Page 17 of Risky Fight

I start to read the largely fictional account of why I have quit, and where I am. They make vague references to drugs, illegal fights and me being in trouble with the law. There is a picture of me outside the law firm that called me the day I found out about Nolan. They deal mostly in criminal law, so the assumption isn’t completely off the reservation. “What a crock of shit.” I stop halfway and slam the paper down.

“You need to make a public statement on TV or something. So, they see your face,” he says, “before the rumors get worse, and people start digging.” I’m not ready, but I know he is right. Until I say something, they will make up things to say for me.

“I will do it today,” I tell him, pulling out my phone to text my publicist so she can set it up, I’m sure there are reporters here that will jump at this opportunity. I’m already rehearsing my story in my head when she replies she will have someone to interview me tonight — at my home — with Nolan.

The world will know about him, and I am going to either look like a villain or a hero. It depends on the story they want to paint, no one can understand a person might be both of those things. I can be both a bad man and a good father, or a good fighter and a terrible son. I’m no one thing.

***

The TV crew have set up cameras all over my living room, and the lights are so bright they hurt my eyes. I’m tired, the heat has been murderous all day and this isn’t what I needed to do tonight, but I have to just eat the fucking frog. Once this is done, that chapter of my life is over and I can move on.

I settle into the interview chair, facing the pit bull of a reporter with a sense of trepidation. I’ve sat down for more than a few of these in the past five years, this one feels different. This is not going to be easy, but I have to keep my composure and protect my son and family’s privacy. They can know the truth, but I can also make sure they know we are not available for their entertainment. This is me ending my relationship with the whole fucking world and starting my life as a father.

“So, Roark, you disappeared from the spotlight and right after that you announce you are retiring from your UFC career,” the interviewer starts, her voice sharp and probing. “We have heard rumors you have been connected to organized crime and you quit so you wouldn’t be kicked out, is this true?”

“If it was true, you wouldn’t be here asking me questions, we’d be talking via lawyers.” I shut her down, my family business is none of her business. We keep it clean on the surface, but here in Ireland, people know. “My retirement, and the choice to take some private time away from the exploitation of show business was more personal than the rumors indicate.”

“Personal?” They live for that shit, the nosy fucking bastards. “In what way? Another rumor we heard was that you were injured and fighting was off the table.”

“I assure you I am as fit as a fiddle and could fight if I wanted to. This was about family, and legacy and doing right by my son. I recently found out I have a son, his mother kept his existence a secret, and it was only when she passed away unexpectedly that I was notified.” Her eyes go wide, and I can tell she is delighted she got this scoop.

“What happened to his mother? How old is your son? Why did she keep it from you? Why wouldn’t she tell you?” Her rapid-fire questions get under my skin.

I take a deep breath, trying to stay focused. “My personal life is none of the public’s business,” I reply firmly. “Yes, I found out about my son, and that was a life-altering moment. But the details are private, and I won’t be sharing them.” I shut her down. This isn’t something the world needs to know, or my son needs to see playing on YouTube years from now. He lost his Mam, and that’s painful enough.

She doesn’t let up, pushing harder with her questions. “There are whispers about your family’s connections to the mob. Did that have anything to do with your sudden departure from America?” Really? They want to go for low blows?

My jaw tightens, and I feel the weight of my family’s history on my shoulders. “I won’t be discussing my family’s past,” I state firmly. “I left so I could raise my son in my home country, surrounded by his grandparents and family, and that’s all I’m willing to say.” I start feeling attacked.

The reporter smirks, sensing my discomfort. “Some might say you’re running away from your problems, that you’re not fit to be a father. What do you say to that?”

I take a moment to collect my thoughts, refusing to let her get the best of me. “I’d say they should mind their fucking business, they have no idea what the situation is behind closed doors. I might have missed the first four years with my boy, but I intend to be a fucking good dad. Being a father is everything to me now,” I reply, my voice unwavering. “I am fully committed to my son’s well-being. As for my past career, it’s behind me. I’m focused on moving forward. I ‘quit’ fighting to be a dad — how many men would give up everything for their kids?” I snarl the words out, my fuse has run out and I am going to blow.

It’s challenging to keep my emotions in check, but I know I have to do it.

My son’s happiness and my family’s safety are at stake, and I won’t let anyone exploit our vulnerabilities for the sake of sensationalism. “This interview is over, I chose family over fighting and ask that the fans and press respect my request for privacy.” She shifts in her seat. “I have hung up my gloves and I don’t owe the world an explanation. You are not entitled to know what is happening in my life. I am just a regular guy now, working for my family business and looking after my boy.”

So regular — there is a kidnapped girl in my house, I have a son and no idea how to raise him right in a family of criminals. I have never needed to punch someone or something more than I do tonight. I walk out of the room leaving them all there, slack-jawed and silent. I have said all I plan to say, ever. The further I get down the hall the lighter I feel, walking away from something that was once everything I wanted has been easy.

My day is far from done, but my fighting career is now over and I can move forward. “I have to go back into the city,” I huff at the bodyguard I hired to protect Nolan. “I will be late, make sure Lou gets him to bed and she doesn’t do anything stupid.” That girl can’t be trusted.

“She’s having dinner with the kid, and I will make sure things here are under control. They have taken the O’Neill lads to the wharf warehouse. The accountant goes to gym then home, where he usually works on his computer or plays games on the internet,” he informs me. Games — Lou was dating a gamer. That is not an image I can make work, she is Lou, gamers are boring and bland. They’re dependable and steady, they don’t leave. He’s the opposite of me, that’s why she is with him. Because he is nothing like me.

It was the same for me. Every woman I allowed to get close to me was nothing like her. They were weak, soft women who had no fight in them at all. Ring bunnies, models and influencers, none of them very smart or a challenge. Lou is all fight and fire, she’s the most infuriating, fucking sexy woman I have ever met. No one could be her so I only chose women who were nothing like her.

She’s done the same thing — the accountant isn’t me. He is also going to be a fucking problem if I don’t deal with him quickly.

“No one comes in, and get those TV assholes out of here before they see her or Nolan.” He nods, and I stride out the front door. The TV crew are packing their van as I drive away and leave them behind.

***

The warehouse at the wharf stinks, decades of fish processing have permeated the walls and the stench stuck there is a part of history. It’s like a giant oven, the metal roof holding the heat in makes the whole place a steam bath from hell. There are some of my father’s men watching the door, and I walk to the middle of the large space where both Lou’s brothers are tied together.

“Hello, lads,” I greet them, reveling in their discomfort, “it’s been a while. I see nothing has really changed while I was gone.”

They writhe and pull against their restraints, like the slimy little worms they are. I allow them to wait a minute or two to understand what this meeting is about. The fear they might get another beat down — this time from me — is written all over their scared faces. “You boys made some bad choices, and you owe my family a lot of money,” I say, walking around them like a predator circling its prey. “We gave you a warning visit, and you still haven’t come up with a penny.” They knew there would be repercussions for non-payment.

I wait to see if they try make excuses, but the duct tape over their mouths make it hard to hear what pitiful excuses they have. I can’t think of one that would be good enough to release them from this debt. I believe my father has been lenient with them because he too has a soft spot for Lou, as crazy as she drove him. He knew I loved her.

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