by Ora Wilde
MEG
“Wow, Meg! His moves are so quick! His punches are so strong! If I wouldn’t have known better, I’d say he’s trying to impress someone...”
Chantelle had this ridiculous idea to visit Conner as he trained. There, on the third floor of a decrepit building that was too run-down to be safe and too shabby that it could’ve easily been mistaken as haunted, we sat on one side of the training area, together with the full ensemble of the documentary crew. Conner was moving sideways as he struck the suspended punching bag with a variety of combinations that rocked the sack with so much force, I feared that it could’ve come unhinged with every mighty blow.
He was moving left, then right, then ducking to avoid an imaginary punch, then hitting the center of the bag with a cross before following up with an uppercut.
He showed no signs of the injuries he was trying to conceal. One look at the elderly man with a baseball cap who was watching him intently from the corner - it was easy to surmise that he was Conner’s trainer - and I confirmed that no one knew about his busted shoulder and fractured wrist.
Chantelle could no longer contain her glee. She stood up, jumped frantically with excitement, and clapped her hands so loudly that she got the attention of the entire room.
I tugged at her shirt and tried to pull her back to her seat. My eyes gravitated back to Conner.
He didn’t even notice her.
He was so focused on what he was doing. His savage strikes became even more vicious with each passing second. Sweat cascaded from his handsome face, dampening his beard, dripping to his half naked body, making his torso glisten under the yellow lights of the makeshift dojo. Drops flung into the air as he moved. He looked like a Greek God emerging from the battlefield, glorious and proud as the heavens blessed him with rain.
“If you’re gonna admire him like that, might as well close your mouth so that it wouldn’t look too obvious.”
Chantelle’s voice. Yanking me out of my weird stupor. Darn! She was looking at me.
“Oh... no, no... it’s nothing like that,” I tried to reason out... but to no avail.
“Oh come on, Meg,” she interrupted me with a knowing grin. “I know that look! You, of all people, should know that I know that look!”
It was probably true. Chantelle was never shy to ogle at good-looking guys, and she was never afraid of being caught doing so.
But wait!
No!
I wasn’t ogling at him!
“I wouldn’t even dare look at him like that, Chantelle!” I told her off.
“And why not?” she asked, still with a knowing smile as she crossed her arms over her breasts.
“Well... because... because... he’s my brother...”
“Stepbrother,” she corrected me, emphasizing the prefix with her voice. “That makes him fair game, you know.”
“Not from where I... from where we... came from,” I answered her, reminding her of how conservative our household was. “Besides... why would I even look at him that way when I know he’s taken.”
“Taken? Him?” Chantelle was surprised.
“Yes! Didn’t he bring you to your place last night? You and I both know that it’s game over once you manage to convince a guy to go to your house.”
“Ha! I can lie to you to preserve my... reputation, Meggy. But no. Nothing happened between us.”
Nothing happened?
That was a first.
“Really?” I tried to confirm. “How come?”
“Oooohhhh... interested to know, huh?” she teasingly remarked. “It turned out that... well... he’s not interested in me.”
“Ha! That never stopped you before.”
“Yes... never. Except this time... this time... I found out that he was actually interested in someone else.”
“And that has happened before, too,” I told her. “You just viewed it as competition, and you tried harder to get the guy you wanted.”
“Yes, that’s true. But... well, Meggie... it turns out that I couldn’t compete with the person he was interested in.”
Now, that had my curiosity piqued.
“Who is this person?” I asked, short of begging for her to answer.
She just smiled at me.
“Spoiler,” she said with a wink. “You’ll find out yourself... in due time.”
Before I could even plead for her to respond, a loud, booming voice reverberated throughout the room.
“Fucking hell, McXavier! I told you to stop!”
It was the trainer. He was livid. He stayed on the sideline, careful not to be caught by a wayward punch. He was ordering Conner to stop hitting the punching bag, but his instructions fell on deaf ears. Conner kept striking and striking and striking... as if nothing and no one existed around him.
“You’re gonna burn yourself out, you dumbass!” the trainer continued to yell. “We’ve been doing this for a fucking long time now! You should know when to take it slow. We gotta time the moment you’ll reach your peak!”
Even with the trainer’s authoritative tone, Conner refused to stop. He kept punching and punching and punching, throwing in some kicks in between.
I could hear the thud of every blow...
Knuckles against the bag...
Flesh against surface...
Harrowing...
Bone-crunching...
Oh no...
His injuries...
