The loss of all self was why I’d never brought Sebastian here, even when he begged - or threatened to follow me. This wasn’t a space where I could maintain control and the thought of someone I cared about being here and seeing me like that, was never going to happen. Not to mention the absolute vultures who frequented these nights - they weren’t people I wanted mixing with my world.
I counted, ‘Five, two, two, two, five. Five, two, two, two, five. Five, two, two, two, five.’ Internally reciting my pre-match mantra before I heard my cue indicating it was my time. Dim light pooled over the ring like a spotlight on a crime scene and the spectators parted as if they could sense my no-nonsense aura. Somewherebeyond the jeers and bellowing, money changed hands, grudges were born and people made assumptions I always proved wrong. Rayk was six and oh, but I was thirty-three and oh and I was confident I’d exit the ring for the final time before I ever lost.
Some would refer to it as arrogance, but I knew better. I knew it was a tried and tested self-assuredness born from the seeds of hard work and a lethal, innate need to expel all forms of negative energy before they took control. It was a strategy I’d formed as a kid, tired of the malicious berating my father served when he was around. Although even now he didn’t know I came here to silence my anger through vicious blows against another. If I was ever left with visible marks, I blamed a random street scuffle or whatever other bullshit I could concoct on the fly. He would never suspect his good friend Marcus of such betrayal, nor would his ego allow him to even consider I’d betray him in such a way.
Physical fighting was beneath Preston Dane - especially as it came with a chance of injury. Belittlement was more aligned with his style of savagery, and it was why I formed habits where I resorted to having my fists speak the language of my release. Anything to oppose his beliefs or piss him off - regardless of whether he knew.
Shelving thoughts of my father into the dusty corners of my mind, I ducked between the steel cables enclosing the ring before glancing over at my opponent. Even from across the mat I could see he was about my height, but our similarities ended there. Where I was trim, with arms and a torso which evidenced the regularity of my passion for boxing, he was carrying more weight. His fists were strapped, but regardless, they were huge and already bloodied. The unhinged gleam to his eyes told me two things - one, he was here to cause pain, and two, while I used violence as therapy, he used it to wound. Both not great assessments in an opponent who had a visible weight advantage.
I nodded as the referee read us the rules, my eyes fixed straight ahead. His smile was broad, his brows moving rapidly to taunt and rattle me, and like always, I gave nothing in return. No smile,no wink, no frustrated scowl, because I wasn’t here for bullshit games, I was here to purge - and avoid a concussion - while hopefully leaving my feelings of inadequacy behind.
“No interference. No eye-gouging or biting. No weapons. Fight until knock out or surrender - whichever comes first, and the winner takes all. Understood?” The referee asked, watching Rayk and I fist bump our agreement.
I avoided Marcus’ gaze from behind the ropes, ignored the murmurs of the crowd watching, most holding a beer or a joint they’d brought along. Instead, I honed in on the movements of my competition. The slight tremor of his hands hinting at the nerves he was feeling. The way his left arm was slightly slower as he thrust some air punches out in front while he awaited the match to start.
Both observations renewed my tenacity to win.
I was confident for a reason. And when rage hijacked my body, I allowed it to take the wheel, using it to drive me and my movements. Tonight, the rage was a dull ember, but the paucity of coherent thoughts was a strong indicator that the reason behind my being here mattered more than other times.
It was thoughts of judgement and disappointment in those knowing brown eyes which refocused my thoughts to the man across from me. The possibilities I could never indulge - not because I didn’t want them - but because I didn’t deserve them, taunting me every time I heard that laugh or touched that skin.
When the referee blew the whistle, I allowed a final flash to the one person who could see behind my mask and it was with that last coherent thought, I allowed the fury to paint my mind in red until nothing else remained.
CHAPTER 10
Eva
“So are you going to tell me the real reason Cooper’s wrist is in plaster?” Mum asked my brother, voice muffled through the walls.
I leant closer, camouflaged by the cascading darkness of the stairs and honed in on what I knew would be happening in the kitchen below. Sebastian would be elbow deep in a sink of dishes, washing each before handing them to Mum to dry. We both had our jobs and I suspected this was one Mum gave Sebastian as she always used the time to interrogate him and consequently, I used it to practice my eavesdropping skills.
While I longed to be part of the nightly ritual, I took advantage of the time to listen into conversation never meant for me.
“He got into a fight,” Seb said finally, but I could tell he was grinning.
It was barely a fight. Over before it even started apparently, and the other boy was left with a bruised ego to match his eye with how quickly Cooper took him down.
Mum didn’t reply but I could imagine the look on her face. One brow raised in anticipation of the rest of the story which she knew her son would eventually share. Nothing was safe when Judy Micallef gave you her infamous ‘confess or else’ glare.
“The kid deserved it,” Seb replied angrily, and I tentatively took the next step, careful to avoid the left side which always squeaked if I pressed too hard. “In Maths, this idiot Kenny told me he was going to pop Eva’s cherry and Coop overheard. You know how protective he is of her.”
I froze, trying to understand what Sebastian meant.
Pop my cherry? Cooper protective of me? Huh?
“That little prick,” Mum retorted before Seb and her both erupted into quiet giggles. I smiled too, not because I understood, but because I liked when Mum swore. It was always so intentional.
“How did Coop’s parents take the broken wrist?” Mum asked once they stopped laughing, humour still in her tone.
“The same way they take everything. Probably won’t speak to him for a month.”
“Tell him to come and stay here this weekend,” Mum replied before they fell into silence once again and I used the opportunity to retreat to my bedroom.
This was the second time Cooper Dane had come to my defence, only this time I wasn’t entirely clear on why it’d made him so mad or who I could ask to explain what that meant.
Like a deck of cards thrown into the wind, the papers I’d been holding flew from my hands, scattering in every direction before settling on the floor.
“Jesus, Coop, you scared the heck out of me.” The Paramore track bled into the quiet room the moment I removed my headphones. “I didn’t see you.”
