Fight or Fall Page 3

  The mysterious announcer whose voice was the only thing I heard in this glass cube introduced this hulking motherfucker earlier as Igor “the Russian” Goric. I hadn’t seen the other fighters. We were kept away from each other most of the time since we were all signed three months ago. I overheard from one of the trainers when I was walking into the gym a month ago that there was a total of sixteen fighters. Some of their identities were a mystery to me. I just knew one thing – we were all disgraced, fallen athletes in each of our respected sports.

  Training sessions have been scheduled individually. I don’t know if any one of them had a coach. I didn’t. They, the company, offered to hire a coach for me, but I adamantly refused. I didn’t need anyone telling me how to work out, how to fight, how to stand on my own two feet after being punched relentlessly. Fighting was not a sport. Fighting was about survival. Of the fittest. Of the strongest. Of the man who’s the most determined not to be maimed, or die.

  Igor rushed towards me, dancing, tapping his feet like a Tango King. What was this guy’s deal? One minute he was punching me, next minute he was bouncing on his legs like a contestant on that fucking dancing show. Seriously? Does this guy think he can toy with me? He looks like he’s setting himself up for success – the way his brows are relaxed now when earlier it was forming a unibrow after I clocked him on his left ear, causing the skin to break and spill blood; the unclenching of his fists wrapped in the white nylon/cotton elastic material smeared with some of my blood; and the shadow of a smirk forming on his arrogant face.

  This fucker was going down.

  When he lunged at me again, I swung my body to the left, leaving his punch in the air, the space my head just occupied a second ago. I raised my fists up, punching, drilling on the target, moving my whole body, putting all that weight into the punch to his gut. I heard him suck in a breath while I threw another punch to his left shoulder. This time I used my torso as much as possible to spin the punch out from my shoulders. My swimming coaches had told me that my greatest assets were my shoulders. In swimming, my shoulder muscles enabled me to swim efficiently and minimize my strokes. Now I was using those same muscles to deliver the blows that threw Igor’s head from one side to the other, almost 180 degrees in rotation. He spewed out blood, but unless he pressed on the big, red button on his side of the cube, then this fight was not over. He grunted something in Russian. Probably calling out my name in admiration.

  Stepping forward, I extended my left fist all the way, lifting my left shoulder to stab him with a jab on his right jaw then quickly following it with a right cross to the left side of his cheek. Igor was no longer smiling; instead he looked like he was barely making it through the night. Earlier he looked like he was suiting up for victory, and now he was cloaking in his failure.

  The temperature in the cube was now rising. One of the main components of the cube, which all the fighters have been briefed about, was that the temperature would rise and fall at random. How hot and how cold it would get was determined by a computer. It was supposed to calculate the extremes in temperature that us, the fighters inside, could tolerate without our bodies disintegrating and breaking apart.

  Igor was now squirming, his hands wrapped tightly around his waist and he could barely stand up on the giant-sized “Troudeau Enterprises” octagon-shaped logo in the middle of the gleaming white floors. If I was him, I would just stay down. The increasing temperature would weigh him down heavily. When there is a temperature gradient, heat transfers by conduction, meaning all his energy reserves would be depleted, and he would be unable to cool down on his own, thus creating more fucked-up scenarios for him. Yes, in my other life, I’m a mechanical engineer. Was a mechanical engineer, I should say. After the scandal, no respectable company wanted to hire me. My old boss, who used to be my number one fan, did not fire me directly, but while the animosity and disgust at my actions towards the country’s golden boy in swimming might not have been enough for me to quit my job, I resigned because I felt useless and not needed anymore.

  Scanning my present surroundings, I saw how the sterile, pristine white floors and the one-way mirrors added to the mystique, the uniqueness of this fighting cage, technically a cube. As if the whiteness of the surroundings would add purity, innocence to the brutality and harsh fury unleashed inside of it. No rules. The last man standing wins. Each of the corners of this enclosed fighting arena was a mirror to the savage nature that humans would pay to watch other people get hurt, beat up, or maybe even killed.

