Prologue
“Boxing - the act, activity, or sport of fighting with the fists, especially according to rules requiring the use of boxing gloves and limiting legal blows to those striking above the waist and on the front or sides of the opponent.”
Charming
1920 New York
The moment when the course of your life will be defined forever.
I was in that moment.
The pungent odor of sweat and adrenaline permeated the air around me. The crowd, sizeable and energized, bellowed. It was an all-encompassing sound, the many individual voices creating a singular roar that echoed through the warehouse we occupied.
In just a few moments, my life was going to change forever. And damn, it was going to be sweet. Everyone here was going to know my name. After tonight they would say it with reverence, with awe. I would go down in the history books as the unknown scrapper who literally fought his way to the top and beat out the reigning champion.
The managers I couldn’t get, the representatives who looked at me and sneered, were going to eat every last you’ll never make it they ever said. I felt a few gazes from across the room and I glanced their way. They were from the reigning champ’s camp. They looked at me with a mix of surprise and disbelief—like they still couldn’t figure out how I made it this far without anyone to help me.
The answer was simple.
Determination.
I jerked my chin in acknowledgement of their stare, and their looks changed.
To arrogance, to pity.
I rolled my head on my shoulders, enjoying the sound of the cracks and pops in my muscles. The arrogance, that was to be expected, but the pity… that was something else entirely. It was fuel. Fuel to my fire, fuel to succeed. They thought I was going to get my ass beat in front of a sold-out crowd, in front of anyone who mattered in the boxing world.
They were wrong.
The announcer stepped into the ring, ducking between the ropes and straightening to his full height—which was still a full head shorter than me—and began to introduce the reigning king of boxing and then me, the unexpected, no name challenger.
I didn’t bother to listen. Instead, I made sure the laces on my gloves were tight. I concentrated on the familiar rush of power into my limbs and I called up an image in my head, the reason I did any of this at all.
The crowd roared as the champ took his place in the ring. As I walked to my place, I picked out a few voices in the onslaught of noise. They were betting against me. Wagering I wouldn’t make it past round one. Without thinking, I stopped my steady progress to the ring, halted where I stood and then pivoted back around. A hush fell over the crowd; they waited to see what I would do… if I was going to chicken out and leave without trying.
I walked to where the men were betting against me. They looked up, one of them visibly swallowing.
“Add me to that roster,” I told the man with the paper and pencil.
“Excuse me?” he said.
“I want to place a bet.” I said it extra slow like he was stupid.
His face flushed red. “I… boxers don’t usually bet.”
“My money isn’t good enough?” I lifted a single brow.
“Of course,” he said, recovering. “What’s the bet?”
“I’ll win in the third round. A complete knockout.”
There were gasps all around me.
“Are you sure you want to do that, kid?” the man with the pencil asked.
I grinned. “Twenty dollars.”
His eyes bulged. “That’s a lot of money…”
“I’m a sure thing,” I replied and turned around to walk away.
Someone behind me laughed. “That kid has balls.”
The murmurs of “what’s his name again?” did not escape my ears.
I climbed in the ring, my eyes going directly to my opponent’s corner. He sat there with his team around him and a white towel draped over his shoulder. I made it a point to meet his eyes. I did it every fight. I wanted whoever I fought that night to know that I wasn’t intimidated by their backers, their titles, and their name.
I was here to take it all away.
The clamor of a bell signaled the start of the match. We came out of our corners, circling each other a few times, sizing each other up, looking for weaknesses, for patterns, for anything that might give us the edge.
He threw the first punch. I dodged it; spinning away and then coming right back. He threw another and I blocked it, hitting away his glove like it was a gnat and I was annoyed.
The more blows I blocked, the more flustered he became. Halfway through the first round and I hadn’t even taken a shot. I hadn’t been hit either.
He drew back to attempt another shot when I struck out, the uppercut snapping his head on his shoulders. The crowd went nuts as he stumbled back.
His eyes locked on mine and like a freight train he came at me, knocking into me, back against the ropes, and I used their momentum to push him backward and hit him again.
After that, the fight got real. Fast.
I took several slams that made my vision go blurry, but I stayed on my feet and delivered a few vision robbers of my own. By the end of the second round, we were both breathing heavy, pouring sweat, and bleeding. I fumbled around with the water in my corner, trying to get it in my mouth. It was hard with gloves on and no one to help me.
Someone appeared next to me, standing outside the ring. He grabbed the water and squirted it in my face. I opened my mouth automatically to get some of the cool liquid.
“That’s some good fighting, kid,” the man said. “You just might win.”
I glanced at my helper, not really seeing him because everything was blurry. All I knew was that he wasn’t that big and he had dark hair. “Thanks,” I said, opening my mouth for more water.
“The other side looks pissed. Word is they got a lot riding on this fight. They thought it was going to be cake. You’re making it harder.”
I grunted. “I’m going to win.”
“My money’s on you.”
The announcer called out and I turned back.
“Keep an eye out, kid,” the man behind me whispered. “Some people like to win dirty.”
I didn’t really hear his words because the bell rang and we moved out of our corners. My eyes went to my opponent’s. There was a glint in them that hadn’t been there before. A sort of clarity that could only come from confidence.
I shot my fist out to wipe the look off his face. He dodged me.
We locked arms, our upper bodies colliding as we tried to muscle the other toward the ground. “Give it up, kid,” the guy whispered. “I’m not giving up this title.”