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Still, posh or not, she chapped my door in the middle of the night then walked into a flat with twenty-odd people in it, most of them fighters, most of them drunk, and said her piece to me in her pyjamas. I’ve shared cages with men who have less guts than that wee lassie. Maybe that’s why I don’t laugh along with them, even though it’s only Liam being Liam and I’ve laughed at worse.
“Devlin!” Davie shouts. “Get the pads on for Imran.”
“Aye, boss.” Liam jogs off.
Niamh drops onto the edge of the mats and starts unwinding her hand wraps. “So. Any more run-ins wi’ that neighbour of yours?”
“I went into her wee shop on the ground floor. Bought some flowers.” I roll my shoulder, testing the sore bit. “Since the building work and music seemed to bother her so much.”
“Wait, the flowers you bought were for her?”
“Aye, big basket of them. Cost me a fortune.” I have another drink. “No that she was grateful. She tried to give them back to me.”
There’s a pause I don’t care for.
“Sorry,” Niamh says. “Back up. You’re telling me you bought her flowers from her own shop?”
“Right. She’s a florist.”
Niamh tips her head back and laughs. “Who does that? You bought something off her, then handed it back to her as a present. That’s weird, Ry. Fourteen years I’ve known you, and you can still surprise me.” She stands and slaps my back. “Thank God I prefer women, that’s all I’m saying. Anyway, I’m away for a piss.”
She goes. I finish the bottle then roll my shoulder out again.
All right, maybe it was a bit weird, come to think of it. That’s what I get for trying to be nice.
When she shoved that basket back at me, I saw the same fire in her I saw the night of the flat-warming. Chin up, absolutely raging, not caring in the slightest how I’d take it. Most folk think twice before raising their voice at me. Doesn’t matter if they know who I am or not—it’s the way I look. But her? She just went for it.
Still, the look on her face when I offered to bin the flowers? Worth every penny.
My phone goes. It’s face up on the bench beside my towel. I’ve been keeping it nearby all morning. James Ashford, the screen says. My manager. About time.
“Davie!” I call.
He looks my way, sees the phone I’ve just picked up, and jogs over.
I answer the call and put it on speaker. “All right, James. I’ve got Davie here. What’s the news?”
James has been speaking with the matchmakers at the NMFC—the No Mercy Fighting Championship—about my next fight. I’m hoping to face Marcus Vale, the number one contender in the light heavyweight division and the one man standing between me and a shot at the belt. That’s held by Dante Cruz, who’s been NMFC light heavyweight champion for four years now.
“It’s going to be a home fight for you, Ryan,” James says. “Glasgow’s Braehead Arena in eight weeks’ time. You’re the main event.”
“Don’t keep me hanging, James. Who am I facing?”
A pause. Then, “Andrej Kovac.”
I don’t react, but that’s not the name I wanted to hear. Kovac’s ranked five; I’m ranked two. Beating him won’t move me up, it’ll just hold me where I am. It’s an opportunity for him, not me.
No point getting upset about it, though. It’s the way these things work. My time will come.
“He’s on a run,” James says. “Four wins straight, and three of them he finished early. I don’t want you complacent on this one, Ryan. He’s dangerous.”
“I know.”
“And Davie,” James adds, “I want Ryan locked in. Clean food, no distractions, all the way to fight night. And you, Ryan, no stupid headlines, okay?”
Davie folds his arms. “He’s no a wean, James. He’s twenty-eight. When’s the last time he was in the papers?”
“It just takes one person with a phone,” James warns, as he always does. “Anyway, I’ll send the promotional plan through Monday or Tuesday. Oh, and Davie, I’m still working on Niamh’s fight. Nothing signed yet. I’ll get back to you.”
