6. Chapter 6

The Millennium Stadium was electric. Seventy thousand punters packed into the heart of Cardiff, all to watch Bradley box with Oleksandr Bartosh to keep his title. And the whole place was loud.

Bradley was safely tucked away in a green room on one side of the stadium, Oleksandr in the other. There had been three undercard fights, with another two to go before the main event was due to start. And I was a nervous wreck. I always was before a fight, even though Bradley would inevitably come out the winner. I hated seeing him with cuts and bruises as a result. And I hated tending to him for the week after, when he put on his faux-macho bullshit and acted like he didn't need the TLC he so obviously craved.

Then again, there was one reason I was worried about Bradley's last fight: what would come next? As much as Bradley reassured me that he wanted me to stick around, I had no idea how that would work. What would a retired boxer need a full-time, live-in assistant for? I couldn't answer my own question, and that terrified me. But until the fight was over, I still had a job to do—and to do well. We'd cross the unemployment bridge when we came to it.

I made my way through the rabbit warren of tunnels to the private stadium entrance. Just inside, a small crowd had gathered. I smiled at seeing Bradley's parents and a few of his cousins, but then my heart dropped when I saw who was with them. He did come.

I pasted on a smile and strode forward to greet them. "Mr and Mrs Tyler, so lovely to see you!" I held out a hand for Gez Tyler to shake and kissed Melody on both cheeks. They were dressed to the nines as always. Melody's gold necklace alone cost double my salary. I knew that because I'd been responsible for buying Bradley's Christmas presents. She was a gazelle of a woman, all slim features and long arms and legs. "You look wonderful."

"Oh, Arthur, I don't know how many times I have to tell you not to last-name us," she scolded. "We'd never be so formal with our son's manager."

"Assistant," I corrected gently.

"Nonsense. You're far more than his assistant, darling, and we all know it. He wouldn't function without you." Melody touched my arm. "Have you—"

"Stocked the VIP box with your favourite champagne? Of course." I smiled. Despite the luxury trappings they'd grown to love, it was easy to keep Bradley's parents happy. I just had to spend his money and update his rider for fights every now and then.

Next to Bradley's parents, he cleared his throat. I let him stew for a second before turning to face him. "Can I help you?"

"It's so good to see you, Artie! Aren't you going to introduce me to these lovely people?" He was dressed…nicely, considering the standard I'd come to expect from him. A button-down shirt—wrinkled—and jeans with a pair of leather shoes that had seen better days. He had some kind of sauce stain on his collar, and neglected to tuck in one side, which lessened any effort he'd made.

"Mr and Mrs Tyler, this is my dad, Joseph."

"Call me Joe," he said, taking both their hands at once and shaking them enthusiastically, like a dog with a toy.

"Right, let's get moving," I deflected. "Don't want to miss the fight." I slid myself in between my father and the Tylers. The rest of them fell behind as if in deference to their elders.

I looked back at the four men who trailed us. Cory Tyler was a Cardiff native and played professionally for Cardiff's football team. He was gorgeous—they all were—and athletic. He was stood next to a tall blond I recognised as Cardiff's goalkeeper, a Norwegian man by the name of Sven Barstad.

Next to them was the shortest, Theo Tyler, a driver in the world-famous Moto 1 racing championship. And at the periphery of the group was Nicholas, a tall, gangly guy who competed in golf championships around the world.

Bradley had so many cousins in so many sports that it was hard to keep track, but despite being scattered around the world, they tried to attend each other's events as much as possible. If the Kennedy family had a stranglehold on politics, then the same could be said of the Tylers in sport. They were like some kind of good-looking, physically fit Illuminati. Or so the forums said.

I led them all through the crowd, hearing the gasps of amazement at my procession of sporting legends. My father, next to me, was puffing himself up like he was somehow important enough to draw the same attention.

The VIP box was ringside, and I'd left menus on each of the seats. My father tried to take the central one, but I steered him to the side and sat him down. "Don't embarrass me," I hissed in his ear.

He had the audacity to look hurt. "Embarrass you? How could I possibly embarrass you?" He then looked down at the menu. "Oh, it's a free bar! How do I order a couple of bottles? I could bring some home to your mother. She'd love some of this…"

I rolled my eyes and left before I could hear the rest of his sentence. I had more important things to do. The Tylers were already very familiar with ordering their ringside drinks and aperitifs, so I thought it might be safe to leave them for a few minutes.