  I took my time approaching him. He was still lurching on the floor, sweating bullets tinged with crimson. He tried to pick himself off the floor, tried to stand up, leaning heavily on his right side. He weakly raised his left hand to his chest, an act of defiance, clenching his fists, ready to attack again. He was not giving up. I wouldn’t either.

  The name of the game was three million dollars.

  As the revolving air around us became warmer, I leaned closer to him, almost crouching on him. “Time to wave the white flag. Punch in your surrender. Don’t wanna have to hurt you while you can still walk.”

  I had no clue if he spoke English. His eyes darkened with rage, his chest heaved up, discovering yet another burst of energy. He looked like he hadn’t gotten the memo yet – I would be sending him straight to his mother country. Right. About. Now.

  I stepped back four steps to allow him to gain some shred of dignity. I stood on my ground, shifting my left and right foot, slowly bouncing on them to prepare myself. As he roared his body towards me, while screaming, “Nyet!”, sounding incredibly like net, I slid to the floor swiftly, and when he was inches from me, grasped both of his legs, gripping the backs of his knees which caused him to fall, displacing his already weakened balance and knocking him down to the floor. The room now felt like a fucking hundred and ten degrees, as he lay grasping for control underneath me. I used the blade of my forearm against his throat and pushed straight back.

  Nyet, motherfucker? I think Mother Russia is going to welcome you back with open arms if you can breathe through my chokehold on you.

  He sputtered, blood leaking from the right side of his face due to the greeting my assaulting punches gave him earlier. I felt his body flail, slowly giving up. His eyes struggling to stay open. Lack of oxygen in his lungs and the extreme heat inside this cube was not a pretty combination.

  I waited for it.

  One…two…three…four.

  The whole room flashed green, announcing the winner. Igor was now in a dead faint. He was alive. I just sent him to sleep for a while.

  I stood up, fixing my blue kick-boxing shorts, wiping the sweat that trickled from my forehead with my bloodied hands.

  Fourteen more to go.

  Some men fight for fame or glory.

  Some for honor.

  I had fame and glory.

  I had honor. And lost it.

  Those weren’t reasons enough for me.

  My only reason for fighting is to live.

  For her.

  For them.

  Always for them.

  Turning the shower to the coldest temperature, I pressed a hand on the lower left side of my stomach. The pain radiated to the back. Shit.

  This one was going to bruise. I stayed for a few minutes after the medics checked Igor. He was somewhat gaining consciousness somewhat by the time he was wheeled out on a stretcher. Did I feel sorry for hitting him as hard as I did? No fucking way. He was going to pound me to death if it went the other way. The proof was right here, resting against my hand. He was aiming for my ribs, but somehow I deflected it. The hit he gave me could have punctured a lung if I had not been alert and on the defensive mode.

  The cold water helped alleviate the soreness I was feeling. Cold temperature changed the blood flow from my skin to the vital organs, reduced the lactic acid build-up, and increased oxygen all throughout the body. Even if I was worlds away from swimming, I still remember every single thing that my former coach, Chuck Trevails, had taught me.
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  Chuck had been with me through thick and thin. One of the most difficult things I had to do was face him after I had framed Kieran for opiates. I saw the disappointment in Chuck’s eyes. Initially he hadn’t believed it when the FINA officials told him that I was the culprit, the mastermind of Kieran’s disqualification. But when I confirmed it with him, when I said, “Yeah, I mixed poppy seeds in Brynn’s pancake mixes so that Kieran would turn hot for opiates,” Chuck’s eyes filled with repulsion…then sadness. He was only fifty five years old, but he looked like he had aged twenty years after my admission. He was like a father figure to me. Even after the disgrace I put him through, he still went with me to talk to the FINA and IOC and petition as to when I could come back. The ban was indefinite, pending reviews and decisions from the other officials. But Chuck, he still believed in me, still trusted that there was something good inside of me. Before I left that night to catch the flight to the U.S., knowing full well I couldn’t stay in Shanghai anymore, he had called me and in a weary voice said, “Son, find yourself. You’re a good one. Maybe you’re lost right now. Whatever you’re going through, I’ll be here. I’ll be just a phone call away.” Those words gutted me. Gutted me to the core of my fucking heart. Even then, he was nice to me. I don’t know if I could believe him – that I was a good person, still. He was right about one thing, though, I was lost. And I don’t know where and when I’d find myself again.

