Dirty Boxing

by Harper St. George

  His heart throbbing in his chest, he stalked Kovac across the octagon, satisfaction filling him at the sight of the welts rising up on Kovac’s face and legs. He’d done that. Marking him as he poured everything he had into the fight, wanting somehow to both feel and be numb at the same time. Chasing something that would make the world make sense again.

  He ducked low, slamming his fist into Kovac’s gut, but it wasn’t enough. He needed more. More violence, more catharsis, more pain. Anything to obliterate the hollowness inside him, to make him forget that there was an empty shell where his heart used to be.

  He’d spent the entire five minutes of the first round pounding relentlessly on Kovac, using his fists, his elbows, his knees, his feet to punish him in retribution for the shit Kovac had said about his Jules.

  Except he was pretty sure she wasn’t his Jules anymore.

  Maybe she never had been.

  Seeing an opening, Nick launched a kick that caught Kovac in the side, hard. The snap echoed through the arena, and sixteen thousand people let out a sharp, collective “oh!” Kovac stumbled back, hurt by the kick, and Nick surged forward, landing a left hook that snapped Kovac’s head back. He landed another punch, a punishing jab with his right. Despite his wobbly legs, Kovac managed to scamper back, putting some distance between them. Nick moved toward him, and Kovac threw a wild, desperate, spinning kick. Nick ducked it easily.

  Kovac sneered at him despite the fact he was getting his ass kicked, and something dark and powerful surged through Nick. Something cold and black, bleak and savage. He shot his fist out, connecting with Kovac’s nose. He felt it give and blood began to drip from it almost immediately, spattering onto Kovac’s chest. Nick kicked him again, landing a hard shot in his stomach and sending him sprawling back against the fence. Nick lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Kovac’s hips and dumping him to the ground. He fell on top of him and let loose with punch after punch after punch, hammering his fists into Kovac’s bloody face over and over again.

  He was exchanging his pain for Kovac’s, as though that could somehow balance out his fucked-up world. And for a second, it did, as he lost himself in the beauty of the violence, the thrill of the exertion, the scent of blood and victory sharp in his nostrils.

  “Stop!” The referee yelled out as he dodged between them, separating them and waving his hands in the air as he called an end to the fight. Nick let his heavy arms drop to his sides as he rose to his feet, striding away from a groaning Kovac, who was now bleeding heavily from his nose and from the gash Nick had opened up over his left cheekbone.

  “I think my ribs are broken,” he moaned, still on the ground.

  The crowd had erupted as soon as the referee had called a stop to the fight, and their cheer swelled as Nick lifted his arms into the air in victory. But just as quickly, any relief he’d felt was gone, drained away almost instantly.

  The victory was empty and meaningless, because even though he’d just won the fight, he’d lost the most important thing in his life. He wasn’t sure if he’d lost her the night he’d walked out of her apartment, or before that, when she’d decided to shut him out. Fuck, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever really had her. Maybe he’d just been deluding himself this entire time that they could be something that simply wasn’t possible.

  The octagon’s door opened, and people flooded in—coaches, doctors, cameramen—swarming the space and making it feel much smaller. Omar slapped Nick on the back, saying something he didn’t hear, because even though he knew he shouldn’t, his gaze had moved into the crowd.

  Looking for her. Like a goddamn fool.

  It wasn’t as though there weren’t people cheering him on. There were. Alex had come. Gabe sat in the front row, an approving half smile on his face. A handful of other fighters he’d befriended. He wasn’t alone, and yet he was, achingly so.

  Someone else from his team pulled him into a crushing hug, and Nick slapped him on the back, knowing he needed to pretend to be happy. To pretend to feel something. So he went through the motions and celebrated.

  Craig Darcy sat in the front row not far from Gabe, his arms crossed in front of his chest, his gaze cool and appraising. Sharp anger soared through Nick. He wanted to curse at Darcy, wanted to blame him for what had gone wrong. The clause in the contract: Darcy’s fault. The fucked-up way he’d raised Jules, saddling her with unfair baggage: Darcy’s fault. Nick held his gaze and gave him a curt nod.

