Redemption

by Shey Stahl

  “Yes, and sports.”

  I’m dead. I’m fucking dead. He knows.

  “Does he know that?” Adam gave a tight nod to Destry.

  “No,” I admitted, taking a deep breath.

  I am fucked. Totally fucked.

  “You better tell him. I’m all he has left. Everyone else has fucked him over, including his manager. Don’t add your name to that list because once you’re on it with him, you’ll never get off it.” He walked past me without another word, leaving me with the bluntness of his statement.

  I couldn’t blurt this out. It would take some time to explain to Destry why I decided to write the article and why I chose to keep it from him.

  When I peeked at Destry, his mood seemed off, but he forced a smile. His breathing was heavy, his posture tense, jaw rigid. Had Adam already told him? By the expression on his face, he had. But I still didn’t have the guts to say anything to him that night. I couldn’t.

  Destry scared me. If he was in a bad mood, I didn’t want to make it worse. If he was in a good mood, I didn’t want to ruin it.

  The thing was, I believed wholeheartedly that I could make a difference for Destry by writing that article. The world had this perception of him, and it was the wrong one.

  Hell, I had an image of him when I first met him, and it wasn’t anything like what my assessment was now. Maybe it was my way of justifying my indiscretions, maybe not.

  Not a lot was said between us that night. His mood was off and the sidelong looks sent my way that didn’t quite meet his eyes confirmed it.

  I couldn’t distinguish from my own paranoia about keeping the article a secret and if there was something more personal going on with Destry. His eyes were the giveaway, and the lack of emotion they held as he regarded me on and off all night.

  Maybe he had some shit going on with his dad he didn’t want to talk about. I wasn’t sure but his mood change threw me off and Adam’s remarks were the fuel to my paranoid fire. The room was quiet, void of conversations and in that silence, the message I was getting was loud and clear. Destry knew and wouldn’t say anything.

  After our workout, we silently parted ways. I could barely breathe on the way out of the bar, my heart in my throat and my legs weak.

  That night I sat down and decided I was going to finish the article. I needed to show him what I’d been working on. I had every intention of showing him first.

  I wouldn’t submit it, but I had to finish it. Around midnight, I got a text from Destry.

  Destry: Come over?

  Here was the shitty part about this, if you asked me. I could have told him that night. I should have. I didn’t because I knew once he knew, it was over. Adam’s words rang true. If I betrayed him, I’d never get another chance.

  In reality, I had already betrayed him. The damage had been done.

  Despite everything going through my head, I told him I’d be right over. It took me around twenty minutes to get over to his apartment. When I did, he smiled, his mood still tense and gave a nod inside. “Hey,” he said, his words laced with a familiar tension.

  “I didn’t think you’d call. You seemed upset tonight.” I walked past him and stood in the kitchen, waiting for him after setting my bag on the counter.

  The door slammed, startling me. And then I was being lifted off the ground. My legs wrapped around him on instinct. There wasn’t much said, and by the knotted expression he wore, I understood there wouldn’t be tonight.

  He needed something and I was going to give him what he needed. His lips crashed into mine, warm, relentless, unyielding, and so fucking perfect. I matched him with everything I had, wanting everything he was going to give me.

  On the center of his bed, he hovered over me. Taking a shaky breath, he moaned into my mouth, pressing his weight into me. His chest expanded with a sigh, and it was as if that had been his first breath of the night, labored and needy. When he plastered his body to mine, his erection dug into my center. “I missed you,” I breathed.

  His hand slipped from my cheek and down the valley between my breasts, eyes remaining locked with mine. Swallowing hard, he rolled his forehead against mine, but no words surfaced. His jaw clenched and then he brought our mouths together, his tongue sweeping over my bottom lip. I gasped into his mouth, deepening our kisses.

  Something ignited inside me when our lips met. I was in love with him. And I’d ruined any chance of him feeling the same way.

  He pulled back from me, but his gaze didn’t lift from my lips. He licked my neck, shoulders, the base of my throat. Laying my head back on his pillow, I took a deep breath, unsure what was happening between us. Bringing his hand to my face, he cradled my cheek in his hand. His brow bunched together. I fought back the words I wanted to say to him. I love you. Don’t hate me.

  But I couldn’t shake the fact that this felt so much like goodbye. My eyes stung at the thought. Why would he be this gentle with me? This wasn’t Destry and me. We were rough. We fucked. We didn’t do gentle.

  My eyes snapped to his, only he wasn’t looking at me. Instead, his eyes were closed. His left hand was behind the nape of my neck. With his right hand resting against my thigh, he wrapped it around his waist, and then moved a little faster.

  When his stare found mine, his steely gaze never broke from mine. My lips moved from his to kiss his shoulders, memorizing the softness of his muscles against the sensitive skin of my lips. His warm breath washed over me with each panting gasp, overriding any coherent thought I had. He looked down at me, and there was concentration in his features, sure, but there was something more there that I couldn’t place.

  His hands wrapped around my waist moved to my ass, fisting the flesh in his strong hands as he drove into me a harder. His mouth, hot and heavy, glided from my neck and found my lips. His right hand reached down and adjusted my leg, allowing him to go deeper, exactly where I needed him as his mouth tenderly sought out mine.

