Champ Page 2

  I pause for a moment, and then shake my head.

  “Why?” he asks, keeping one eye on me and the other on the thousands he’s just picked up on red.

  “I’m only here until tomorrow.”

  “You’re not covering the fight?”

  “Our paper is small, no budget I’m afraid.”

  He laughs.

  “What?” I’m partially offended by his response.

  “I’ll take care of it. What’s your boss’s number?”

  “I’m not sure he’ll agree to—”

  “Nonsense,” he interrupts. “I’ll take care of your expenses. I’d like to give you an interview. You’ve got huge balls asking me what you did at the press conference. I wanna know where you dragged that shit up from.”

  Before I can explain, he stops me. “Where are you staying?”

  “The White Rose.” I say it like I’m asking a question.

  “What, that shitty motel next to the Elvis wedding chapel?”

  “Yes,” I murmur, completely mortified and turning redder by the second.

  He smirks and then draws in one of his guards. Connor hands him a clip of money from the breast pocket of his tailored suit. “Put her up in the MGM.” He turns his attention back to me. “Is that okay, Sofia?”

  “Oh, I don’t want to inconvenience you, I mean, it’s too much.”

  He rolls his eyes. “You want a story, right?”

  “Of course, it’s my job.”

  “Then it’s nothing. You just go and check out of that shithole motel and then make your way to the reception of the MGM. My assistant will book the room for you. Just collect your key in around half an hour.”

  “Okay, thanks. I’ll just clear it with my editor.”

  “You do that. And if he’s funny with you then you tell him you’ll have something juicy to report. Tell him that the champ requested you . . . personally.”

  2

  Connor

  Ninety thousand dollars. Not too shabby for a win on twenty. I’m starting to think that red might be my new favorite color.

  Reclining back on a plush suede sofa in the VIP lounge of the casino’s club, I’m detached from the pulsating music that bounces off the magnolia walls. While most of my entourage enjoy dancing, partying, and drinking straight from the neck of thousand dollar bottles of champagne, I’m busy thumbing through my winnings and thinking about the girl from the press conference.

  Sofia Chavez.

  Damn.

  I have my choice of women in this place, any girl in Vegas I want, yet that reporter has something different about her—something special. I can’t put my finger on it. All I really know is that it fucks with my head, and I hate the feeling.

  Vinnie, head of my security, gives me a wave as he takes a beautiful blonde girl out to the dancefloor. I jerk my chin, shooting him a knowing smile. It’s nice to see my team enjoy themselves. They’re always on call should I need anything and it’s a pleasure to give back. They’re more than my team, they’re family. The family I never had.

  As a new track blasts out from the DJ booth, my eye catches a clip playing on a large widescreen TV above the bar. I’m unable to hear it over the noise but I watch anyway. It’s an ESPN special about the fight presser. Noticing how good I look in my tailored sky-blue suit with purple tie, I grin to myself. It’s important to look good in this business. Making boxing look easy is one thing, looking good while doing it takes panache. The silk hankie from my breast pocket is a nice touch, too. Details like that matter.

  “Hey, Con, checking yourself out again?”

  My attention remains fixed on the TV.

  “Connor,” the voice presses.

  I glance up and see Racheal, one of the regular ring girls at all of my fights. A wicked smile plays across her devil-red lips. She traces her finger seductively around the rim of a champagne glass and pushes her cleavage out. I have to admit she looks hot as hell, dressed in a crushed velvet red dress and shiny black fuck-me heels. The sweet perfume she wears is gorgeous.

  “You like looking at yourself, don’t you?” she teases.

  I smooth down the lapels of my Hugo Boss jacket and smile. “No shame in that. You ever seen a man of success look scruffy?”

  Uninvited, she joins me on the sofa. I know what this bitch is doing—she’s trying to get in my pants.

