“Not originally.” I winked. “But I just couldn’t say no.”
He shook his head in disappointment, “Some things never change.”
“Yeah,” that wasn’t the reaction I wanted. I guess no version of the truth, no version of myself, would have been the right one. “What are we here for?”
“Do ya remember this place?” he asked as we made our way towards the entrance.
“I’ll never forget this place, Geoff. Not ‘til the day I…” I trailed off and reached forward to knock on the door.
This building was where it all began for me. It was the venue of my first paid fight. My debut. The match that had given me my name. Being back here brought back all the memories of that night; the feeling of triumph, success; I remembered how my fear of failure dissipated when I stood in the ring.
Specks of black paint floated to the floor. Thirteen years and the door hadn’t had a fresh coat of paint; it creaked open after the third thump of my fist, and the darkness from inside seeped out and surrounded me like smoke as a deep, faceless voice spoke.
“Password.”
I froze, my mind travelling back to when I stood next to Skye in a similar venue – I remembered the nerves that exuded from her, and I felt them now. This place was alien to me; it was no longer the home I longed for. My eyes darted sideways for Geoff to save me but I knew when he avoided looking at me, that he had no intention of doing so. He just nodded.
“Password,” the voice repeated, growing impatient.
“Row, row, row your boat.”
The door opened and the source of the ominous voice disappeared. Geoff nodded again, staying silent, leaving me with a decision.
Go inside, or run.
I lifted one foot and stepped over the threshold.
It was exactly how I remembered it, but the tables had turned. This used to be my stomping ground; now I was a deer in the headlights. The smell of sweat made me nauseous; the muffled sound of the crowds inside made my head spin. The adrenaline, the fear, made my heart hammer and my already cleanliness-deprived body sweat. I felt so uncomfortable and each step was harder to take as my legs grew heavier and heavier. I stopped at the steel door at the end of the hallway. Something told me we weren’t spectators.
“Go on, son,” Geoff encouraged, confirming my thoughts.
I leaned forward and gave the bar a push; the door swung open onto a tunnel. With a hand on my shoulder, Geoff encouraged me further and we stepped out; the tunnel seemed to get smaller and tighter, the further into it we got. We were heading towards an open space where strobe lights flashed and I could see people milling around, discussing what they were about to watch, and placing their bets on who would come out on top.
“Curtis,” Geoff grabbed my arm as we got to the end of the tunnel and I turned to face him. “There’s a reason I wanted ya to come tonight.”
I released a loud, shaky breath, “I thought there might be.”
“Brett-” he stopped and thought for a beat. “I want you to fight. It’s in ya blood Curtis and I want more than anythin’ for you to find that release again.”
“Geoff…” he raised his hand to silence me.
“I get it. I didn’t before but I get it now. And I need to help ya. Brett’s contract is up soon and he wants to sign with me. I want Phoenix Management to sign ‘im.”
“If you’d have just told me that earlier, I would have sent one of the agents tonight.”
“I don’t want one of your agents.” There was a bitter edge to his voice. “I want you to manage him. I want you to find your new purpose.”
I shrugged and stared at the floor, “I can't do that, Geoff.”
“Why not?”
“I’m too busy.”
“Too busy sittin’ behind a desk?” he stopped. When he spoke again, he had a new approach; a softer tone to his voice. The one I should have known was coming. “Just watch ‘im tonight. All I ask is that ya watch the fight and consider what I’m asking of ya.”
I conceded, nodding my agreement to avoid an argument. Geoff grinned and tapped my chest. I’d managed to fool him.
“Attaboy. C’mon.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets, rocked back on his heels and left the tunnel. I turned to see where he was heading – ringside – and took a minute. Did I want to immerse myself back into the business? Did I want to manage my own fighter, training him, teaching him and watching him learn, grow and fight? Did I want to watch someone climb the rankings and know I’d given them the passion and drive and freedom I could no longer claim? Yes.
