5. Chapter 5

Because I always dehydrated and starved myself to make weight, I always felt weak before a weigh-in. But as soon as it was done, I'd be eating and drinking everything in sight to regain my strength .

"I cannot believe you're handing out cookies when I've been starving myself for days," I groaned.

Arthur just shrugged. "Not my fault, boss."

"It really isn't," Jason mumbled, mouth full of delicious, gooey, fragrant cookie. Bastards, the lot of them.

"Is he here yet?" I asked, checking my watch. We'd been sat in the green room for hours, and my opponent was late.

"You know it's all a mind game. Bartosh is late because he thinks it'll rattle you," said Jason.

"Then why aren't I late?" I asked. Arthur simply rolled his eyes and took another cookie, I guessed to avoid giving me another quick and sassy answer.

Jason was much better at being diplomatic. "Because one of you has to be on time for the other to be late. If you just kept trying to one-up each other on tardiness, we wouldn't be having a fight at all.

I only grunted in response. I was tired, hungry, and ready to fight. Sometimes it felt like the weigh-ins and all the drama surrounding them were just for show. Other times, I felt like I would rip my opponent's head off for looking at me wrong. I had to keep my cool—there was way too much at stake. Put on a bit of the macho-aggressive bullshit for the crowds, but stay focused.

Someone appeared in the doorway, catching my attention. "Mr Tyler, Oleksandr is ready now," she said. Jason clapped me on the shoulder, and I pulled a vest over my head, though I wouldn't be wearing it for long. Every ounce counted for the weigh-in. I'd seen boxers get naked on the scales to make sure their clothing wasn't weighing them down.

We stood as one, Arthur following behind as we left the room and emerged onto the bright lights of the stage. Oleksandr Bartosh stood clear on the other side, wearing a smile that promised violence. Damn, he was a mean-looking bastard. Good.

If I was lucky, I'd be able to knock that smile off his face in the first round. Maybe a couple of teeth too.

Few things separated us: two female models in skimpy sports bras and shorts, and an announcer who could probably list names and weights in his sleep. At the back of the stage stood a blown up picture of the two of us looking our nastiest, boxing gloves held up to the camera. It was all a fucking show. Hundreds of people watched and waited, camera flashes popping up all over the place.

We stepped up to each other, and the crowd hushed. Bartosh's full crew was mean-looking and ugly—just like him. I preferred to keep it simple, with only Jase and Arthur behind me..

"Our first contender, Oleksandr Bartosh!" called the announcer.

Bartosh stepped forward, undressed, then stood on the scale at the front of the stage.

A man next to him filled out the numbers and passed it over to the announcer. "Oleksandr Bartosh: one hundred and fifty eight pounds!"

My opponent held up a closed fist as the crowd cheered. My heart pounded against my ribcage as I waited to be called. When it finally happened, the crowd went wild. This was my last fight; my last super-middleweight title defence. I could do this. I bounced on my haunches before I ripped my vest off, followed by my training shorts, leaving me stood in nothing but my boxers. Every item of clothing was sponsored. Everything added to my post-fight war chest. Every penny towards whatever life was after all this.

With a deep breath, I stood on the scales. The numbers fluctuated, then settled: 160.02. You had to be fucking kidding. I was decimal places over the wight limit.

Good thing I didn't take a bite of that cookie.

The man scribbling down the numbers frowned, and I beckoned for Arthur and Jason. "Towel, please," I said to Arthur. He gave me a weak smile, then he and Jason each took a side of the towel thrown . They held it in front of me to preserve my modesty in front of the crowd, and I shimmied my boxers down and off. I was hyperaware of how close Arthur stood, and risked a glance at him. His eyes darted around the arena—anywhere but at me. So I looked down at the scales instead of at him. 159.98. Thank fuck for that.

My new weight was announced, and I leaned down to grab my boxers. As I did, I caught Arthur's eyes on mine for just a second. Despite the heat in the room, I shivered. I re-dressed, and the cameras flashed once more when the towel hit the ground. I could feel the atmosphere in the room buzz in anticipation of our show-confrontation. Oleksandr was already stood in the middle of the stage, uncomfortably close.

I stepped off the scale and over to my opponent. He was still wearing the same sinister grin. He was only an inch or so taller than me, but was already drawing himself up to full height just to try and get the best pictures for the morning papers. If he looked like he was towering over me, then his odds might be better for the upcoming fight.

I let him. I was over the silly bullshit. Though that didn't stop me from stepping in just a little bit closer. We were nose to nose. If I really wanted to, I could kiss him. But the ugly bastard wasn't my type, and that was an overplayed trick from the nineties.

"Ready for a battering?" I challenged. The disgusting grin on his face stretched ever wider. The camera flashes were constant now. The journalists were getting exactly what they wanted.

"Are you ready for a pounding?" Oleksandr retorted, closing the little distance between us. We pressed together from our foreheads down—he even pushed his crotch against mine. I smiled. Again, all part of the show. Boxing and homoerotic overtones: the oldest partnership in the world. His team stood behind him, hands on his biceps like they were ready to hold him back in case he swung too early. Jason's hand brushed mine, but he knew it would never dissolve into real violence. I was in my thirties, for god's sake. I hadn't swung for an opponent before a boxing match in years. Well, only three. But still years.

And then, Oleksandr threatened that fragile peace with one sentence. "I'll pound you in the ring until you squeal like that little faggot you've got hanging around."

I saw red. I drew back, ready to leave a mark that Bartosh wouldn't forget anytime soon. Forget padded gloves, I wanted him to remember the feeling of bare knuckles on flesh to teach him for being so disrespectful to the man I lov—

A hand on my arm stopped me, but it wasn't Jason. It was Arthur, bringing me back down to Earth. "Don't," he said. "I've heard worse."

It enraged me even more to know that Arthur heard what he said. Not only that, but he accepted and dealt with it in the time it took me to decide to swing. I'd faced my fair share of homophobia in the macho world of boxing, but I'd dealt with it by knocking out any bastard who looked at me funny. Arthur, my beautiful, delicate Arthur, didn't have that chance. So he simply had to move on.

Jason hadn't moved to grab my left arm, so I pushed Oleksandr in the chest, not hard, just enough to make him stumble. "You watch your dirty mouth," I said. Without giving him chance to respond, I spun on my heel and walked away. Arthur's hand slipped from my arm, and I missed it immediately.

"Are you OK?" he asked me as we headed back to the green room.

"I will be," I said, "when I wipe that smile off his face with my fucking fist."