  Her sexy legs press up against mine. I should be majorly turned on now. Normally I’d drag a girl as smoking hot as her up to my room and slam her hard against the door as I screw her brains out. Yeah, I could do that so easy. But something weird takes hold in my gut. For once I am not in any way moved by her, or any other girl in the club. Sure, she stunning, but I can’t help thinking about that strange, shy, passionate reporter from earlier. Whereas the girls who pursue me lay everything out—tits and ass on full display—Sofia has a quiet dignity, a self-effacing style that is as captivating as it is frustrating to figure out.

  I try to shake out of it and concentrate on my anaemic conversation with the Barbie doll sat next to me, but her words are nothing but white noise buzzing in my ear.

  She nudges me. “Did you hear what I just said?”

  “Sorry, what was that?”

  She laughs and rests her head on my shoulder, her hands coiling around the tight muscles of my arm.

  As she carries on chatting away, my eyes widen.

  I catch a glimpse of Sofia on the TV. I sit upright, eager to see more. Before I can fully indulge, the camera cuts. Must have been the moment when she was evicted from the room, which reminds me . . . I need a word with that security guy. I hope he doesn’t work for me or his ass is history.

  Switching my focus back to the raucous scene of the club, the endless talking of the chick next to me starts to get my attention.

  “And I started modelling at sixteen and then—”

  I cut her off, politely pushing her back. “That’s great, really it is, listen . . . I’m pretty tired . . .” My words soften to silence as I notice the disappointment in her eyes. I start to feel bad.

  Need to think fast, Connor.

  Right then, Johnny Gomez—middleweight contender on my under card—starts toward the bar. I whistle to get his attention.

  “Connor,” he shouts, his arms held wide as if he’s getting ready to hug a best friend.

  I push to my feet and walk toward to him, pulling the girl over by her arm.

  “Excited for the fight?” I ask.

  He starts shadow boxing. “You bet, man. I’m gonna put that motherfucker to sleep.”

  I grin. “It’s about time you had a knockout. Those point wins are only cool for so long.”

  He playfully digs me in the arm with a jab.

  “Oh, Johnny, have you met . . .” my attention turns to the girl next to me.

  “Racheal,” she completes, rolling her pretty mascara-drunk eyes.

  I can already see the lust burn in Johnny’s gaze. He takes her by the wrist and places a kiss on the back of her hand.

  Classy bastard.

  I observe the expression on Racheal’s face and see her return the affection with a flutter of her long lashes. I think that’s my get-out-of-jail card.

  Fuck. That was close.

  Johnny frowns at me. “Hey, isn’t sex before a fight a bad idea?”

  “Hey,” Racheal says to him. “Who said I was going to give you sex?” She’s defensive but I can tell she likes him. I’m fairly certain she will be riding on his cock before the night is out.

  “That’s a myth,” I tell Johnny.

  “Really?” he responds.

  “Of course.” I tut. “Come on, man. Has it ever stopped me?”

  I can see Johnny process this for a moment, but he’s soon broken from his thoughts by the sight of Racheal shaking her pert ass to the music.

  Johnny winks at me. “Later, champ.”

  With that, he pulls her away to the dancefloor . . . or his hotel room. I don’t stick around to find out.

  Checking the t
ime on my watch, I decide to split before any other girl tries to sleep with me.

  I must be sick. How can just a few minutes in Sofia’s presence screw with me like this?

  I head for the exit.

  “Boss . . .”

  I stop and turn.

  Vinnie paces over. “You going already?”

  “Yeah, feeling tired.”

  He looks at his watch and frowns.

  “I know it’s early,” I add, “but it’s been a crazy day. Make sure to keep everyone topped up with drinks, yeah?”

  “Sure thing. Boss, you’re not . . . ?” He hesitates.

  “Spit it out.”

  “You’re not worried about the fight?”

  I freeze, staring at him like he’s just completely lost his mind. He looks sheepishly down to the floor.

  “No, Vinnie. Fuck.” A chuckle escapes me. He lightly laughs along.

