Chapter 1: Mick

Chapter One

MICK

“ G reat bout, Mickster.” Harry “O.P.” Maroon nudges my sore shoulder with a bare fist.

I rub the spot. “Careful, O.P., or I’ll have to go to the hospital and not just the trainer.” Even a simple tap by O.P.—short for One Punch because he has so many one-punch knockouts—is hard on my body. I’d just gone five rounds of sparring with the former heavyweight champ. It’s been five years since he’s won a belt, but he’s still got fast hands and quick feet, and his hits haven’t lost an ounce of power. My ribs ache with every breath. It’s a good ache, though. O.P. is the only one who has been able to land a punch on me in weeks. I’ve been getting bored.

He laughs, his slight paunch jiggling. “You're holding your own, son. I'll admit that when they first told me you were coming, I wasn't thrilled because you didn't have any training, but what you don’t have in formal training you’re making up with natural skill. No one can teach that. Keep working hard.”

“When do you think he’ll be ready?” Pedro, my trainer, leans against the ropes.

I stick my tongue between my teeth because a lot rides on his answer.

Harry tilts his head to the side. “I could see him in the ring in three or four months, depending on how dedicated he is.”

Pedro taps his chin. “There’s a fight with an empty undercard in two months.”

“It’s a risk, but I think he can do it.”

I know I can.

“You have your assignment,” he directs to me.

“I’ve always hated homework.” I pretend to be irked, but inside I’m dancing. I shove to my feet and then groan from the pain. Harry laughs.

Some of the younger guys appear out of the locker room, freshly washed and dressed in jeans and tees in varying degrees of wrinkledness. Dee’s shirt looks like he ironed it back there but it’s more likely it hung in the steam room while he worked out. Simba’s vintage Metallica concert tee looks like he just pulled it from the toe of a wool sock. Maybe that’s authentic vintage look, though. I don’t know anything about fashion, unlike some people. I shove that thought down. Can’t have her filling up my head when I’m supposed to be concentrating on becoming a world class boxer. Not that she wants me to think of her. Last time we talked—I should say fought—she told me that if I didn’t leave the city for Vegas, she didn’t even want to be friends because she didn’t want me to blame her for holding me back.

“We’re going to contribute to the Vegas economy.” Simba fans a bunch of five-dollar bills in front of his face.

“It’s five dollars for strippers now? Used to be dollar bills were enough back in my day.”

“A dollar bill would get you kicked out and banned, Grandpa.” Simba shakes his head.

O.P. glances toward me. I shrug. “Don’t ask me.”

“Mick doesn’t go to strip clubs and he doesn’t drink and he doesn’t do drugs and he doesn’t run around with strippers. Or any women.” Pedro shakes his finger at me. “You’re a straitlaced virgin until you win the title.”

“Cripes, Pedro, what’s the point of living if we can’t have pussy and beer?” Dee looks like he wants to fight.

“The point is to win a championship belt. If you want to win, you stay away. If you want pussy and beer, then live with being a training dummy for the winners.”

Pedro’s blunt words piss Dee and Simba off. They give him the double finger and then look at me.

I want to win, so I stay seated.

“Fucking loser.”

“Pussy hater.”

“Fuck you, old man,” they shout as they leave.

“Am I the pussy hater?” O.P. asks.

“I’m the old man,” Pedro says.

“That leaves me to be the fucking loser,” I laugh.

“No offense kid, but I have a wife, so I don’t hate pussy. You have to be the pussy hater.” O.P is comically offended by this.

I give him a thumbs-up. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll be the pussy hater.”

“Good man.” O.P. thumps me painfully on the back. Pedro adds his own pounding before the two of them leave to do whatever it is that they do after beating me up in the ring.

I give my body another thirty seconds to recover before heading to the locker room. While dressing, I get a call from my sister, Lauren.

“How’s everything going? I hate that you’re all alone. Should I come down?”

“You’re pregnant, so no.”

“Doc said I could fly,” she counters.

I look around the empty, silent locker room with almost all the lights off except the row above me. Back in the city, the gym I practiced at was always full, and when I went home, Lauren was usually there, and if she wasn’t, the lights were on, and it felt…warm, like home. This place is fancier. The locks are digital and opened by a fingerprint compared to the combo padlocks at my brother-in-law’s gym. Lights are turned on and off with the switch back home whereas all the lights here are run by sensors, which means if you sit too long on the bench you can find yourself in total darkness. Should she come to me? Should I go home?

“And Griff?” There’s silence and then a change of subject. “I ran into Josie the other day.”

The name sends a shiver down my spine. I never think of Josie except every other moment. “What did she say?” I try to sound nonchalant, like it doesn’t matter.

Lauren hesitates. “Not much. She’s delivering food nowadays. She said she’s saving up for a new computer. I offered to lend her money for a new one, but she refused.”

“She would.” Josie isn’t much for handouts. She was probably offended by Lauren’s offer. “Did she say anything else?” Like that she missed me? That every minute we’re not together rips her heart apart?

“No.” Lauren’s tone is so full of pity I nearly choke on my own embarrassment. Of course, Josie didn’t mention me, didn’t ask about me. We were just neighbors at one time who occasionally played computer games together. Now I’m in Las Vegas training to be a professional boxer, and she’s just some small-time hometown girl who never showed any interest in me anyway. I don’t care about her.

If I say it enough, I’ll believe this lie.