“Conner... stop!” I yelled in alarm as I stood up so that he’d notice.
And he did.
He stopped.
Then he looked at me.
And everyone else in the area followed suit, including the two cameras which were previously focused on him from different angles.
Silence followed. The awkward kind. But why? Was it because I thrusted myself in the middle of something I absolutely had no right to meddle with? Was it because I was the lone female voice that screamed that morning? Or was it because I was the only one who managed to make him stop?
“Just... stop, Conner... please...” I pleaded, my voice dropped to what seemed like nervous mumbling.
And then I saw him. He sighed. Then he smiled. Then he removed his gloves and threw them on the floor.
Was he going to yell at me? To curse me for interrupting his training? To get mad at me because I wasn’t in a position to tell him what to do?
“Okay,” he said as he grabbed the Gatorade bottle on the side of the mat.
Okay?
That was it?
That was all that he had to say?
Nothing more?
He walked straight past me, towards the exit, while drinking from his Gatorade. The smile was gone from his face, replaced by a look that was devoid of emotions. As soon as he left the room, I heard a collective sigh from the people inside.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Chantelle asked. “Go talk to him!”
“What? Why should I? And why me?”
“Obviously, you’re the only person he listens to,” she answered grinningly.
“That’s not even true,” I said, dismissing her false assumption. “And why do I have to talk to him? It’s not as if he’s in a bind or something.”
“Just talk to him and ask what’s bothering him,” she insisted as she pushed me towards the door, compelling my feet to follow the path that Conner took.
Rather than make another scene, I started to walk. Past the door, through the dirty and dusty hallways, to the tumbledown stairway which creaked with every step. I saw him downstairs, sitting on the last flight, looking blankly at the main entrance across the abandoned lobby.
I sat beside him. He didn’t even give me a glance. Somehow, he knew it was me.
“Your shoulder... your wrist... they could’ve gotten worse, you know...” I told him gently, wary of other people who might be near.
“They’re fine,” he contemptuously replied. He was breathing heavily. He has yet to fully recover from the earlier episode.
“No they’re not,” I correc
ted him. “Remember, I was there at the hospital. I heard what the doctor said. I don’t even know how you’ll be able to conceal those injuries for long. Don’t you have to go through medical clearing or something?”
“That’s not scheduled until the week before the fight,” he said. “They would’ve healed by then.”
“Not at the rate you’re going.”
“What rate? That’s my usual pace.”
“Your trainer ordered you to stop. You didn’t.”
“I didn’t hear him.”
“But you heard me.”
He didn’t reply. Almost a minute of silence followed, forming a wall of discomfiture between us. He remained motionless, his gaze never leaving the main door. I found myself caressing my forearm, hoping that something would happen to break the growing awkwardness of our abruptly interrupted discussion.
Finally, he spoke.
“Two months huh?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re getting hitched in two months.”
“Well... yeah,” I tentatively replied. I didn’t know why he asked that question. I didn’t know where our conversation was headed. I didn’t know what was in his mind.
“When exactly?” he continued to inquire.
“Second week of November,” I answered.
“When exactly?” he repeated the question, emphasizing the last word.
“Sunday, the fifteenth,” I finally said, hesitantly so. I didn’t want him to dig for more details about my wedding. I didn’t want to have to tell him that I was getting married in Vegas, away from family and friends, in front of a minister or a judge and some witnesses I don’t even know.
He nodded.
“That’s the date of my fight,” he mumbled.
“R-Really?” My voice was trembling. I didn’t know what else to say. He sounded so... sad. I didn’t know what I could do to make him feel better... because I didn’t even know why he was that doleful about the coincidence we just discovered.
Was it because he wanted me to see him fight?
Me... with my folks... his dad included?
Despite his less than ideal relationship with Uncle Benny, wanting us there to watch his fight would be a far better reason than wanting to be there to see me get wed.
“Is there a way that we can... I dunno... postpone it?” he asked with his head bowed down.
“Oh Conner... I don’t think so,” I responded with dejection. “Your promoter must’ve spent a lot of money already to promote your fight... he even sent a film crew here to record your training and all...”
“No... not my fight,” he said firmly. “I mean... is there a way we can... postpone your wedding?”
My eyes widened in shock. I couldn’t believe what I just heard. For the short time I’ve known him, I have become aware that he was an arrogant, proud and misunderstood man. But was he really that obsessed about his upcoming bout? Was he really that consumed with hatred for his opponent? Was he really that... selfish?
