Page 19 of The Nanny and the Beefcake
Fight. Win. Repeat.
Love wasn’t part of the equation.
He glanced at his trainer, knowing the cameras were following his every move. He couldn’t show it, but he asked himself the same question Aug had posed—a question he’d asked himself every day since he’d arrived in Denver.
What the bloody hell was he doing?
Actually, he knew the answer. It wasn’t rocket science to decipher.
He was here because of his ego. If he wasn’t a winner, then what the bloody hell was he? Only a winner was worthy of her—the woman he’d loved and lost.
But he wasn’t performing like a champion.
Thanks to the cards that life had dealt him, Augie was right. He was a wobbly git who could barely tell up from down and left from right. Like a ship adrift, he’d lost his moorings. Unsteady and unstable, his true north was nowhere to be found.
Six months ago, he’d been back in England in his second Chelsea flat—his bachelor pad. But that night, he didn’t have a carnal itch to scratch. Fighting another bout of insomnia, he’d made the mistake of scrolling through social media. To his agent’s disappointment, he didn’t do much online. His private life was private, and he wasn’t one of those idiots who posted every time they took a shite. But that night, he’d seen a post—no, not just a post, a challenge.
A challenge from the current heavyweight champ, Silas Scott.
The Irish Snake, Silas Scott, is the true King of the Ring. The fossil of a fighter, Erasmus Cress, wouldn’t dare face me in the square.
He’d read the post, then, as if his hands had a mind of their own, he’d hammered out a reply.
Name the time and the place, wanker. I’ll be there.
He’d hit enter, and with one tap of his finger, he’d ignited a sports-media frenzy.
Turns out, Silas Scott has a couple million followers—followers that included prominent promoters. The internet exploded, and before you could say Bob’s your uncle, he’d agreed to fight.
The Snake versus the Lion.
The matchup of the century.
This fair-haired, Irish-born Silas Scott was five years younger than him, two inches shorter, and slippery like his moniker, but he wasn’t unbeatable. He had weaknesses. While the Snake could bob and weave and duck a punch, he couldn’t handle a pummeling. A smart, well-timed combination could lay the bloke out flat.
The question was, was Erasmus Cress the fighter who could execute that punishing takedown? Oh, he was still as strong as an ox. Strength wasn’t his problem, but they were back to Aug’s words again.
Tighten up, boyo. You’re wobblier than a thirteen-year-old who snuck his first pint.
Aug saying that he was wobbly was being generous.
Thanks to the bloody soundtrack in his head, he couldn’t tap into his inner control—that focused balance he’d come to innately before the world crashed in on him.
One thing was for sure. He wouldn’t beat Silas Scott without it.
The camera flashes continued as he danced around the bag, throwing a right hook, then a left, and giving the media what they wanted. This promo blitz was a taste of what was to come—a little piece of the dog and pony show that was modern professional boxing. He continued with a round of uppercuts when his phone buzzed an incoming text from over on a shelf that housed a row of towels. He looked from his mobile to Aug, and the man gave him a slight nod.
Unless it was an emergency, there was a good chance it wasn’t his granny Fin calling. Seven hours ahead, it was barely three thirty in the morning in the UK, but it could be Madelyn Malone. Like it or not, he’d been on pins and needles since she’d mentioned she’d found his nanny match.
Augie planted himself in front of the bag and eyed the press. “I think we’ve worked the British Beast long enough tonight. Any questions for me, boyos?” the trainer called, taking the spotlight.
“Are you training the Lion as hard as you used to?” came the first question.
Augie huffed. “What do you think I’ve been doing with the Lion for the last five months? Playing patty cake and whipping up a little Yorkshire pudding?”
A low chuckle floated through the room.
For a crotchety old geezer, Augie knew his way around the press. With his arms still folded and a drip of mustard on his wrinkled white button-up shirt and the sleeves rolled to his elbows, he came off as that cantankerous uncle everybody secretly loved, and the media wasn’t immune.
