Page 13 of Love Punch

“Stop thinking that way. Just go out there and fucking win,” I said. “Win, and I’ll think about taking that holiday with you.”

Bradley’s free hand hooked under my chin to make me look into his eyes. For just a second, I thought he’d lean in and kiss me. But then he smiled bashfully. “When all this is over, after I win tonight, let’s talk, okay?”

“About my job?” I asked, hardly able to hear myself over the thumping of my own heart.

“About us. About what comes next.” Bradley gave a sad smile and pulled his hand back. “Are my parents here?”

“Shit. Yes. That reminds me, I should go and check on them.” I stood, already missing the contact with Bradley . I wanted to walk out by his side. Stupid as it was, I’d take those punches for him. Even if they would break me in two.

As I reached the door, Bradley coughed quietly. I turned to look at him. “I’m fighting for you, remember that.”

I swallowed past the lump in my throat and closed the door behind me.

The last undercard fight was done. I should have been worrying about Bradley but instead, I was dealing with my sperm-donor taking up more space in the VIP box than I was entirely comfortable with.

“Put the drink down,” I whispered to my father. “I’ll get you a water.”

“Piss off,” he slurred, rebelling by gulping down more champagne. I yanked the glass from his hand and set it on the floor.

“Get sober.” I tried to put as much confidence and arrogance into my tone as possible, but it sounded hollow in the noise of the stadium.

Dad turned to a waiter. “I’ll have another glass of that champers, please mate. Make it a double.”

The waiter looked at my father, then looked at me for confirmation. “He’ll have a water. I’d really rather you see to the Tylers," I said.

He nodded and stepped away. I hated that they were sat next to my dad, hated that they could see where I’d come from. Unfortunately, my words seemed to remind him that the Tylers were present and he turned to Melody and rested his hand on her arm. “Think he’s got a chance?” he asked.

“I’m confident in Bradley’s skill, if that’s what you’re asking,” she replied with a polite smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I think Bartosh is gonna fucking pummel him,” my father said. “He’ll be fucking pulp by the end. Last fight, ‘cos he’s getting old, innit? Can’t hit like he used to.”

“I retain my confidence in my son’s skill,” Melody reiterated. A shiver ran down my spine with the chill in her tone. Before I could intervene, the speakers blared with the announcer’s voice. “And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Tonight’s main event, and the end of an era…let’s welcome our visitor from Russia. It’s…Oleksandr Bartosh!”

“Eye of the Tiger” began to play, only to be drowned out by the roaring of the crowd. I pushed my father’s hand away from Melody Tyler’s arm and took a seat between them. Like he’d been waiting for some invisible signal, one of the waiters emerged and carried out a tray to us, passing glasses of champagne around the Tyler family, finishing off with a glass of water for my father and an orange juice for me.

“Still not drinking, dear?” asked Mrs Tyler.

“Not on a fight night, Mrs Ty—Melody,” I said. “I’m working.”

“What’s this for?” asked my father, spilling the water down his front.

“Drink it or leave,” I threatened. He rolled his eyes but brought the glass to his mouth, so I finally felt comfortable enough to face the stage as Oleksandr pushed through the ropes and held his gloves up to the crowd. There was a mixture of cheers and boos. He wasn’t the one people really wanted. They were here to see Bradley keep a hold of his belt one last time.

Once the crowd had quietened down—slightly—the announcer’s voice boomed again. “And now, the man, the myth, the legend. It’s…Bradly 'The Unbeatable’ Tyler!”

An involuntary grin stretched my cheeks as Bradley strode onto the catwalk flanked by cheerleaders, to Gina G’s “Ooh Ahh Just a Little Bit.” I’d laughed the first time I heard it; and I still laughed three years later. Jason removed his gown and he was stood in his signature white shorts, gloves slung around his neck. Though I knew exactly how he felt, he looked confident and strong—ready to win his last fight.

My dad leaned in to speak to me and I grimaced at the smell of alcohol on his breath. “I hope Bartosh beats the shit out of him.”

I didn’t move. I didn’t want to give any indication that something was wrong, so I just whispered from the corner of my mouth. “You are his guest and you will act like you worship the ground he walks on or I will have you removed. Understood?”

I only got a grunt in response as my father leaned back and Bradley entered the ring. The whole crowd was screaming. I simply sat and watched him. The roll of his shoulders as he bounced on his toes, the little quirk of his lips that reminded me how much he loved the adrenaline from the crowd. it was a crushing realisation just how much he was giving up by quitting.

There was the usual pre-fight show, the drama of the two fighters squaring up to each other in the ring before it all started.Then when it was time to get down to business, they retreated into their respective corners.

Show time. I loved watching Bradley in his element. He fought with the precision of a surgeon, bobbing and weaving with a speed no one his size should be able to accomplish. Bartosh was a close opponent, sure, but he wasn’t Bradley—no one was. Bradley ducked under one of Oleksandr’s punches and then followed it up with a hit of his own that Oleksandr couldn’t dodge. It connected with his chin, and he stumbled back a step. It was enough to let Bradley get in another two punches.

Oleksandr managed to get one hit in before the bell rang, but it seemed to hardly phase Bradley. Still, my heart was in my throat. I didn’t like him getting hurt. Probably not one of the traits best placed in a boxer’s personal assistant.

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