  “Did Sofia get to her room okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah, she seemed excited. I don’t reckon she’s ever stayed anywhere like this before.”

  I smile. “Good. And she’s in the room next to mine, right?”

  “You bet.”

  I pause for a moment, letting the music wash over me, and then pat him on the arm. “Cheers, Vinnie. You’re a good friend.”

  I walk away.

  “Night, boss,” he calls out after me.

  Without looking back, I hold my hand up in acknowledgment and head for the elevators.

  3

  Sofia

  Last night was sheer heaven.

  Sleeping on a king-size bed, with crisp linen sheets and gorgeous French satin, I felt like royalty—certainly much nicer than the previous dump, with its single moth-eaten mattress for comfort.

  As a cool breeze from the air-con tempers my skin, I wrap the sheets tighter around my naked body and curl up into a ball. I’m not use to such luxury—never really missed it as I never really had it—but this, this I could get used to.

  Just as my eyelids threaten to close again, my phone, which rests on a nightstand just a few inches from my face, blares out. I wait for it to stop. I pray for it to stop . . . it doesn’t. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I curse and reach out for it.

  Pulling the phone up to my chest and squinting down at the screen, my heart sinks. It’s my editor—at 7:45 in the morning. Christ, I don’t think my body or my mind is ready for his voice so early.

  With little choice I answer, immediately gnashing my teeth as his voice vibrates like a pneumatic drill in my ear. I have to hold the phone away to stop from bursting an eardrum. He’s reading me the riot act; asking me why I haven’t written him a draft report yet, and why Connor’s put me up in the swankiest hotel in Las Vegas when the motel that the paper paid for was good enough.

  “You’re there to work, not play,” he says over and over, like some rehearsed mantra.

  After around ten minutes of migraine inducing lecturing—with me trying to reassure him that things look promising, and that I’ll be sure to email him something later on, he turns a corner and calms a little. It’s probably the Xanax kicking in.

  “Yes, Mr. Dunne. I’ll get as much information as I can,” I say.

  When his tirade is finally over, I press end on the call, drop the phone on the pillow next to me, and breathe out.

  I don’t want to get up.

  I could stay like this forever. But just before I sink into another sleep, feeling my eyelids get heavy with each passing second, I push from the bed and rise to my feet.

  I let out a loud yawn and stretch my arms over my head. I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed a sleep like that but I’m thankful. For this week alone, I needed it.

  I decide to make some breakfast and get charged up for the day.

  Walking through to the kitchen, I still can’t get over the place. The sprawling penthouse suite is beautiful: Three large open planned rooms, which flow into each other in a perfect sweep, a pool table set under a beautiful crystal chandelier, a fully stocked bar, and floor to ceiling windows that show off an awe inspiring panoramic view of the city. The room must have cost a fortune. I’m not a materialistic girl, but staying here for the next few days is undeniably cool.

  My brain scrambles to make sense of it all. I’m just a humble reporter trying to cover a sports story, and yet he felt compelled to book this room for me. It makes me question what he’s really after.

  Is he using me as a mouthpiece to announce a shock retirement, perhaps?

  I grin, as I mull over the numerous possibilities.

  Shuffling over to the bar in the kitchen, I help myself to some fresh orange juice from the refrigerator. As I pour myself a large glass, I examine all the lines of liquor bottles on display. For the briefest of seconds I’m tempted to take a small taste but quickly decide against it. It’s far too early for that. Anyway, even if I wanted to turn this job into part vacation I couldn’t. I need to keep a level head as I prepare notes for my impending interview with the world champ. My reputation is on the line, along with a better pay check. I need to make sure I ask Connor the right questions and also prepare myself for the eventuality of him acting up—just as he likes to do with any other reporter.

  Being sensible, I take my glass of OJ over to a work table, near the living room window, and make myself comfortable.

  After taking a few swigs of my juice, I dig out the laptop from my travel bag—which is parked by the foot of the table—and switch the power on. I should really shower and dress before I start work, but while the spark is alive I opt to push right on ahead. Anyway, I have time to make up. In a few days Connor will have had his fight.

