Page 5 of The Boxer’s Belle

“Come on! Finish it!” Benedcit Sinclair shouted from West’s corner.

West barely restrained an eye roll. Eamon, “The Hammer,” Trevor hit like his namesake—it wasn’t as though West were toying with the boy for his own amusement.

His chest and jaw throbbed in time with each heartbeat, his joints protesting every move.

Trevor was young and new to the circuit. West had only met him once before—and had barely understood him behind the thick Derry accent. In the ring, he cut a more imposing figure. The boy absorbed hits almost as well as Ben and struck twice as hard. With a bit of training, he’d be unstoppable.

Fortunately for West, the lad hadn’t received it yet.

West held the line and landed a hit to his sternum. He followed it with an uppercut to the nose. The bone gave way with a familiar, sickening crack.

Blood poured in a vile river from the man’s nostrils. West used his distraction to catch the lad around the waist and throw him to the ground with a sickly thud.

That round finished, West left him there as the lad’s cornerman scrambled into the ring to rouse him.

West slumped into his chair and Benedict handed him the nearby jug of water and a towel. “‘Finish it?’ Thank you so much for that helpful bit of advice. How ever would I have managed without you?”

Ben shrugged. “Marriage has made me soft.” West’s oldest friend and former employer wore an irritating, self-satisfied grin.

Glad as West was that his friend had found happiness, he was, perhaps, too happy. West certainly should have chosen a less besotted cornerman.

A copper tang perfumed the air, overwhelming the scents of sweat and stale ale. Trevor’s own cornerman still struggled to rouse his bleeding fighter.

West dragged an exhausted hand over his face, wiping away the sweat. Every inch of him ached after twenty-seven rounds. He hoped desperately the lad would stay down.

“Are you fit for another?” Ben asked, barely audible over the drunken jeers behind them.

“I’m always fit for another.” West shook out his shoulder, turning his wrist in a slow, agonizing circle. He wasn’t lying. His body would certainly withstand more. But, though he would never admit it to his friend, West worried about his spirit.

For more than a year, he’d drifted along from ring to ring on passionless instinct—no longer a lively and determined force. One day, his disinterest would cost him, but it wasn’t likely to be today.

The crowd grew restless and deafening, bloodlust eternally unsatisfied, as seconds ticked away. Trevor’s cornerman had yet to rouse him. Vale was new to the ring too—hadn’t learned to drag his fighter upright as soon as the round finished.

“Time!”

Relief washed over West, his muscles loosening for the first time since he had stepped into the ring. The crowd was less pleased—shouting obscenities as West stood and helped Vale prop his man upright. They always wanted more—more sweat, more violence, more bloodshed. The spectators were ravenous, a never satisfied, all-consuming, amorphous creature—and they called him “The Beast.”

“Weston wins!” the referee called. Benedict shook the man’s hand while West helped Vale drag the still-bleeding, half-conscious Trevor into a chair across the ring. That was the trouble with noses—too much blood.

“You well, lad?” West handed him another towel to trade for the soaked one he had pressed to his face.

“Aye—but I’ll need a doc now in a minute.”

“I’d say so. You fought well. I’ll not want to face you in a year.”

“Maybe two.” The boxer’s grin was crooked, boyish, and too bright for the pain that awaited him after two years in the ring.

Vale finished checking him for other, more severe injuries. “You available for training?” he asked.

“Me? No, I’ve not the temperament for teaching.”

“Don’t need a trainer,” Trevor interjected, accent thick and difficult to parse. “I’m thinking I need a priest. When she sees the state of me, my sister will have my head.”

“I’ll be no help with that,” West said with a laugh.

Across the ring, Ben caught his gaze and tipped his head toward the door.

West sighed and straightened, offered condolences for the loss, then jogged over to join his friend. His joints protested the effort, tightening again.