“Why?” It was the only word that I allowed to escape my mouth.
He turned to face me and our eyes met... and I saw something that I haven’t seen - or perhaps noticed - before...
There was gentleness there...
There was warmth...
There was sincerity...
And they were telling me that he was about to say something honest...
“Because...” he started to say...
But then, the main door suddenly flung open and a short, stout and balding man came rushing in.
It was Artemis.
“Holy shit, Conner!” he screamed. “I’ve been calling you! Why weren’t you answering?”
“I was fucking training!” Conner answered with an exasperated tone. “I wouldn’t have heard your goddamn call.”
“Well, you should have because it would’ve given us more time!” Artemis defiantly retorted.
“Time for what?” Conner tried to clarify.
“Time to prepare. For the press conference,” Artemis struggled to explain as he was huffing and puffing from all the running he did.
“Press conference?” Conner repeated in disbelief.
“Yes! Danny arranged a press conference!”
“It’s too early for that shit.”
“It is! But pressure from the media... oh God, Conner... the hype around this fight... you wouldn’t believe it! They’re calling it the Fight of the Century! The Unbeatable Champion versus the Irredeemable Redeemer! Danny wants to capitalize on the buzz the fight’s generating, so he hastily arranged a press conference!”
I saw Conner’s brows meet above the bridge of his nose, his lips tightened... he was mad... not the angry kind of mad... rather, the kind of rage that was driven by passion.
“So.. we gonna drive to Vegas tonight for this press conference?” he asked his agent.
“Drive? To Vegas?” Artemis asked, confused. “No, no, Conner... the press conference will be held here... at Susanville!”
Chapter Nineteen
CONNER
Too many things in my mind.
Too fucking many to count. Too fucking many to process.
I knew I needed a drink the moment Artemis delivered the news about the press conference tomorrow. Of all places... why Susanville? What’s in this shit hole of a town that’s so special? Holding the press con here would just diminish the majesty of the event.
Yes, I needed a drink. And I was alone.
I walked through Wellsworth Drive, just two blocks away from Haunted Grounds. I remembered seeing a pub here somewhere.
Around five minutes into my stroll and I found the fucking place: Anthony’s Ale Alley. It was the typical pothouse, dark and silent and almost empty at two in the afternoon, with a bar manned by a solitary bartender. An old man was sitting at the far corner of the tavern, he was the only customer.
I sat on one of the stools and whistled to call the server’s attention. He looked like Homer Simpson, only, his skin wasn’t colored like piss, and he was a whole lot chubbier.
“Heineken,” I told him. “No glass. Just a cold bottle.”
He raised his eyebrow and looked at me for a few seconds before responding.
“Heineken it is,” he said. “You look like you’re new in town, yet, you seem very familiar.”
The undercut. The beard. A little swelling on my left cheekbone which hasn’t healed since my last fight. The global reach of the XFC. Sure... he knew who I was.
“Yeah, you’ve probably seen one of my fights on TV,” I stated. It was the last thing I wanted to say about the matter. I was ready to tell him off if he pressed for more information. I wanted quietness. I wanted to enjoy some solitude with a nice, cold beer. I wanted to have space, to clear my mind, to clear my emotions, to focus on the things I had to do.
But his reaction was totally unexpected that it messed up my mind even more.
“Nah... I don’t watch TV and that wrestling crap,” he uttered. I would’ve felt insulted when he mistook me for a professional wrestler, but I didn’t have the chance to dwell on that with what he said next. “I know... yeah... it’s unmistakable! The eyes... the jawline... the slightly angular cheeks... sweet Jesus... you look just like him!”
“Like who?” I angrily asked, though deep inside, I was afraid to hear the answer I already knew.
“You’re Benny’s kid, aren’t ya?” he asked with a wide grin.
“Just mind your own business and get me that fucking beer!” I screamed at him, tapping my fingers on the bar’s surface to express my growing impatience.
He gave me a weird yet patronizing look, then he reached for a bottle of Heineken from the fridge. He removed the cap and placed it in front of me.
“First round’s on me,” he said with an unfriendly tone. “Ol’ man Benny’s done so much for my family. I owe him a lot. This one’s for him.” Then he walked away and gave me the peace I longed for.
My father has done so much for the bartender’s family?
I found that hard to believe.
I tried to shrug off that idea. The bartender was probably just being polite, exaggerating some trivial matter to jumpstart a small talk so that he’d be able to win my bucks for more drinks.