  When the screen of my laptop comes to life, I’m surprised to discover just how good the Wi-Fi connection is. Taking just a few seconds to find Google, as opposed to the chugging reach I got in my grotty old motel room, makes the job much easier.

  I start off by Googling a few images of him. In every single picture he looks cocky, defiant, and strong; like nothing on this planet could budge or rattle him in the slightest. He’s also undeniably hot, sporting a terrific muscular physique which seems much leaner than most fighters in his weight class. He has short, ruffled, dirty-blond hair, and piercing emerald-green eyes. His torso is covered in body art. God, I love a man with tattoos. I allow myself a few moments of private fantasy as I admire his pictures. To hell with it, I can keep this shit to myself.

  As I paw over images of Connor, my first question sets off . . .

  Is he gay?

  Boxing always seemed a little homo-erotic to me, pounding each other’s body to bloody submission. I giggle to myself, as I imagine his reaction to my first question: “Do you have a boyfriend, Mr. Patrick?”

  Wow, could make for a great story. A gay hero in the fight world would be so neat. Break apart some prehistoric preconceptions.

  I scribble frantically onto the pages of a dog-eared notebook, while the fingers of my other hand are busy hovering over a list of archived stories on the net.

  I’m trying to find out as much of his history as I can, starting off with his amateur days as a club fighter all the way up to his privileged position at the top of the world. He’s spent seven years as champ, winning his first world title at the tender age of eighteen.

  I write notes as fast as my thoughts come, but nothing that hasn’t been said before presents itself. Then, when I’m at the brink of giving up and helping myself to some of that lovely alcohol on the kitchen island bar, I dig a little deeper and fish out some obscure news story from a long defunct publication. It regards Connor’s older brother, Adam.

  Adam took part in a notorious fight about two years before Connor won his first world title. The story’s headline is quite sensationalist:

  Was Adam Patrick murdered?

  I find myself sneering at the piece. Apart from being badly written, it is a crass and insensitive article which is based on no credible evidence whatsoever. The story eludes to the idea that Adam’s opponent that night may have been on
some performing enhancing drug. It states that the fighter who beat Adam was placed only number forty-nine in the world rankings. It carries on to suggest that not only was the loss an anomaly for the normally flawless Adam Patrick, but that the fashion in which he was beat, and tragically lost his life, was strange to say the least.

  I search for some other stories and quickly find similar tabloid sensationalist crap. No wonder Connor is so funny with people from my profession; it must’ve been hard to read all that after losing a loved one.

  A loud knock on the door makes me jump.

  I close my laptop and scoot over to see who’s there.

  Looking through the spy hole, I call out. “Hello.”

  There’s no answer. After a beat, I open the door and look up and down the hotel corridor.

  Not a single soul is around.

  Just as I push back into the room, my foot grazes against something. I look down and see a stunning bouquet of flowers stare back up at me. A small card pokes out among the lush roses; it has the MGM Casino logo printed on.

  Must be a complimentary delivery.

  I bend down to pick up the flowers and bring them close to my nose, sniffing in their wonderful perfume.

  Retreating back inside the room, I kick the door shut behind me with the heel of my foot and start back toward the table.

  Placing the flowers carefully down on the glass surface of the table, I take out the note.

  It reads:

  Hope you like the room. Looking forward to our interview, Ms. Chavez. Connor Patrick—champ of the world. Xx

  4

  Connor

  The fucker’s eyes close before his skull even hits the deck. The ref doesn’t need to count. My opponent is out like a light; his limbs sprawled across the canvas like a comatose starfish.

  I strut back to my corner and lean against the ropes, watching an army of doctors and paramedics rush to the fighter’s aid. Once upon a time I use to be concerned with my opponent’s welfare. Now I don’t give a fuck. He’ll be all right anyway, nothing a few smelling salts and a night at the general won’t fix.