Page 3 of Win You Over
I open my eyes again and when I do, they clash with my mum’s. The same deep brown as my own. She smiles, but it’s not a happy smile. It’s the one she does whenever she talks about my dad. I hate that she’s aiming it at me. My lips tip up in response, but I don’t feel like I’m smiling back.
Mum looks at her best friend and nods. “It’s a chance for us to start over. To get away from the memories here, and all this.” She waves her hand around the room. “It’ll be good for Holden. For both of us.”
If I was stronger, I could have fought back and we wouldn’t be leaving the country I call home. The country where my dad is buried. If I was stronger, my mum wouldn’t be leaving behind her best friend.
Sandra wipes at her eyes. There’s so much sadness in the room and it’s all my fault. I should have been stronger.
Chapter 1
Holden
Sounds echo off the walls of the old, barren warehouse basement. The smell of damp mixed with body odour and sweat form a disgusting mix that permeates the air. In front of me, my best friend Theo holds one of my hands in his, while using his other to wrap my knuckles in white boxing tape.
“I wonder who you’ll be up against tonight,” he says, his gaze focused on my hand. I look around the space, which is slowly filling up, noting one or two other guys whom I’ve fought before. I only found this underground ring at the start of the school year, after receiving an invitation from a guy at my gym, and have taken part in four fights, tonight being my fifth.
When I was younger, the idea of being in places like this, with so many people, filled me with swirling anxiety that made mystomach ache. And I still feel that way a lot of the time, but not when I’m fighting. Fighting is the type of sport I can do in my silence, focusing my mind and energy into the next kick and the next punch. It’s one of the reasons I accepted the invite.
These nights are not regulated and you can’t find them online. It’s invite only and the location changes every time. No details on who is fighting at each event are given out beforehand and when the selections are made, it’s luck of the draw who you’re up against. You have to be a student of the university to take part, but anyone can place bets on the fight.
I shake loose strands of my brown hair out of my eyes, the rest of it tied back into a ponytail, as Theo tapes up my other hand. I can do it myself, but he’s declared himself my right-hand man and takes his role in these fights seriously. Depending on how badly it goes tonight, when we get home, he’ll clean the wounds and fix me up, possibly add stitches if needed.
“Right, all done.” Theo takes a step back, then pulls a water bottle out of the bag hanging from his shoulder. “Here, have a drink.” I do as I’m told because nothing has ever been gained from arguing with Theo. When I’m done taking a swig of the cool water, I hand the bottle back to him with a nod of thanks.
“It’s hot as balls in here tonight,” Theo exclaims, pulling his tee away from his chest and flicking it in an attempt to cool himself. Despite it being a cool, spring evening outside, the basement feels like it’s near the pits of hell. I look down at my own clothing – black athletic shorts and a grey tank, a hint of sweat beading around the collar. Theo is right, it is hot as fuck in this dimly lit, poorly ventilated basement. I hate fighting in this sort of heat, but comfort isn’t exactly top on the list for whoever organises these events.
A bead of sweat trickles down the back of my neck, and I lift a hand to wipe it away, just as there’s a loudwhoopof excitementbehind me and I turn around, gritting my teeth so hard my jaw aches.
Walking down the concrete stairs, like he owns the place (he probably does), is the bane of my existence, all six-foot two of him. He descends each step, moving with the fluidity of a man without a care in the world. A man who knows exactly what he came here tonight to achieve. I fucking hate him.
Remington Langford. Golden boy. Star pupil. Mr. Popular. Pompous, smug, asshole.
“Ah fuck, he showed up again,” Theo moans, his hand coming to land on my shoulder in a show of sympathy. I’m not sure why either of us are surprised. Rumour is, he never misses a fight. He’s certainly missed none of the ones I’ve attended. I would attend more if they didn’t clash so often with my nights at the grocery store.
I wring my hands together and nod. Mumbling, “It’s fine,” under my breath, my voice feeling gritty with each word. I shake my hands and bounce from foot to foot, willing some confidence into my bones. I’m a good fighter. I spent the last eight years honing my body into great shape, learning how to fight and how to protect myself - even against guys bigger than me. But the four times I’ve fought Remington this past year, I’ve lost. Every. Single. Time.
To some, these fight nights mean nothing but a chance to blow off steam. Entertainment. A little fun in their otherwise mundane lives of country clubs and social events. To others – like me – winning one of these nights could make a huge difference to my life.
The thousand dollar prize money for the winner means nothing to rich snobs like Remington. Hell, he and his douchebag entourage will probably piss it all away before the end of the night. The guy takes the word wealthy to an entirely new level. His family is the type of old money rich who have theirnames on wings of hospitals and university buildings. Including Warnham U, the university that Theo and I attend as partial scholarship students, along with some of the richest pricks in America.
The prize money for tonight’s fight would feed Theo and me for a month and help us pay the rent on the room we share in a lousy apartment in the poorest part of town. Our wages from our part-time jobs barely cover the bills, so I fight because I have something to fight for. Remington and a few of the others here tonight do it for bragging rights. Wiping the shit off their asses with hundred-dollar bills while Theo and I watch. I haven’t won it yet, but when I do, it’ll change our lives, even if only for a short time.
Remington scans the crowd, made up predominantly of college students with far too much money, smiling as people literally fawn over him. Everyone wants to be his friend, to be in his inner circle. Well, nearly everyone – certainly not me. It’s all so fucking fake and pretentious. I feel tired just thinking about what it must be like to be in his presence for longer than a few minutes.
When he spots me, the grin on his face grows twofold and he closes the space between us in three long, arrogant strides until he and the five idiots who follow him around like lost sheep are standing directly in front of us. His blond hair is the type of messy that looks like it takes hours to achieve, and he’s wearing an outfit similar to every other fighter here tonight, though, probably cost five times as much. There’s not a mark on his perfect skin. No evidence of what Mr. Popular does with his free time. Even his knuckles are unblemished.
His body is a stark contrast to mine, which is battered and bruised, with scars that will never fade. I sink into myself a little at the comparison, momentarily forgetting how much work I’ve put in to be where I am today. I shake off the thought, squaringmy shoulders and stepping forward, bringing Remington and me even closer.
“Looks like it’s my lucky night, Booker. You must really like losing.” Our eyes lock, as though we’re already in a fight that neither of us is backing away from.
My jaw clenches tighter, my tongue sitting heavily in my mouth. My words are few and never wasted on him. I know what he’s trying to do. I’ve known guys like him my entire life. He wants to rile me up and throw me off my game, make me lose focus. That’s how he wins. He gets in your head and then he takes you down.
Not tonight. Not again.
I tip my head to him by way of greeting, reaching into my pocket and fumbling with my pocket knife. The cold metal against my skin, a comforting sensation. Next to me, Theo shuffles closer, his shoulder brushing mine.
An awkward silence settles around us, Remington’s friends waiting patiently for their fearless leader to say or do something. In the end, it’s the call of tonight’s host that grabs our attention, making the two of us finally snap our gazes away from each other.
“Stop fucking around, assholes,” the host bellows into the loudspeaker. “Let’s get this party started!” The crowd surrounding the makeshift ring cheer, clinking their cans of beer together while moving in closer, all vying for the perfect spot to view the fights.