  The kissing was unreal. So much passion to them. What the hell did all this mean? I was so confused.

  It didn’t take long before our desire gave way, and our movements were driven on one destination. Destry’s hand was still wrapped around the back of my neck, his fingers digging into my skin. His right hand was on my hip, securing me to him as his movements sped. A handful of thrusts later, his body jerked in time with his release, his head buried in my shoulder as he groaned while his hand on my ass cheeks squeezed harder.

  He collapsed his entire weight on me, his breath hot and rapid on my neck as he panted. I let my hands that were on his shoulders fall away to the mattress, my own breathing just as rough.

  I lifted slightly so he could remove his hands from under me. He did and sighed heavily, gasping as if he couldn’t catch his breath. That’s when the weariness settled over us, and he rolled to the side away from me. Pushing himself up onto his elbows, he hesitated and then looked over at me, he gave me a tentative but uneasy smile.

  “Sleep well,” he breathed, parting his lips over mine. A soft sigh escaped him as he brushed his cheek against the side of my hair.

  And then he lifted his head and our eyes connected. Staring at each other like this, I could see this being my future, our future, but this cloud hanging over us… over me… was an unspoken burden that couldn’t be voiced without serious repercussions.

  Not only the burden of the article but me seeing Silas in a few days hung like a thundercloud over this place, over us. It left me in a state of flux, leaning one way one minute and wanting to spill my guts and tell him everything.

  Destry didn’t break eye contact. It was as if he was waiting for me to say something. And when I didn’t, he rolled off me and stared at the ceiling.

  As I drifted closer to sleep next to him, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was holding back.

  Maybe this was even his way of letting go.

  This is the verdict rendered by the ringside judges who determine the winner of the bout. This typically occurs at the conclusion of the contest,
but can also take place if a foul, accidental butt or type of injury takes place and the scorecards have to be referenced.

  I stayed with Destry that night, his arms wrapped around me. When I woke up around four, my back was pressed to his chest. I turned my head with one eye open to see he was still sleeping.

  Lying awake for an hour, I obsessed over what was happening between us and that if it was really over, I only had myself to blame.

  Destry’s bedroom window was open. The steady rain that fell created a hissing sound as cars passed by and gave a chill to the air. As carefully as I could, I removed myself from the bed, never waking him.

  When I made my way outside his apartment, the spring morning was cool under the thick cloud cover, and a gentle breeze blew over the city bringing with it the salty ocean smell. The rain had let up, but the streets remained streaming with water. My feet dragged on the pavement as I trudged my way up the hill to my apartment. My body was heavy, like I hadn’t slept in days.

  Back at my apartment, I opened my laptop and finished the article. My hands were shaking when I finished it because I knew what it meant.

  THE TRAINER BY TALLAN SPENCER

  Did Destry Stone throw the fight?

  That’s the question on everyone’s minds. He’s said to be the biggest upset in heavyweight history. They say he walked away at the first knock out. A lot of people want to know more about the man who shuns the media.

  So who is he?

  He’s the only child of heavyweight champion boxer James Stone. Born in Boise, Idaho, he moved to Seattle with his father after his parents split up. He grew up shadowing his father in the basement of his uncle’s bar.

  His father, James, describes Destry as a happy boy, but with something to prove. “He told me when he was three, he’d be a champion of the world. I believed him. He was the greatest part of my life.”

  While his father certainly believed Destry was destined for something greater, Destry didn’t see it that way in his early years. He struggled in school, barely graduated due to being expelled for fighting and had his fair share of encounters with the local police department.

  I’ve personally heard people say he’s always so aggressive. But why?

  Did the change happen after his mother walked out?

  “He’s always been that way from what I could gather. So full of hate and no one knows why,” said his uncle as he leaned into the bar, his eyes distant and far away. “That boy has been through more than any kid should have to.”

  Having grown up in a ring, this boxer prodigy unsurprisingly found his way into the professional boxing association.

  At only eighteen years of age, he fought in his first sanctioned fight as a heavyweight boxer, winning with a second-round knock-out. Two years later, on his twentieth birthday, he fought Stefan Aksakov in Japan with a third-round knock out to become the WBO World Heavyweight Champion. Destry would hold the title for four years, still undefeated with an impressive—if not unheard of—knockout record until shortly after his twenty-fourth birthday, when he went down in the fifth round by knockout in the fight against Ray Lucas.

  So, was the fight fixed?

  That question is not easily answered.

  I met Destry when I decided I needed to get in my own fighting shape. And while he wasn’t the nicest person, he did his job. From the first moment I met this heavyweight champ, I knew there was something more. Sure, there was a thick layer of apprehension and hatred for everything besides boxing, but certainly more to the stone-faced southpaw.

  His guard was up, never letting himself be caught against the ropes. The second, the scowl, like he’s trying to figure you out. His peek-a-boo boxing style went further than the ring. He’s contemplative of everything around him, constantly assessing your angle.

  Spend five minutes around the guy and the façade begins to fade away and you realize this guy had been screwed over one too many times.

