Page 121 of Hits Different

“I’ll say it again”, Freddie beams. “Atta. Freaking. Boy”.

Chapter 45

Legacy

Parker

The first time I was in a fight was when I was twelve years old. My dad had just received his diagnosis, and my world was in freefall.

I’d gone to the arcade, lost myself in blasting zombies. Some kid jostled me. I shoved him. He shoved me back. He called me something, and I tackled him, whaling on him until the owner dragged me off. It was only later, when his parents tried to file a police report, that I found out he was nineteen.

I sat on my bed. Wet eyes. Bloodied knuckles. My dad silently taped them up, whilst my mom despaired in the kitchen. “Feel better?” he asked quietly.

I realised that I did.

“Good”. He turned and walked to the door. “My buddy runs a gym in South Bank. We’ll enrol you tomorrow”. More pan-rattling from the kitchen. “It’ll be our secret”.

****

The crowd isn’t here for me. They’re not here for Tank either. He prowls the cage opposite me, smashing his fists together.

Behind him, Julius and Frankie sit expressionless. This fight is taking place in a makeshift community gym. The commentators are barely out of college. But it’s the first step.

Behind the cage, huddled amongst Zara’s team, Jack gives me a half-wave. I nod back, feeling ridiculously touched he showed up. Archie raises a beer in my direction. Will flanks him, alongside Sheryl. Simon sits directly behind Zara, looking hopelessly out of place in a tweed sportscoat. But he’s here.

Zara presses my mouthguard into place.

“Did your parents show?” The visage of my father is replaced by the crowd. Their ambivalence is obvious with every passive turn of their head. The indignity of some empty seats. I shake my head. “Use that”.

By the time I’m done, I’ll make sure every one of these fuckers remembers my name. Even if I have to write it on the floor of the cage in my own blood.

The referee calls Tank and I to the centre of the ring. He stares through me like I’m nothing. He wants to do to me exactly what I know I’m going to do to him. My fists clench. I nod my readiness, bouncing from foot to foot.

We touch gloves, the bell rings, and it’s on.

I feel the power behind his jab as his fist sails by my face. If he hits me, it’s going to be bad. I toss a leg kick his way which he defends, and we circle, feinting and feeling each other out. I know it’s stupid, every single fibre of my body is telling me not to glance towards the seats I reserved for my parents. The empty seats.

But I look.

And immediately, I pay for that mistake. His knuckles split my lip open. Frankie screams at him to follow up, and he does, with a quick combination that leaves me dizzy. I collapse against the steel cage wall and pull him into a clinch to buy some recovery time.

He muscles out of it, and I move quickly to block another jab and fire off a volley of my own. I catch him in the nose and jaw. He shakes me off angrily and keeps moving forward.He aims another jab that catches me right in the gut, winding me. He charges me and I slam my hips into his side, toppling him off balance.

He scrambles to his feet immediately, without missing a beat. We circle around the cage. I’m doing just enough to keep him at arm’s length until the bell sounds for the end of the first round.

Zara squirts water down my throat, tells me to take my time. Let him tire himself out. Exploit his recklessness. And duck better. I wobble to my feet. The lights flicker just long enough for me to catch sight of a familiar figure taking a seat behind Frankie. It’s Darwin.

Fuck.

The second round starts, and he comes right at me, but this time, I meet him with a strong jab of my own. He barely reacts.Tough motherfucker. I pull the same shit again and connect harder this time.He blocks a third attempt with a leg kick to my calf that sends a volt of pain shooting through my thigh.

Darwin’s eyes burn with satisfaction.

The crowd’s starting to pay some attention.I’m right in-front of my corner, and Zara's screaming at me but I can’t hear a fucking word she’s saying. He charges at me and I catch him, wrestling him to the mat. He defends, driving the air out of me with a series of knees to my side.

The buzzer rings, and I roll off, gasping for air. He knocks an elbow into my face, wobbling me. The ref jumps in for a penalty as the crowd boo. My second official round comes to an end.

I slump, dazed, onto my stool. I spit blood onto the canvas. There’s a blur, and suddenly, an icepack is pressed gently against my side. I’d recognise that touch anywhere.

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