  Shutting off the shower, I stepped out of the stall, grabbed the blue towel, and walked towards the metal locker. Since one fight was scheduled per month and most likely only one fighter would be returning to the locker room – walking and breathing on his own anyways, I had no problems letting it all hang out while getting ready for the party that the winner was required to attend. I’d rather go home and catch up on some sleep so I can train again tomorrow, but I guess I had signed up for this. I’d rather be at a party than at a hospital any time of the day.

  Before reaching the locker, I suddenly felt tired. I dropped the towel on the bench and sat down. The clock on the wall showed 9:48. I had twelve minutes to get ready and meet the highfaluting assholes who were betting for me and against me. I wrapped my arms around my neck and bent my head down.

  When did my life get reduced to this? How could I mess up everything? How could I do that to him, to her, to them?

  Lost in my own thoughts, I barely heard the gasp from behind me. Barely. Who would be here? Everyone who’s anyone would be busy mingling and drinking their overpriced champagne while they gloated about the fight. I gave them a hell of a show. I knew they’d be talking about it.

  “Sorry…” her voice came out as a shocked whisper.

  I twisted my body around, facing the door.

  Instead of hightailing it out of here, she slowly walked towards where I was sitting, her cheeks turning pinker with each step, her eyes directed at my head. I bet she just figured out that the only thing between me and the bench was the towel, no other articles of clothing present. Standing a few steps away, she stopped in her tracks, her hands fiddling with the small bag she had on her right shoulder, and her face almost full-on red now. In a small voice she said, “Hi, Swimmer Boy.”

  It took me a second or two to respond to her. “Prissy Princess.”

  Her cheeks burned and she turned her head to the right, avoiding any more visuals of my current state of glory. “Umm…umm…I think I better go. I’ll see you upstairs.”

  She turned on her heels, the quick movement causing her right shoe to get caught on the back of her other shoe. I jumped over the bench and caught her upper body before she completely fell on the floor, encasing her in my arms. Just as I was about to help her up, I felt a stirring down below. Fuck. I was completely naked still. Well, it wasn’t my fault that she was trespassing in the Men’s Shower Room.

  Her head was still downcast, her hands were caught in between my grip. She slowly turned her face up towards me. Her gray eyes, the color of stormy clouds, looked worried. “Did he hurt you?”

  I pulled us up to a standing position, ensuring that I had a solid hold on her waist.

  “He’s the one saying hi to the doctors right now,” I said, trying to collect my thoughts and make sense of what was happening right now. This was Ava. The woman who could make my blood boil and my veins freeze at the same time when she rained insults on me.

  She was tall for a woman, but at 6’4” I was still almost a head taller than her. I lowered my gaze to hers, and she bit the inside of her cheek, a small frown forming on her face. “I saw that brutal punch to your side… You need to get checked, you might have internal bleeding...the kidney’s a tender organ.”

  My dick was a tender organ, but now it was becoming hard as fuck.

  She stepped away, obviously feeling my undeniable erection between us, my hands feeling the loss of her skin close to mine. Since when did Ava make my dick stand up and follow her around? Since forever.

  She vexed the hell out of me. The snobby little way she lifts her brows whenever she sees me, the smirk that forms on her face when I called her “Prissy Princess,” and the way she had to counter everything I say. She’s the woman I wanted to throttle and spank until the next full moon. But by holy motherfucking irony, no one could make my dick stand to attention faster than her.