  And then I witnessed greatness, compassion, a tenderness, and a man who was so much more than the gloves he wore.

  These days you can find Destry in the basement of that same bar his father trained at.

  What is he training for?

  I’m not even sure Destry knows what he’s training for.

  “I’m training for a fight I know I’ll win,” he says, splashing his face with water, that mechanical stare on the canvas.

  So, that leaves many to speculate what fight is he referring to? Although he was obtuse about why he still trained every day, he did insinuate that people’s perceptions of how that fight went down will change in the near future. “People have no idea what was going through my mind that night… until you walk in my shoes, you just cannot understand,” Stone says, staring at the brick wall in the basement with a poster of his father holding a championship belt and a young Destry idolizing at his feet.

  Can we expect this redemption of a man wronged? Destry was pretty mum on any details surrounding his training, and the fixed fight, only saying that, “Time was definitely on his side and all will be made right.”

  But was the fight fixed? That’s the real question everyone has.

  “People have their theories,” he said, avoiding the question.

  I wanted an answer from him, like most do, but I realized after getting to know the man off the canvas, it didn’t matter. I didn’t need to know the why, or how. All that mattered was his redemption was coming.

  I, for one, cannot wait to see how this plays out and based on the times I witnessed him training in his basement gym, he’s in it to win it.

  It took me the better part of the day of tweaking the article, before I was satisfied with it.

  And then I stared at it for an hour. If Destry read it, he’d understand why I wanted to write it.

  We agreed to meet at six that night, an hour earlier than usual. Destry said he had something to do tonight but didn’t say what. When I got there, he was in front of a black punching bag throwing jabs, hooks and uppercuts, his eyes trained intently on the bag. Each hit was more powerful than the next as Nine Inch Nails blared in the background.

  My heart was in my throat as I approached the far wall where I usually left my bag. As I rounded the corner, I saw Adam perched on a stool ten feet from Destry watching him, assessing his every move as any trainer would and frowning, unhappy with what he was seeing. “You’re fucking distracted,” he snapped. “Jesus Christ, stick and jab. Stick and fuckin’ jab!”

  “I am!” Destry shouted, hitting the bag so hard and fast that he had no form. Just anger. The sight sent a chill through my blood, his menacing scowl set ahead, fixated on the bag he was intent with destroying.

  With a few more swings, he stopped suddenly, panting, and let his gloved hands fall to his sides.

  “That’s enough, bro,” Adam said, pushing himself from the stool and handing Destry a towel.

  Destry hung his head forward, seeming lifeless and defeated, his gloved hands resting on his hips. His eyes squeezed shut as he nodded, never looking up.

  Adam reached over and patted his back. Nothing was said to him. After retrieving a bag, Adam approached me next, only my eyes were focused on Destry. It took me a moment, but my stare gained focus on Adam.

  My body froze when he lightly bumped my shoulder and stopped beside me, never looking at me. “You… should have told him,” he whispered. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  My breath caught. My vision blurred when my eyes rose to Destry as he sat down on the weight bench and began unwrapping his hands. Humiliation worked through me, pulsing inside my head. He was right. I should have.

  Adam left, the metal door slamming shut, echoing through the room and Destry looked up from his place on the bench, and then away just as quickly. I froze, unsure of what would happen next, my body trembling with fear.

  I’m a fucking idiot.

  Wanting to make him see my intensions were only pure, I moved on instinct toward him. At first, he didn’t look up. And then slowly, he lifted his head and
stared at me. Gone was that usual indifference and in its place, betrayal.

  Betrayal I’d caused.

  Trust I had destroyed.

  It was the silence that was my undoing. Waiting during the calm before the storm was the worst. The fear of the unknown. What was he going to say or do when we finally talked about this? Would he even talk or leave me standing here feeling helpless to do anything about this situation that I’d caused?

  The tension rose from him in waves as they crashed over me, bringing me below the surface, struggling to find air. He didn’t make a movement or a sound until I said something.

  “Hey.”

  His eyes closed and then he slowly opened them when I spoke.

  Hey? That’s what you say right then. Tell him. This is your chance.

  When our eyes finally met, he stared at me for a moment. The rush of reality crashed into me right then, once again pulling me under the surface.

  With the way he regarded at me, he knew. Oh yeah, he knew for sure.

  The air stilled, as if it was sucked from the room. His confused expression caught mine and he shook his head. His brow creased as he ran his hand across the back of his neck. He was hesitating on a reaction, deciding what he’d do, or say to me.

  As I waited on his words, bile rose up in my throat. My skin pricked with needles, my heart sinking at the very thought this was over between us.

  Say something. Explain. Do something.

  Our eyes caught again. Destry was normally so sure of himself, but right then he was none of that. He looked uncertain. “No work out today.” His voice was grave and tense as his jaw flexed, working back and forth. And then he stood harshly, an exaggerated motion, as though he was going to leave.

  I wanted to cry, but I didn’t deserve the tears.

  With his back to me, he let out a heavy growling breath. His palms swiped down his face and over his eyes before he spun around to face me. His head lifted arrogantly, wanting to see my reaction to what he was about to say. “I know about the article.”