  Fuck Craig Darcy.

  “Giannakis!” Gary Watts, the WFC’s announcer, called, waving him to the center of the octagon. Kovac was still on the ground while a doctor examined him, his team of coaches huddled around him. Looking at him, Nick felt . . . nothing.

  Pulling his mouth guard out, he plastered a smile on his face as the referee took his wrist, getting ready to raise his hand.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” boomed Gary’s voice through the arena’s sound system. “Referee Hank Carson has called a stop to this fight at two minutes and thirty-two seconds of the second round. The winner of this quarter-final middleweight tournament fight is Nick Giannakis, by TKO!”

  Nick did all the stuff he was supposed to do—shake hands with Kovac’s coaches, wave to the crowd, pose for a few official pictures, look happy—but fuck, he couldn’t get out of that octagon fast enough. Tomorrow he’d fight in the semifinals, and the day after that, if he made it, the finals. There were other, nontournament fights scheduled for each day too, to make sure fans got their money’s worth.

  Accepting a blur of fist bumps and high fives as he went, he made his way back to the dressing room. Reporters followed him, shoving microphones and digital recorders in his face as they asked him about the fight, about his strategy, about his thoughts on fighting Fernando Silva tomorrow. He answered their questions, even tossed in a few jokes, but as soon as he made it to the dressing room and shut them all behind him, he couldn’t have repeated his answers had his life depended on it.

  Nick sank down onto a chair as Omar and his coaches chatted around him, buzzing with excitement over the win. The other fighters, having fought earlier in the day, had already long cleared out, leaving the space empty except for Nick and his team. He tried to listen as they talked about Silva, but he kept tuning out, letting that blackness inside him swallow him up.

  Eventually they all left, leaving Nick to his thoughts. He hadn’t moved from his chair. He knew he should treat his tired muscles with an ice bath, get dressed, go home. He glanced down at the bruise forming on his thigh—one of Kovac’s kicks he’d failed to dodge. His jaw ached from the few punches he’d absorbed. Tomorrow he’d fight again, and maybe he’d find some more of that relief he’d tasted in the octagon earlier. What he really wanted was to go home to Jules. To have her massage his sore muscles and then curl up beside her in bed. Instead, he was supposed to go out for drinks with Alex. Before he could rouse himself to action, a knock sounded at the door, and Gabe poked his head in.

  “You decent?” he asked, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

  Nick shrugged. He’d tugged his T-shirt over his head, but he was still in his fight shorts, his hair pulled up in a braided topknot.

  “Good win.” Gabe crossed the small room and sat down on the bench that lined the wall, facing Nick. “Kovac was outclassed. He’s not ready for the belt.”

  Nick nodded. “Thanks, man.”

  “Silva is better on his back than Kovac, but he’s slow. You’ll take him, no problem.”

  “That’s the plan,” Nick said.

  Gabe studied him for a moment, his eyes narrowed. He dropped his forearms onto his thighs and clasped his hands in front of him. A silence fell between them, and finally Gabe cleared his throat. “I heard what Kovac said about Jules. I get why you punched him now.”

  Nick snorted. “Yeah, I think everyone knows now.” Nick shook his head slowly. “Not that it matters anymore. Darcy found out I’d vio
lated the nonfraternization clause, and he’s trying to decide if he’s gonna can me. Jules and I . . . we had a fight about it.” It had been more than a fight. Even though they hadn’t said as much, there’d been an air of finality to the way he’d left.

  “About the contract and her dad?”

  “And some other stuff,” he said, not wanting to unpack it all when he’d managed to shove it all down.

  Gabe let out a low sound. “He shouldn’t treat his fighters like this. It’s not right.”

  “No. It’s really fucking not.” But Nick wasn’t thinking about unfair management practices. Only Jules, and the way she’d shut him out.