But I couldn’t.
I took a deep breath and stepped out, keeping my eyes down and heading towards Geoff.
I saw sports news cameras, journalists and photographers surrounding the ring, taking up the front rows, and tried to smooth over my appearance. I hadn’t shaved or showered for two days, my mind was still lost in Ollie’s journal and now I had a new role to play. One that would be aired nationwide.
Fuck.
Charlie was going to kill me.
I really needed a goddamn shower.
Fuck it all.
I stood next to Geoff and followed him as he circled the ring, keeping my hands in my pockets to conceal my clenched fists. I watched the opening fights, declining the rush that tried to find its way in. It fizzed in my stomach like Charlie’s favourite champagne, but I swallowed down the excitement until it hurt to breathe. I wanted to be in there doing it; I wanted to shout words of advice because I saw everything; every strength, every weakness. Every single fucking thing. But I remained passive. I kept my eyes on the ring, and anyone looking at me would have no idea what was going on in my head. I had to keep it that way.
I knew I was pushing it; I knew I was at risk. I knew I was an enigma; people had been speculating about my whereabouts for years. Cut Throat Curtis, the guy who could have had it all; the guy sports agents were begging to work with; the guy people expected so much of, had just disappeared. Stepped out of the ring never to return. I could imagine the articles that would be written in the sports magazines broadcast all over the internet. Charlie wanted me to be her little secret. I had to remain a ghost.
She was about to be severely disappointed and I couldn’t begin to anticipate the consequences.
“And nooow!” The MC shouted, drawing my eyes up to the ring from where they’d been cast down to keep me hidden. “Tonight’s penultimate match-up is one of youth, determination and natural skill. These two fighters promise an amazing twenty-five minutes. Are you ready?” The crowd whooped, whistled, cheered and threw their hands into the air. “First up, from Leeds, weighing in at 171lbs…he’s dark, he’s dangerous…he’s Benny ‘the Hunter’ Wright!”
The chaos of sound from the crowd became deafening, the room fell dark until a strip of lighting shone down and a rhythmic drum beat vibrated around the arena and signalled The Hunter’s entrance. My eyes were glued. My head told me to look away, to remain indifferent, but I couldn’t. There was a feeling deep in my gut that kept me swept up in a fixation on the impending fight.
The kid who stepped out to lap up the atmosphere could have only been in his twenties, but he exuded the arrogance of someone who had been a champion for years. He was clean cut, his face not yet bearing the scars of his participation in brutal matches; his skin was a blank canvas that showed his inexperience. But I saw no fear; just a burning rage in his wide eyes.
“His opponent, joining us for one night only. From OUABC, please give a warm Kent welcome to Jesse ‘The Gentleman’ Kennedy!”
Something overpowering hit me in that moment, as The Gentleman made his entrance. The crowd booed; they didn’t take kindly to strangers – Benny was clearly the crowd favourite – but I saw Jesse absorb it, draw from it, suck it in and reap the rewards of being the underdog. I had no idea why I had such a reaction to him; I didn’t know who the guy was but I felt like I did. I saw the fire in his eyes and knew there was just something about him. Goddamn it, I had no fucking
clue what it was but I was drawn to him and it irked me. He climbed up the steps into the ring, looking around at the hostile crowd while his boots and gloves were checked and his mouth guard was inserted. Both fighters moved to their corners and got into position. The Gentleman’s eyes met mine; they narrowed, a frown settled on his brow and I knew he was thinking the same thing as me. What the fuck? We nodded at each other, some sort of synchronised agreement of loyalty that confused the fuck out of both of us further, and he turned to face his opponent.
“Geoff?” I leaned into him, keeping my eyes on the ring as the bell rang and the fight began. “You know these guys?”
“Only by reputation,” he responded, not looking away from the action.
The Hunter was quick, agile, focused. His punches were fluid, traveling the length of his arm to his fist, resulting in powerful hits. He was good, he was relentless and he showed no signs of fatigue.