I made my way across the darkened catwalk to the green room. Bradley liked to be completely alone before a fight, but Jason and I definitely didn't count. They were both deep in conversation when I walked in, but Bradley looked up as soon as the door opened. His eyebrows had been furrowed but when he looked at me, he seemed to relax. I loved that I had that effect on him. It made me feel special, and wanted—like I was more than just an assistant.

"Are you okay?" I asked, taking the seat to his right as I always did.

"Fucking terrified," he admitted.

"You've never been scared before a fight before," I admonished. "Why now?"

Bradley laughed. "Arthur, I'm always scared before a fight."

"No. You're always strong and calm and…" It dawned on me. "You've been faking it, haven't you?"

"And here we are. The last fight. Me admitting my fear to you."

"What scares you the most?" Without really thinking about it, I took one of his large hands in my own. His knuckles were rough under my thumb as I rubbed calming circles on the back of his hand.

"What if I lose?" he asked. "How do I leave the fight with my head held high?"

"You've not lost yet," Jason offered.

"Well, this would be the night, wouldn't it?" Bradley said.

"Stop thinking that way. Just go out there and fucking win," I said. "Win, and I'll think about taking that holiday with you."

Bradley's free hand hooked under my chin to make me look into his eyes. For just a second, I thought he'd lean in and kiss me. But then he smiled bashfully. "When all this is over, after I win tonight, let's talk, okay?"

"About my job?" I asked, hardly able to hear myself over the thumping of my own heart.

"About us. About what comes next." Bradley gave a sad smile and pulled his hand back. "Are my parents here?"

"Shit. Yes. That reminds me, I should go and check on them." I stood, already missing the contact with Bradley . I wanted to walk out by his side. Stupid as it was, I'd take those punches for him. Even if they would break me in two.

As I reached the door, Bradley coughed quietly. I turned to look at him. "I'm fighting for you, remember that."

I swallowed past the lump in my throat and closed the door behind me.

The last undercard fight was done. I should have been worrying about Bradley but instead, I was dealing with my sperm-donor taking up more space in the VIP box than I was entirely comfortable with.

"Put the drink down," I whispered to my father. "I'll get you a water."

"Piss off," he slurred, rebelling by gulping down more champagne. I yanked the glass from his hand and set it on the floor.

"Get sober." I tried to put as much confidence and arrogance into my tone as possible, but it sounded hollow in the noise of the stadium.

Dad turned to a waiter. "I'll have another glass of that champers, please mate. Make it a double."

The waiter looked at my father, then looked at me for confirmation. "He'll have a water. I'd really rather you see to the Tylers," I said.

He nodded and stepped away. I hated that they were sat next to my dad, hated that they could see where I'd come from. Unfortunately, my words seemed to remind him that the Tylers were present and he turned to Melody and rested his hand on her arm. "Think he's got a chance?" he asked.

"I'm confident in Bradley's skill, if that's what you're asking," she replied with a polite smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"I think Bartosh is gonna fucking pummel him," my father said. "He'll be fucking pulp by the end. Last fight, ‘cos he's getting old, innit? Can't hit like he used to."

"I retain my confidence in my son's skill," Melody reiterated. A shiver ran down my spine with the chill in her tone. Before I could intervene, the speakers blared with the announcer's voice. "And now, the moment you've all been waiting for. Tonight's main event, and the end of an era…let's welcome our visitor from Russia. It's…Oleksandr Bartosh!"

"Eye of the Tiger" began to play, only to be drowned out by the roaring of the crowd. I pushed my father's hand away from Melody Tyler's arm and took a seat between them. Like he'd been waiting for some invisible signal, one of the waiters emerged and carried out a tray to us, passing glasses of champagne around the Tyler family, finishing off with a glass of water for my father and an orange juice for me.

"Still not drinking, dear?" asked Mrs Tyler.

"Not on a fight night, Mrs Ty—Melody," I said. "I'm working."

"What's this for?" asked my father, spilling the water down his front.

"Drink it or leave," I threatened. He rolled his eyes but brought the glass to his mouth, so I finally felt comfortable enough to face the stage as Oleksandr pushed through the ropes and held his gloves up to the crowd. There was a mixture of cheers and boos. He wasn't the one people really wanted. They were here to see Bradley keep a hold of his belt one last time.

Once the crowd had quietened down—slightly—the announcer's voice boomed again. "And now, the man, the myth, the legend. It's…Bradly "The Unbeatable' Tyler!"