  He felt the weight of Gabe’s silence and gaze, and he looked up to meet his eyes. Gabe cocked an eyebrow. “Is that what happened out there?” Nick didn’t have a chance to respond before Gabe continued. “You’re pissed about the contract and your fight with your girlfriend, so you tried to take Kovac’s head off?”

  Nick shrugged, not wanting to get into what happened in the octagon. It scared him a little, the way he’d wanted not just to win, but to hurt Kovac. That wasn’t normally his MO. But fuck, it had felt good to forget about his own pain by causing it in another.

  “That wasn’t you,” Gabe continued when he didn’t answer. “You’re not one of those assholes who think they have something to prove every fight. You fight with your head.”

  “I know,” Nick admitted. “I wasn’t looking to prove anything. I just wanted . . .” To stop the pain.

  “Oh hell . . . this isn’t about the contract at all, is it?” He studied Nick for a second, then cut right to the heart of it. “You love her, and it was more than just an argument, wasn’t it?”

  Nick shrugged, not trusting himself to speak.

  Gabe let out a deep breath in a low huff that hinted at the weight of the emotion he carried around. “That wasn’t anger out there. It was pain.”

  Nick’s head snapped up, something clicking into place. Something he’d long struggled and failed to understand about Gabe. “That’s why you fight,” he said, his voice quiet.

  Gabe held his gaze, not denying it, but not confirming it either. “Pain and anger only get you so far. Eventually, they swallow you whole and there’s nothing left of you. Nothing left to love. Nothing left to hate. Nothing.” Silence settled between them for a minute before he continued. “You lose yourself, because you forget how to separate yourself from it.” He dropped his head and gazed at a spot on the floor. “You have to find other ways to deal with it. Not to let it so deep inside. Otherwise, one day you wake up and don’t know where it ends and you begin. You can’t feed it, whatever its source.”

  Jesus Christ. In that moment, knowing what Gabe had gone through, what he’d lost, Nick couldn’t have felt like a bigger asshole. His pain was nothing compared to Gabe’s. A puddle compared to an ocean.

  Gabe cleared his throat, and when Nick met his eyes, he could see the shattering loss he’d endured shining there. “I wish I could go back. I’d give anything to change what happened. But I can’t.” His unspoken words hung between them. I can’t fix the source of my pain. Can you?

  Nick’s throat tightened and words failed him. How could he fix it if he loved someone who didn’t know how to love him back? How could he fight for something that wasn’t even there?

  Gabe stood and clapped Nick on the shoulder. “Buy you a beer once you’re champ. Get some rest. You look like shit.” And with that, he left the dressing room.

  Nick sat for a long time, staring at nothing, thinking about everything, and wondering what the fuck he was supposed to do.

  22

  Jules pulled her car into her dad’s driveway. The glare of the bright morning sun spilled through her windshield, promising another gorgeous day. For the first time since moving to Las Vegas, she missed the rain. Was it too much to ask for a little dreary weather to match her mood?

  Today was the last day of the tournament, and he’d invited her over for breakfast, probably to debrief before the big championship fight—she had no illusions that he was going to have a change of heart about Nick. She wasn’t looking forward to breakfast, whatever his reason for inviting her. The only time he’d spoken to her after their discussion was to bark orders pertaining to the tournament. She’d worn leggings and a long T-shirt because she’d been feeling low key ever since that night with— Nope. The ache in the back of her throat derailed that train of thought. If she replayed that horrible argument she’d cry again, and she’d managed not to today. Granted, it wasn’t even nine in the morning, so that was hardly a victory.

  It hadn’t occurred to her until she’d turned onto her dad’s street that this might be an official WFC breakfast or something, and her clothing might not be appropriate. But her dad’s Escalade was the only car parked in front of his garage, so she exhaled in relief as she pulled up next to it. Grabbing her purse from the passenger seat, she made her way up the cobblestone walkway between two rows of dwarf palms to knock on the door. She hadn’t been here since that disastrous night a couple of months ago when she’d come over for dinner.

