them. I keep my focus on the canvas beneath me so that Garcia doesn’t clock my code to Sophie.

  It’s all on her now.

  I pray to god this goes off without a problem.

  I drop to the stool and let the assistant run Vaseline across my brow and nose.

  “What the fuck was that?” Alex screams at me. “You’re playing around too much. He’s there for the taking.”

  “I’m just feeling him out, don’t worry,” I mumble through my gum shield.

  “Just knock the fucker out, Connor. We can have an early night of it. He’s nothin’ but a sap.”

  I wave him off as the assistant gives me a drink.

  Glancing over to the crowd on my right, I can see Sofia start to move. The official is seated exactly where he should be. Inside, I’m urging her to move faster. Round two is swiftly approaching and I need to let my opponent get some shots off.

  This loss will be hard to take, for sure, but when we’ve exposed these bastards the loss won’t count for shit.

  The bell goes . . .

  I push to my feet and bang my gloves together.

  Come on you sonofabitch!

  28

  Sofia

  Trying to squeeze past manic fans, all crushed up like tinned sardines, I get stuck between the row in front of me and the knees of some huge guy behind. He screams at me. “Lady, move the fuck out of the way!” Any other time and I’d offer him a piece of my mind. Instead, I just throw my hands up in surrender as I try to wriggle through the crowd.

  Just as I free myself from the swell, I take a deep breath and begin to approach the official. He’s unaware that some crazy reporter dressed as a Yankees super fan is about to drop the biggest shit bomb the sport has ever seen. His attention is divided between the fight and a chat with the commenters in front of him. He looks as friendly as his picture suggested—a fatherly face, yet much older than I had him pegged from the photo.

  My shuffle turns to a purposeful stride the closer I get.

  “You!”

  I jolt to a stop and turn my head. A large security guard storms up to me from behind.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he bellows, his words sharp with authority.

  “Oh, the . . . bathroom.”

  “It’s the other way, lady. Can’t you read the signs?

  I paw at my forehead. “I’m so stupid. Must be all the excitement.”

  “You can’t approach the commenters, this is a private area.”

  Shit.
r />   “Okay, sir, I—”

  I’m snapped out of conversation by the tight grip of some burly looking bouncer. He’s wearing a suit that looks a size too small. “I’ll take it from here,” he tells security. “We’ve been looking all over for this one.”

  “Hey,” I protest, trying to snatch my arm away from his powerful clutch. “What the fuck?” I look at the security guard, who seems mildly shocked. “Are you gonna stop him?”

  The bouncer addresses the guard. “This one pushed past the gate. She never paid for a ticket.”

  The guard smiles and shakes his head in disapproval. “Looked like trouble the first time I saw her.”

  “Come on you.” The bouncer says. As he frog marches me off, he smirks to the security guard. So much for crowd safety—the idiot guard is just letting this goon drag me away.

  “Get off me,” I cry. I fall to the ground, turning myself into a dead weight. It doesn’t seem to help much, though. He’s soon dragging me across the front row of spectators like a ragdoll.

  “Connor,” I shout.

  No use. The crowd’s cheers are too strong. All I can do is hold my bag tight and hope that this ape of a guy doesn’t root through it. Pushing me along, I look up at the badge on his lapel. It has the Garcia promotional company logo printed on the surface.

  My heart sinks.

  “You wait until Connor hears about this,” I cry. “You’re dead meat!”

  He throws me down to a metal chair in Connor’s dressing room. “Just sit still, little mouse.”

  Walking back to the door, he checks the phone in his giant hand. With his back turned to me I stare at the gap in the half open door, trying to judge the distance.

  Screw it.

  I bolt up from the chair and make a mad dash for freedom. As I dive past him, another, much bigger guy, blocks my escape.

  The first guy looks super pissed now. He grabs me by both arms and lifts me clean off the floor.