Page 4 of Quake
Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I nodded toward the guys training at the back of the studio. “Got some promising guys who are almost ready to start looking for matches.”
Dad glanced over my shoulder but didn’t bite. He merely let out ahumphand stepped around me, barging his way into the gym.
Standing at the top of the staircase, he looked over the trophy case at the end of the hall, then perused all the photographs of fighters past. It was affectionately dubbed the ‘Lickable Beat Wall of Fame’ by the owner’s daughter, Ren Miller, but I wasn’t about to divulge that to the world’s most unhumorous man.
“You know Andrew Miller,” I said, nodding at the photograph he was currently staring at. “He owns the place and hired me himself.”
If you asked me, Andrew Miller was an Australian boxing legend. He’d won a stack of belts in his time but was forced into early retirement, much like I’d been. There was no way my dad didn’t know him. If that didn’t impress him, then nothing could save me.
“Yes, he was a good man,” he muttered, looking at the picture with an air ofwhatever.
“Is,” I said. “Heisa good man.”
“Until he gave up coaching boxers to cash in on that Ultimate Fighting.”
“I’d call it diversification, not selling out,” I retorted, but he’d already moved off. “Besides, he’s trained two titled fighters in a brand-new league.” Following him through the studio, I may as well have been talking to a brick wall for all the notice he gave me.
I bristled silently, wanting nothing more than for Daddy dearest to bugger off and leave me the hell alone. It was all well and good when I was the hero of the ring, the next big thing to come out of Australian boxing, but now that it was all gone, nothing I did was good enough. I was a full-grown man, but I would always be a delinquent child to my father. Like a sordid cliché, he wanted me to be exactly like him. Mr. Big Time with his fleet of chauffeur-driven Mercedes Benzes, custom-made suits, solid gold watches, and a wall full of championship belts from multimillion-dollar title fights in Las Vegas.
It must cut to see his only son working in what he saw as a small-time shit factory.
Out the corner of my eye, I saw the guys watching our every move and knew I would cop shit for following him around like a bootlicking dog the moment he was gone. Gritting my teeth, I stopped trying to talk up the place and allowed him to form his own opinion. Like he’d listen to me, anyway. A man like my father only saw what was on the surface.
What did he say to me when I was growing up and getting the shit knocked outta me in the ring? If it looks like failure and smells like failure, it is a failure. Beat it into your kid’s head enough, and he’ll actually start believing it.
Once the grand tour was over, Dad turned to me, and I could see I was about to cop it. What ‘it’ was, I didn’t know, but it was about to slap me around the face.
“I expect to see some changes when I come back,” he said, pulling out his mobile phone.
So that was why he’d graced me with his presence. Not to see how I was getting on but to judge from on top of his high horse.Typical.
“It’s not my business,” I replied with a scowl. “I only manage the place.”
“It’s not fitting for a Carmichael,” he said. “I’ll compile the list and have it sent to you by close of business.”
“Dad, it’s not my place to go changing things,” I argued. “We don’t own the place, so we’ve got no right knocking down any walls.”
He turned, sizing me up with his beady eyes. Every time he gave me that look, I could picture him standing in a ring giving the same stink eye to his opponent and have them borderline piss their silk shorts. I was about to get cut down to size, and it would be brutal.
“Caleb, I would rather you come back and train with Logan as you used to,” he practically barked. “Your injury is a mere hindrance that has a work-around. This place…” he trailed off as his face took on the look of someone who had sucked on a lemon. “This place is beneath you.”
“You want me to go back and fight?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. The bastard couldn’t be serious?
“Immediately.”
“You do know that if I get back in the ring and get hit the wrong way, I’ll be back in the hospital, flat on my back, again? You do understand that I won’t be walking out of there? I’ll be rolling out on my new set of wheels.”
“You’ve spent your entire life training to become a champion, and you’ve wasted it on this,” he snarled, shaking his head.
“Nice to see caring for my physical well-being is such a priority for you,Dad. Love you, too.”
He narrowed his eyes and turned his attention to his mobile phone, effectively dismissing me. “You shall receive my list by the end of the day,” he said, reiterating his earlier command. “And the next time I visit, I expect to see an equally measured change in your attitude.”
I opened my mouth, but he’d already turned his back on me and began to descend the stairs. His Highness had spoken, apparently, and that was that. Like the judgmental asshole he was, he’d slammed down his gavel with a bang.
Escorting him to his car like the dutiful son I was, my blood boiled. He’d rather risk his only child being put into a wheelchair for the rest of his life than see him do good honest work and keep the use of his legs. Was a Championship belt worth that much to him? It was a stupid question because yeah, it was.If it looks like failure and smells like failure…
We didn’t exchange goodbyes or see ya laters. We didn’t say anything at all as he got into the back of the Merc. The moment the car rolled away, I flipped it the bird. Rebellion was my middle name, after all.