  That night had ultimately led to her first honest conversation with Nick. She shook her head to clear the memory away. It hurt too much to think of him and how understanding he’d been about her leaving him in Chicago. And while she understood his anger now, their last argument had made her feel like he’d pulled the rug out from under her.

  She’d fucked up. She knew that, but it seemed like the first real issue they’d faced had him running for the door, leaving her feeling betrayed and angry at both him and herself.

  Let me be brave for both of us . . . That was what he’d told her that night in his apartment, when they’d gotten back together. She’d known better than to believe him. But giving in to him had felt too good, like coming home after a lifetime on the run. So she’d done it and really had no one to blame but herself that it had come to this. He’d thought he could handle her baggage, but he couldn’t. She was too messed up for someone like him.

  And here came the tears. She blinked furiously to fight them back as her dad’s voice called out that the door was open.

  Stepping into the foyer, she set her purse on the marble-topped table. She debated leaving her sunglasses on to hide her reddened eyes, but figured that’d be rude, so she placed them on top of her purse.

  “Back here, Julian.” Her dad called from the direction of the kitchen. He stood at the counter with several take-out containers of food open in front of him, doling out stacks of waffles onto two plates.

  “Good morning, Dad.” She’d tried to keep a professional tone with him, afraid that if she didn’t, she’d reveal her anger at how he’d contributed to the breakup. And that’s what it was. After days of zero contact from Nick, she couldn’t help but think that things were over. At the tournament it’d been easier to keep things professional with her dad, but now, in his home, she was struggling.

  He grinned at her, none of his earlier anger visible in his expression. Interesting. Then he went back to studying a container of bacon. “How many pieces you want?”

  Her stomach churned at the thought of food. She hadn’t eaten much except ice cream straight from the carton since the night her world had imploded. “You didn’t have to go out to get breakfast. I could’ve stopped and picked something up on my way over.”

  “It’s not a big deal. There’s this great little diner around the corner. They know me there.”

  Considering grilled steaks and mac and cheese were the extent of his culinary skills, she didn’t doubt it. “I hope you’re taking care of yourself, Dad. Diner food can kill you.”

  He looked slightly offended as he patted his stomach. “Still flat as a pancake. I work out and get meals delivered. The diner is my Sunday morning indulgence.”

  Taking the plate he offered, she said, “Well, that’s good.” And never one to pass up bacon, she gra
bbed a piece from the container and took a bite. It tasted bland to her, but she chewed and swallowed anyway.

  “You okay?” He paused, studying her face as if he could tell something was wrong. She figured he’d noticed the redness in her eyes.

  She squared her shoulders and forced herself to confront the issue head-on. “No, I’m not okay. I’m still pretty upset about our argument.”

  He let out a breath and nodded as if he’d been expecting that. “Yeah . . . I know.”

  Feeling unsure of herself, she nodded awkwardly and took her plate to the table. He finished preparing his plate and came over to join her.

  “That’s why I asked you over. I don’t want this distance between us. I wanted you to come work for me so that we could be closer.” His hands dropped to the table beside his plate. “But it seems like we’re falling into the same old routine.”

  She nodded, impressed with his level of self-awareness. “You’re right. It does.”

  His mouth formed a thin line as he sawed into his waffle with the side of his fork, neither of them seeming to know what to say next. The silence stretched as he chewed and then sawed off another bite. “Why didn’t you come and talk to me about you and . . .” He paused as if he couldn’t say Nick’s name. “Giannakis?”

  “You mean because you’re always so understanding and supportive?” she asked sarcastically, and gave him a humorless smile. His blue eyes widened and he actually looked wounded. She felt horrible, kicking him when he was clearly trying. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was uncalled for.”

  Looking down at his plate, he swallowed. “No, you’re right.”

  Her heart clenched at his dejection, so she reached over and placed her hand on his. “Dad, I . . .” Her voice trailed off because she didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t wrong, but sometimes being right didn’t feel so good. “What would you have said if I had come to you?”