He glared at me, shoving my shoulder and nearly making me lose my piece of pizza. “Because,eejit, clearly I’m watching the football match.”
“You recorded this,” I argued. I finished off my piece and threw the crust back into the box. I fucking hated eating that part.
“And?” Cillian fell back against the couch and kicked his feet up on the coffee table. He acted like a king, and he looked the part in his suit pants and white dress shirt. The boss had him and the other two running errands today, and it’d been my job to keep an eye on Vail, which had been like any other day. Vail had the afternoon off—or rather, he’d begged Lor to teach his class and take his office hours so he could tackle the grading—which was why we were here rather than in the city.
“That reminds me, I got a fight coming up in New Gothenburg.” I chugged my beer before slamming the empty on the table in front of me and leaning back.
“Who wants to go to that shitehole?” Cillian snorted and glanced at Rowen, who gave him a look of disinterest. Whatever he was doing on his iPad must be important, or he was angry at Cillian and didn’t want to hear what he had to say. They did that sometimes, ignored each other until they had no choice.
I never knew that kind of relationship with my brothers. Padraig was fifteen years older and never had time to spend with me, even when I was a kid. He’d been the perfect son who never did any wrong. Dad and Mom adored him. Grady was ten years older, and while he hadn’t outright ignored me like Padraig, he let me know I was an inconvenience. He whined whenever he could about having to watch me. He wasn’t as perfect as Padraig, but our parents adored him nonetheless.
Then I came along.
When I’d told my parents my dreams of winning an MFW—MMA Fighting Worldwide—championship, they had never been more disappointed. I was diagnosed three years ago, and since then, I’d often heard the words “think of your diabetes, Fallon,” as though my illness defined me. I’d proven to them it didn’t matter when I came home with that belt, something that someone with type 1 diabetes had never done. Still, it was never good enough. Not until I joined the Killough Company and established myself that way did I hear any praise.
So, that’s what I’d done, just to earn their love. Followed in my old man’s footsteps. How pathetic.
“There’s a guy. His name’s Derek Uhlig. He runs an underground casino and a few other games,” I said. Now I got my adrenaline fix through illegal fights. They made my blood pump in excitement. Almost as good as sex.
“How do ye know about him?” Cillian asked, switching his attention to me when Derry City stole the ball from Dundalk.
“Because,idiot, I’m a Killough man.” I opened my arms wide with a grin. “Anyway, he took over an underground fight ring about a year ago, I think. Maybe longer ago than that. It was a whole shitstorm in New Gothenburg. I heard about it recently and got in contact with him. He wants me to fight his golden child.”
Cillian hiked up his eyebrows. “Golden child? Who the feck is that?”
“His prizefighter.” This came from a few guys I knew around that area. They all talked about this kid as though he could beat anyone in the world. I didn’t believe it. He hadn’t met me.
Cillian grunted. “Well, there ye go. Ye’ll lose straight up, boyo. That fight’s rigged.”
“Don’t think so. According to some guys I know over there, he’s a good fighter. Young. The fans call him the Knockout Boy.” I spread my arms along the back of the couch and grinned. Bolo, one of the real old guys who liked to hang around the practice rings, told me all about him. He gave me the lowdown on what to expect from the Knockout Boy, and I wanted to prove to everyone I still had it, even if it’d been a while since I had my last fight.
“How old?” Cillian yelled at the TV again and threw the remote, which bounced off the large screen and fell on the floor. He was lucky he hadn’t broken the damned thing because it was expensive as fuck.
“I don’t know. Nineteen or some shit.”
He shook his finger at me and stood to walk around the coffee table and grab the remote. “Ye’re getting too old, Fallon. The new generation is making their play.”
Anger settled in my chest and my blood turned to fire. “Bullshit. I could take this guy on and win. What do you say? Take a trip to New Gothenburg and show this Derek guy how it’s done?” I had nothing to prove to anyone, but I wasn’t going to let a remark like that go.
“If ye win against this Knockout Boy—”
“His name is Hendrix. Who the fuck names their kidHendrix?” I grumbled. Fuck him.
Cillian smirked. The asshole knew he’d hit a sore spot. “Ifye win, I’ll share half my winnings with ye.”
“And if I lose?” I asked, raising my brows.
Cillian’s smile made me shift uncomfortably. “Ye shut yer gob for a whole week. Not one feckin’ word unless we tell ye we want to hear what ye have to say. Think ye can do it?”
Hesitation washed through me for a brief second. I was twenty-four, still young, but this guy was younger and had a fierce right hook, or so Bolo said. Underground fights were different from championships—more was allowed, including hard shots to the head. Luckily they didn’t allow hits to the nuts or they’d have no one fighting. “Of course I can, but it won’t matter because I’ll win.”
He snorted and returned his gaze to the TV. Derry City scored another goal and Cillian bared his teeth, like he wanted to yell some more. “If ye say so.”
“That reminds me.” I glanced at the doorway, and when I was sure Vail wasn’t there, I continued, “About Vail. Were you guys serious when you asked him if he wanted us, too? I know it was a few months ago, but... he’s gorgeous and sexy as fuck. It’s hard to be around him all day and not notice he’s sweet.”
Cillian shared a look with Rowen. They both stared at me. It was Cillian who spoke first. “Ye want to fuck him, lad?”
“I’d be an idiot if I didn’t,” I said honestly, hoping it wouldn’t get me a kick to the head.
