“Yeah?” Hollis asked.
“Yeah. I’m getting some proofs of my photo shoots, and I study some of the expressions or stances. Each night after dinner I study my face in the mirror. I tell myself what I like, or I know instantly what I don’t. Sometimes the photographer tells me if it’s a freestyle shoot. That means they outfit me when I get there, but the shoot itself is me being my cool self. So studying my face in the mirror each night comes in handy for these.”
“You’re definitely my little brother,” Hollis said.
“So I’ve been told.”
“I’m glad you’re here for the weekend, man. Remember, I’m here for you if you want to talk about anything. Patrick is too.”
Chase nodded as confirmation that he understood. I hoped he truly understood, because nothing was worse than feeling alone.
Twenty years old/December
“Hollis Ward? No.” The man on TV tilted his head back and laughed obnoxiously at the interviewer’s question. “No, I’m not scared or concerned one bit about facing him. He’s absolutely no different than anyone else I’ve defeated. He’ll join the rest of the trash I’ve knocked out.”
I narrowed my eyes at the arrogant asshole on the TV screen. Hollis had been working out with a few of his trainers here, and we decided to catch the interview on TV. Marty and Fletch both swore at the screen.
Marcos Silva was the current title holder for the light heavyweight class. He’d held the title since Hollis and I were in high school. He was not only one of the toughest fighters, but one of the most genuinely arrogant and conceited people I’d ever encountered in the sport since I’d been around Hollis.
On top of being an all-around dick, Marcos brought in a bad crowd. He actually encouraged people not to bring their kids to fights. He was outspoken about being against the TCF president’s stance on wanting to make the sport family friendly. Ever since Hollis arrived on the scene, more and more kids and college-aged people, like us, were getting interested in the sport. Marcos Silva has been vocal about it not being a sport that should condone families or “snot-nosed kids.”
“Hollis Wardisquite different. For one, he’s fifteen years younger than you,” the interviewer commented, then Marcos interrupted.
“He’s a snot-nosed rich boy from Beverly Hills. He knows nothing about the sport or art of fighting.”
“So far in his young career he’s undefeated.” Marcos swatted at the air, unimpressed. “He’s also the youngest TCF competitor to get a title fight.”
“Let me tell you something,” Marcos quickly said and leaned forward. He pointed at the interviewer and then to the camera for the viewers. “Ward ain’t nothing special. Personally, I’m insulted that Vin Hasselbeck would even think about sending a boy into the cage with me.”
“You sound very confident with the title on the line and a young, hungry, undefeated competitor waiting days away.”
“My title isn’t on the line. It’s not in jeopardy. It’ll be a funeral for Ward. That will be on Hasselbeck’s shoulders, not mine.
“My fans are true mixed martial arts fans. His are kids and teenage girls. My fans—real fans—deserve for a real fighter and a man to hold this title, not a boy.”
“Many fighters who have faced The Dragon all say that he packs quite the punch.”
Marcos laughed loudly, cutting off the interviewer again.
“A dragon? No, you’re mistaken. He’s a boy. He can wear green shorts and whatever, but he’s a kid. He’s about to step into the cage with a man who will crush him.”
“Fierce words, Marcos. If Hollis is watching, do you have any words for him?”
“Yeah.” Marcos faced the camera again and arrogantly smiled. “I’ll make sure a bed is reserved for you at the hospital.”
“Man, turn this clown off,” Fletch said.
I reached for the remote and shut the TV off. Everyone in the great room and kitchen started talking at once about how crazy Marcos was. There was a lot of commotion with so many people talking all at once.
“Vin better get that fucker in line,” Fletch blurted out.
“How dare he call all of Hollis’ fans kids or teenage girls,” Marty added.
“He’s the one who will be in the hospital bed, right, Hollis?” Fletch asked.
Hollis looked at Fletch and smiled.
Later that night after Hollis’ trainers and coaches left, he and I sat and watched film in slow motion. We talked and pointed things out and then we watched it again. Hollis would subtly move as if in the fight on TV. He’d move his head slightly to the left or right as if moving away from Marcos’ fists. Sometimes his shoulders would move or his fists would clench.
