Only now, it didn’t feel so clever. Not when one of the few people I cared about looked at me and believed this mask was real.
The sincerity in her voice when she reminded me, she wasn’t a toy sent my pride and heart spiralling into the depths of the ocean.
Evangeline saw me as a fucking rich-boy who played with his food before he ate it.
MARCUS
Big name just pulled out.
One round, easy money
11:00pm?
I’d ignored the last three messages, all sent over the past couple of weeks. I blamed the work piling up but really it was because I had a sharp-tongued little mathematician to focus on.
But not tonight.
Tonight, my self-esteem was low, and the offer landed at the wrong time – or the right, depending on who you asked.
COOPER
See you soon.
Snatching my keys, I allowed the dejection I’d been suppressing to swirl in my stomach, giving it permission to lick at my skin until my single focused goal was to prove to myself, and anyone watching,that I wasn’t the loser they all thought. And there was always one place where pity, disappointment and uncertainty were left at the door.
The Cellar wasn’t a place for the faint of heart. By day, it smelled of protein shakes and chalk dust, the loud rumblings of a pop classic blasting through the speakers as gym goers took to the machines to power through a midday workout. By night, it reeked of desperation and bruised pride, an invisible fog of masochistic violence clinging to the walls like smoke. The gym’s clean-cut exterior masked the chaos that took over once the sun dipped behind the skyline and it was with a strange comfort that I entered the doors with the access card few were granted.
There were more people here than normal, expectation simmering in the air as I locked eyes with a couple of the regulars. I never spoke to any of the punters, my presence and attention solely on the ring. Bypassing the spectators, I kept my head down until I was enclosed in the sanctity of the office where I’d change before a brief warm up.
Everyone back here was fighting for something - whether it be respect, revenge or a damn reason to hit back - and my job was to make sure I fought harder. I wasn’t here to make friends or talk shit, I came with a purpose and a carousel of emotion I wanted to erase and that meant nurturing my focus until all I could see was my opponent.
Anything else was dangerous and while I’d been called reckless and a little unhinged, I wasn’t a savage. Sure, I fought to win, but I was also disciplined and clean. There was a difference between those here for a quick dollar and those here because they found solace in the square battleground. A place where it didn’t matter who you were or where you came from.
Marcus had been good to me over the years. He’d seen something in me when I was younger - whether it was drive or an unrestrained fire which he knew if tempered, could be used to his advantage - and there was no denying that was something he did. I’d be a fool to think his interest was an act of altruism. I’dgarnered a healthy reputation at The Cellar and that meant Marcus’ wallet reaped the benefits.
A win for me was an even bigger win for him and it was why he kept me close. Well as close as I allowed, which was fucking far in the grand scheme of things. But what he lacked in morals, he made up for in business smarts and I owed him for what he’d taught me over the years. And for the helping hand he’d given me in terms of a hefty financial buy in.
Golden Spades was all my own creation, but I’d borrowed money from Marcus when I opened the doors and despite paying him back years ago, the gesture remained. He’d helped me when my parents found the idea preposterous. He’d been the one to present the insider knowledge to starting a venture like this and his help kept it afloat for the first twelve months.
But like everything, that came with a price tag of its own. One I was still repaying every time I entered the brutal fighting ground. It was as comforting as it was tiring and lately, I was finding the recovery a little harder with each bout.
“Coops, my man.” Marcus’ deep timbre came from behind as I finished my final set of rapid skipping drills. I was warm, my sweat encased body indicating I was ready for the call, the adrenaline rumbling beneath my skin as I heard the raucous crowd.
I nodded my greeting, knowing talking would only hinder my focus. He knew I hated it here, but he was equally aware of why I kept returning and how little control I had when I stepped inside the trembling ropes. It was why, despite my unreliability, he invested so much energy into keeping me around. Sometimes I went weeks without so much as acknowledging his messages. Other times, I was here every second night for a month, my sick way of managing when things felt out of control.
My anger had always been my downfall and consequently, his ticket to success.
“His name is Rayk,” he started, skipping pleasantries he knew I wouldn’t want to hear. “Currently six and oh. He’s a little lazy on his left but watch that as he’ll overcompensate. Boys think he’sthe next Cooper Dane.” I didn’t need to look at him to know he was smirking or to hear the mendacious provocation in his tone. Marcus would say anything to get under my skin because he knew it was how he got the best out of me. Only I didn’t need an incentive tonight. I didn’t need him to compare this Rayk bloke and I to rile me up, nor did I need any kind of taunting from the crowd. Because I was already boiling. Itching for the relief which came with exerting my emotions into my fists.
I’m not one of your toys, Coop, so please don’t play with me.
I welcomed the rejection and shame of her words, pausing as they flooded my system until everything was tainted with a dark haze - and the only solution - a learned coping mechanism which was as unhealthy as it was consistent.
Tried and proven.
“Thanks for the heads up,” I mumbled, more out of respect than gratitude. It didn’t matter what he fed me anyway, because when I entered that space, I lost any rationality or pre-planning and became a furnace of raw humanity. There were plenty of times I couldn’t quite remember the spoils or specifics of the match, driven by a frenzy which clung to me like a splinter I couldn’t quite extricate. Sometimes, hours after my opponent hit the canvas and I was in bed, I’d wonder how I even got home.
As if the previous few hours were but a fevered dream.