But there was something about The Gentleman; standing about six feet tall, one arm inked from wrist to shoulder. His dark hair framed his face, liked he’d styled it and gotten into a brawl. Ironic, huh? He was rugged, dirty-looking; he looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks, but just stepped off a cover shoot for GQ. Beyond the looks, which I only studied in the hopes of finding the source of this weird recognition, it was just him. I felt like I knew him, like there was something that connected us. With every punch he threw, slowly turning the match in his favour; with every sidestep, duck, and cocky smirk; with every hint of rage and something deeper, darker, haunting, that flashed across his eyes, I knew. I knew we were cut from the same cloth. We had both felt pain and loss. We had both sacrificed and didn’t yet know if it was worth it. But there was one fundamental difference between Cut Throat Curtis Mason and Jesse the Gentleman Kennedy.
He was driven.
“Geoff, who are they?”
I felt agitated, like time was running out. What I was counting down to, I didn’t know.
“The Hunter,” Geoff paused as Jesse took a right hook and fell back into the ropes. “He’s crazy. Ran away to Leeds when he was seventeen. Only comes back to beat the shit out of people for money.”
“Why’d he run away?”
Geoff glared at me, shooting a look that made it quite clear he wasn’t interested in conversation.
I returned my attention to the fight. Twenty-five minutes passed quickly, domination switching from one to the other equally. The bell rang and the referee waited for the score from the judges.
“The winner of this match-up, by unanimous decision…Jesse the Gentleman Kennedy!”
He threw Jesse’s arm in the air and the crowd finally cheered for him. But his celebration was short-lived; Benny smacked his hand away when they were told to shake, and left the ring, ignoring his team.
I shook my head, “What an asshole.”
“I told you,” Geoff said. “He’s crazy. He’s probably in the locker room, breaking anything he can get his hands on.”
I knew that feeling.
I couldn’t stand still as the ring was cleared and made ready for the finale. I finally left Geoff’s side and paced by myself, waiting for the next match to begin. I shouldn’t have come. I needed to get the hell out. I took a seat when one of the photographers got up, and took a few deep breaths. The previous match had stolen my composure and I had no idea why, or how to get it back.
I couldn’t hear past the roaring in my ears as Brett ’The Bloodhound’ and The Cyclone entered the ring.
The match began and it started off slow. I stood up and joined Geoff again, keeping an eye on Brett, but my eyes continuously drifted to the back of the room, to the no access door that led to the locker rooms in the back. I stopped still. I looked at Geoff. I looked at Brett. I looked at the steel door. I couldn’t wait. I wouldn’t wait to be given an ultimatum this time. I buttoned up my jacket and turned my back on Geoff, heading to the back and through the door without looking back.
The corridor was dark; there was a faint smell of sweat and antiseptic, and I heard a rhythmic pounding. I followed the sound, the chanting crowd disappearing as I emerged deeper into the hallway. Footsteps; I heard footsteps first, and then a dark figure turned the corner. I recognised him as one of the fighters I’d just watched – Benny. The Hunter. He trudged towards me, dragging his bag along the floor behind him like a sulking teenager. Even in the darkness of the hallway, I could see he was seething; losing the match had him riled up. He barged into me as he passed and a growl rumbled through me.
“No one likes a sore loser.”
I heard him stop and turn slowly. I did the same. We were seven feet apart and the testosterone began to spark.
“What?”
“Someone needs to teach you some sportsmanship.”
“Oh yeah?” He dropped his bag and cracked his knuckles. I shook my head in warning. “Who’s gonna teach it to me?” His top lip curled up into a snarl. “You?”
He came bounding towards me.
Big mistake.
I reached out, grabbed his shoulder as he pulled his arm back ready to swing and shoved him back to the wall.
“Don’t push me, kid.”
I was on edge, pissed off and about ready to lose my shit. It only pissed me off more when he stared back, unfazed; whatever it was driving his rage was too strong to be extinguished.