  Ava. Avalea Troudeau. My sister’s best friend.

  One time, Leif Sturgen, my buddy of German descent who swam for the U.S. Swim Team, my teammate before I was banned, asked me, “If there is one woman, one girl, who you could describe as the image of perfection, of beauty, who would you say it would be?”

  An image formed in my mind the instant he asked. It wasn’t of my ex-girlfriend, Dia. Not even of that supermodel, Adriana, who was pretty close to perfection. The image that my brain produced was that of Ava’s. Some girls had great asses, okay legs, and a so-so face. Some had great legs, alright tits, and hmm face. An algorithm could be produced as to probabilities of different combinations of assets of beauty. I’ve watched Ava grow into a stunning woman. She might cause my veins to pop out in annoyance and anger, but I couldn’t deny that Ava’s a trifecta. Perfect ass, amazing rack, and never-ending legs.

  “Milo…” Her unsure voice broke through my thoughts. “Are you okay?” She was now bending down on the bench that I had left earlier, picking up the blue towel. Her gold dress slid up higher, showcasing her ass. She straightened herself up, handing me the towel. I noticed that she didn’t let her eyes wander down below my waist.

  I took the towel from her, wrapping it around my waist, nodding my head in thanks. “I’m okay. I just need to change.”

  She gave me a small grin, her right hand hanging against her side while her left hand fiddled with her shiny purse. “Don’t take too much time getting pretty. It might take forever.” A tiny laugh followed her statement as she sauntered towards the door.

  To say I was floored about what just happened would be an understatement. I knew her father owned Troudeau Enterprises. Hell, everyone who had internet access knew who her father was. I just didn’t expect her to come see me after a brutal fight, buck naked, and for her to leave like nothing happened.

  After the swimming scandal I created, everyone looked at me with either disdain, pity, anger, or disappointment. But Ava, even with the slight awkwardness between us because she caught me off guard and without clothes on, she looked at me with the same haughty stare, with a hint of an underlying insult waiting to be thrown with the slightest provocation. I didn’t know if it was relief or awe that I felt, but somehow it was a nice feeling to have – that she still saw me as the same Milo, before I had compromised my values and my honor.

  In her haunting, piercing gray eyes I saw me, a small part of me I thought I’d lost.

  “Sweetheart, can you please get me champagne?” Her grating voice was annoying the shit out of me. I shouldn’t have invited her in the first place. To make matters worse, she was clinging on my right arm like I was her lifeline. She needed to phone a fucking friend or I
’m going to dump her ass in front of a crowd. Again.

  “Dia, listen. Stop calling me sweetheart. I retracted that privilege when you slept with another guy. Goddamnit, stop clinging on my arm or I’ll be looking for a new accounts manager the second we get out of this party,” I warned in a hissing whisper, brushing my hand out of her way.

  She huffed and her clawing arm left my side. One of the stupidest decisions I’ve made in the past few months was keeping her as my accounts manager for the foundation. But she’s the only one who could keep a secret like this. After all, she helped me start it when we were in college. As much as I hated her being involved in this, she was great at what she did. So great that it was her call that woke me up from my state of stupor three months ago.

  “Fine. I’ll get my own champagne. You’re no fun, Milo.” Her green eyes glared in equal parts annoyance and dejection. Years ago I could barely stand having those eyes look at me with the slightest bit of irritation. I bowed to her every wish, followed her like a dog, and refused to listen to any of the rumors circulating around the University of Connecticut about her. I thought she was a fiery, beautiful woman whose temper matched her blazing red hair, her signature red-hot lipstick, and glowing emerald eyes. She helped me tide over the loneliness I had felt being away from my Aunt Margie and Bee by offering a soothing shoulder and a helping hand when I told her about my plans to start the foundation.