Page 2 of The Breaking Pointe
While Trey orders our meals out in the dining area ofthe restaurant, I sit in the bathroom, cleaning my face of the malignant jab that I was so sweetly gifted earlier this evening.He didn’t get me too bad, thankfully, but it will scar—another thing I will have to somehow explain to my mother. It just adds to her interrogation every single time I go to visit her. My answers always remain the same, but she seems to forget that my job revolves around the possibility of me getting my ass kicked if I’m not careful enough.
This is not to be misconstrued as me being a prude about getting scratched up.I think it’s pretty bad ass.But understandably, when my mother sees any bruises or scars, she’s reminded of my father’s unbearable nights when he would lose matches.It’s like the sight of it convinces her that I’ve been beaten to a pulp. Except, I would never let it get that bad.That and sobriety has been my thing for my entire life.My father’s first mistake was going into rings fully blasted off of fresh doses of heroin or multiple lines of cocaine.
So this probably would prompt one to ask:why the hell are you involved in boxing in the first place?It’s not that complex. The answer to that is that I simply enjoy throwing a good melee here and there, and I may or may not be holding onto some incessant, pent-up anger. I also consider it to be a guilty pleasure. Not the good kind, though.The kind that’s
similar to an illicit love.It’s bittersweet to me because of the person my father made himself out to be.The more I box, the more I see him when I’m looking in the mirror—and that just can’t be. I’m nothing like him.
I conclude my bathroom session after successfully clean- ingupmyfaceofsweatandscarring,butI’mleftwith lingering, greenish-blue bruises.Exiting the bathroom, Inavigate my way through a few people, walking toward Trey who is sitting at a small booth. He has papers spread across the table, along with our food, looking at them with his full attention.Sitting down, I peek at the small font on the paper, squinting as my contacts prove to be useless, just barelymaking out the words. Lo and behold, he’s already fishing me another match.
“No such thing as breaks with you, huh?”I ask, my lips creeping to the side with a sly smile as I reach for my drink. “Relax,Hercules.I’monlylookingatouroptions.”He glances at me, chest bouncing with a chuckle.“There are three guys, and two of them you’ve already had tournaments with.It would only serve as a repeat for the season.You knowwhatthatmeans.”Heshakeshishead,returningto
his focused state.
It meansfightingfor free.Which I’veneveragreed todo.
He leaves the papers alone for a moment, and we both start to dig into the food that has been waiting for us.
“So, who’s the third guy then? Can’t be more of a jerk-off than I am,” I say before I take a full bite of food.
“His name is Daniel Aguado. You might’ve heard of him. He has two championship belts,” he responds, stuffing his face as well.
I don’t even have one.Has he losthis mind?
“Trey—man, I appreciate you having such faith in my physical abilities, but that’s setting myself up for failure,” I say as I finish chewing my food and swallow it.
I know exactly who Daniel is.Maybe not personally, but watching him online is enough.His track record is impeccable for someone of his stature and age. Unlike me, he’s beyond his up-and-coming phase and takes this shit way more seriously than I think I ever will.
“It’s more than faith, Colton.Your potential is crazy, and I can’t keep subjecting you to these opponents who are starting to hold less than half of your stamina. You’re getting too good for you not to up the weight class in the matches we choose.”
I take another bite of my food, slowly chewing as he stares at me.
“Have you seen Danny? He’s got at least seventy pounds on me. Maybe more.” I give him an ominous look.
He nods.“And it’s nothing you can’t handle.Trust me, would you? You have three long weeks to train. When have I ever steered you wrong, my guy?” He smiles brightly.
I return the smile, complying with his ideas. Sure, I trust his judgment, otherwise he wouldn’t be my manager.But my instincts are working overtime, telling me that this sounds like a disaster in the making.The next three weeks are probably going to be the steps leading me to the gates of hell.
There’s no doubt in my mind that I’ll be able to prepare in time.My real concern is if any of my training this year will show for itself. I’m a man of many strengths, yet when I’m under pressure, I can fold like a wet piece of paper if my nerves get bad enough.It hasn’t happened in the ring, but I
can’t help but wonder if I haven’t met my match yet. All it takes is one mindless match to humble some people—and if I am humbled enough, I’m not sticking around to test any other insane theories.
At the end of the day, I started all of this for fun. The next thing I knew, I suddenly woke up and had a manager on top of a major following on social media. All because I’m decent at right hooks and jabs. It’s fun to think about, but the craft that I’m actually tied to more emotionally has nothing to do with violence at all.
* * *
After arriving home, I grab my mail from my slot in the lobby of the building before entering the elevator and pressing floor fourteen.The ride up is quick, and soon I’m at the front door of my loft, already hearing Bonnie cause a ruckus on the other side. Smiling at this, I open the door quickly to get my body inside before closing and locking it.
“Hey, sweet girl…” I swoon, kneeling to show her some love.Seeing her is honestly the best part of coming home every day.No matter when or how many times.It never gets old, the way she’s exhilarated to see me.It’s so nice and positive after a long day.
Standing up straight, I look through the mail, only to see a few pieces of junk and a couple of business-related letters. I toss them on the table beside the door, which contains more junk mail.The silence begins to fill the air, but I let out a big sigh before it becomes too ominous. I kick off my shoes and slide them to the side before walking down a couple of stepsintothelivingarea.Ireachoutandpressafewbuttons
on my house phone to play my voicemails. Bonnie follows me, being a busybody like usual. I enter the kitchen area and begin to prepare food for her.She huffs and puffs at my feet, waiting.That’s all she really wants when I get home.The first voicemail plays, and a soft-spoken voice fills the room.“Hey, Colton, it’s Jennifer. I’m already missing you. I thought
I would call you.You never called me after the other night…”
The voice pauses for a moment, then continues.“Okay, call me,”she finishes, hanging up abruptly.
I absolutely remember Jennifer.Do I want to, though? Absolutely not. She was sweet, don’t get me wrong. Pretty, too.The downfall is that she was only a good time for me. I’m beyond intoxicated, and so was she.We met at one of the local bars, it’s no big deal—to me, at least.