“Or what?” He rose a challenging eyebrow.
“Or you’ll be out on your ass. Don’t think for one second that your place here is set.”
“I don’t need friends.”
“You need enemies a hell of a lot less. I’m warning you, Benny, cool down. If you’re not ready to leave the locker room, don’t.”
He shoved me off him and I took a step back to put some distance between us, “What would you know?”
“A lot.”
If anyone knew how quickly everything fighting promised could be lost, it was me.
“You think you’re in,” I continued. “You think you’re set, but it can come to an end, just like that, and you’re left with a ton of rage and no release.”
“Yeah, well, we’re not all quitters like you. I know who you are. You gave up, so don’t swan around dishing out bullshit advice.”
I grabbed the back of his head and pushed him further away. The urge to swing for him was almost uncontrollable.
“Get out of here before I show you what pent up rage really looks like.”
“Hey,” he backed away with his hands in the air and a triumphant smile on his face. “Maybe if you hadn’t quit you’d have a chance at kicking my ass.” He picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Any time you want to see what a real fighter can do, call my agent.”
I watched him, dumbfounded, as he walked away. Had he been ten years older, I would have handed his ass to him to shut him up, but he was right. I did give up.
I shook my head – I refused to allow the self-pity to find a way back in. I’d made my choice; it was time to leave regret in the past.
I turned back in the direction I was walking in and continued along the corridor. When I got to the door where the punching was coming from, I knocked loudly and waited for a response.
It was only when he opened the door that I realised why I’d come looking for him and I began to hatch a plan.
“Curtis,” I thrust out my hand.
He stared at it for a minute; I could see the concern on his face. It was, no doubt, the same expression that I wore the night I met Charlie. He took my hand and we nodded a shared understanding.
“Jesse.”
Twenty Three
Jesse Kennedy, where have you been hiding? I could have used your tricks a decade ago.
October 1st, 2010.
“You’ve got this.”
“I know. I’ve been using my fists since I was five.”
I was attempting to reassure Jesse, but he didn’t need it. The man lived to do two things – hurt people, and heal people. Both? Yeah, he was a double threat; triple if you included the
middle class charm that earned him his name.
“I know, mate. Just trying to help.”
I’d managed to avoid ‘Charlie drama’ after the last fight and decided to lay low on the truth mission. I couldn’t rush this; I had to master the art of stealth and as much as I wanted to storm in with all guns blazing, I couldn’t.
Meeting Jesse had given me a portal into partial freedom. I hadn’t had a friend in years and didn’t realise how much I needed someone who knew nothing about me. Jesse was a good man, an aspiring surgeon; poor guy worked his ass off at Oxford. He’s just started his foundation courses when we met and was about to start his surgical training. I swear to God he didn’t sleep. If he didn’t have his nose stuck in a textbook, he’d be in class or in the gym…or in the ring, with an advantage none of the other boys had. He knew the human body right down to the synapses that did whatever it was synapses did. And boy, did he use it.
He winked at me; adopting the confident focus I’d had when I was in his position and I nodded my faith. He had this in the bag.
“I’ll meet you ringside.”
I slapped his back and left the locker room as the assistant stepped in to get him wrapped up.
“Geoff!” I gasped, looking into the eyes of my mentor in shock.
“Hi, son.”
He greeted me with disappointment in his voice and sadness in his eyes. What did I do?
“You okay, old man?”
“Where ‘ave you been?”
It was only when he stepped away from the door he’d just left through that I saw the sign. Brett the Bloodhound.
Shit.
“Geoff-”
“One thing, Curtis. I asked you for one thing. After-”
“Go on,” I snapped. “Say it. After everything you’ve done for me, I owe you, right?” I scraped my hand through my hair and snorted a pathetic, awkward laugh. “I should have seen that one coming.”
He frowned, staring at me as if I were a stranger and shook his head.
Revival Page 11