An involuntary grin stretched my cheeks as Bradley strode onto the catwalk flanked by cheerleaders, to Gina G's "Ooh Ahh Just a Little Bit." I'd laughed the first time I heard it; and I still laughed three years later. Jason removed his gown and he was stood in his signature white shorts, gloves slung around his neck. Though I knew exactly how he felt, he looked confident and strong—ready to win his last fight.

My dad leaned in to speak to me and I grimaced at the smell of alcohol on his breath. "I hope Bartosh beats the shit out of him."

I didn't move. I didn't want to give any indication that something was wrong, so I just whispered from the corner of my mouth. "You are his guest and you will act like you worship the ground he walks on or I will have you removed. Understood?"

I only got a grunt in response as my father leaned back and Bradley entered the ring. The whole crowd was screaming. I simply sat and watched him. The roll of his shoulders as he bounced on his toes, the little quirk of his lips that reminded me how much he loved the adrenaline from the crowd. it was a crushing realisation just how much he was giving up by quitting.

There was the usual pre-fight show, the drama of the two fighters squaring up to each other in the ring before it all started. Then when it was time to get down to business, they retreated into their respective corners.

Show time. I loved watching Bradley in his element. He fought with the precision of a surgeon, bobbing and weaving with a speed no one his size should be able to accomplish. Bartosh was a close opponent, sure, but he wasn't Bradley—no one was. Bradley ducked under one of Oleksandr's punches and then followed it up with a hit of his own that Oleksandr couldn't dodge. It connected with his chin, and he stumbled back a step. It was enough to let Bradley get in another two punches.

Oleksandr managed to get one hit in before the bell rang, but it seemed to hardly phase Bradley. Still, my heart was in my throat. I didn't like him getting hurt. Probably not one of the traits best placed in a boxer's personal assistant.

They both retreated to their corners for water and a towel-down. That close to the ring, I could see that Oleksandr was already sweating more than Bradley. When the ball rung to start the second round, the shouts began from the crowd.

Knock him out!

Take him down, Bradley!

My father had grabbed his champagne glass from the floor and was sipping from it again, which hadn't bothered me until he began to shout as well. "Knock the cunt out, Olek!"

I felt cold fury rising through my body. I was used to him taking advantage of my generosity, but I'd be damned if I'd let him do the same to Bradley. He was currently abusing the kindness of the man that allowed him a VIP seat to the fight of the year.

"Grow up," I seethed, snatching the glass from his hand and placing it out of reach. I was trying to keep an eye on the fight, where Bradley was more than holding his own. Oleksandr was stumbling and I wondered if he'd even make the next round. A second-round knockout for Bradley would be a legendary match to retire on, but a little part of me wondered if he was drawing it out on purpose, to give the crowd time to enjoy the fight aa much as he was. A well-placed hit to Oleksandr's temple sent him reeling and left him with a split eyebrow, blood and sweat making Oleksandr squint as the bell ended round two.

I took advantage of the minute-long break to address my father, mindful that Mrs Tyler could hear me—as well as everything he'd already said. I didn't even want to see the look on her face.

"Dad, I want you to remember where we are and why you're here. Show a bit of respect, or I'll have you removed."

"Gimme my drink," my father slurred. He reached over me, grasping blindly for the glass. The crowd roared again as the third round burst to life.

"Get off me!" I manoeuvred my father so he was sat properly in his seat again, but another lunge for the drink knocked me into Melody.

"So sorry," I mumbled, beckoning a security guard over. I could deal with how much my father had humiliated me from the day I was old enough to understand, but I could not deal with him embarrassing me at work—not in front of Bradley.

The guard's presence was enough to make my father think twice about his next actions and he sat back against the seat. But it was too late. "Remove him please, and ensure his name is taken off any lists that might allow him back into the building."

"I'll behave!" he protested. But security wasn't exactly known for accepting excuses. The guard had managed to drag him halfway up the aisle when two things happened at once. The crowd went silent, like someone had muted the sound. And my father cheered. "Get him, Bartosh!"

I spun back to the ring. Bradley was doubled over, clutching at his stomach. Oleksandr Bartosh hit him right under the chin with an uppercut that echoed around the arena. Bradley's head snapped backwards, and it was the first part of him to hit the canvas. For what felt like an eternity, the whole stadium was so silent you could hear a pin drop. But then the shouts started.

Cheating Russian twat!

That was an illegal hit!

Penalise him, ref!

Voices rang through the arena. But they quietened down again as we all seemed to come to the same realisation at the same time.

Bradley wasn't getting up.