The Sunset Prophecy (Love & Armageddon #1) (26 page)

30

The Fight

W
hy the U.S. Olympic Committee chose the Grand Olympic Hall—a dreary, dilapidated relic of L.A.’s sport’s past—was a mystery to those who followed boxing closely. Many analysts felt it was boxing’s desperate attempt for nostalgic appeal, which its main competitor, mixed martial arts, lacked. However, for Matthew Nix, there was nothing romantic or nostalgic about doing sit-ups on an old splintered, squeaky, locker room floor right before his fight, which made the skin on his back feel like it was teased with the dull edges of razor blades.

“
Don’t do too many now. Save some of that stamina for Cesar,” said Jacob Jacobs, who met Matt on the ground, crouched on one knee, spittle jettisoning from his weathered and curly lips. “We just want to warm up that core.”

Matt
’s opponent, Cesar Torres, was a fast-talking wunderkind from San Antonio, whose jabs were as fast as his mouth. Although Matt was the heavy favorite, he knew he couldn’t take Cesar’s quickness for granted, but dismissing Cesar’s baiting sound bites was an entirely different story.

Keelen stood in the shadows outside the locker room as Matt finished his last sit-up. Jacob turned his head and noticed her standing under the dim, hall light.

“All right, Matt, I think that’s enough. You got a visitor.” Jacob picked up Matt’s sweat towel from the floor and walked toward the trainer’s room to gather the items for the fight kit. “He’s all yours,” he said, making brief eye contact with Keelen, as she drifted into the room, wearing jeans and a form-fitting beige leather jacket, fashionably zipped up to her neck.

Jacob disappeared through the adjacent doorway.

With nervousness wrinkling her face, Keelen walked up to Matt, who sat up on the floor with his arms on his knees, and asked, “You ready?”

Matt took a deep breath and stretched his arm, by twisting it behind his head.
“I trained seven days a week for half a year for this fight.” He stood up, picked up the mouth guard from the stool next to him, and mumbled, “I’m ready.”

“
You take care of yourself in that ring,” Keelen said. “I saw some of Cesar’s highlights on YouTube...he can hit.”

Matt took out his mouth guard and stretched his neck. He placed both his arms out on Keelen
’s shoulders. “I’ve got 10 pounds on this guy easily. My reach is also about half-inch longer than his. As long as I protect my jaw, I’m golden.”

“
Overconfidence isn’t a good trait to have, you know.”

Matt threw one of his arms around Keelen
’s waist, and jerked her toward his chest. “I’m not overconfident, I just know I’ve got Lady Luck on my side, and she’s gonna be ringside,” he said, his handsome nose an inch away from hers.

Not feeling it, she softly pushed off Matt
’s chest.

“
What’s wrong—you still mad?” he asked.

Keelen looked downward. There was a lot going through her mind, and yes, she was still somewhat cold to Matt, who thought the relationship was back on the golden road to happily-ever-after.
“I’m just not all there,” she said. “How about you just focus on the fight and don’t worry about me, okay?”

“
Sweetie, you’re fine. I’m fine...we’re all fine. You’re gonna have fun in the front row with Cindy.
Estil
Magazine
has pulled out all the stops for this fight. The after-party is gonna have an open bar...it’s going to be incredible. You’ll be hanging out with the winner. Imagine being seen alongside me; it’ll help with your acting career, too.”

Keelen backpedaled.
“It’s not that I’m not excited for you, but Cindy’s missing. Her phone’s been off since yesterday. I’ve left a dozen messages. I feel like I’m barely here. I’m constantly thinking about her whereabouts.”

Matt tilted his head back and grunted softly.
“Fine, come here...”

Indifferent,
Keelen stood still with her arms crossed, staring at the grimy floorboards at her feet. Matt embraced her by placing his large hand on the back of her head and tried to comfort her. “We’ll look for Cindy after the fight,” he spoke softly. “You know how she is. She’s caught up in her research. She’s gonna turn up.”

Keelen nodded her head, which was snuggled against Matt
’s chest.

“
I’ll help, if my cranium isn’t ringing after the fight...” he joked.

Jacob walked into the locker room, with a white smock, and wearing latex gloves. The fight kit in hand.
“All right, lovebirds, we need to get going.”

Matt
sloped his forehead downward, his eyes bridging with Keelen’s. “Can I have a kiss?”

Keelen tiptoed and connected with Matt
’s soft lips. She closed her eyes as a collection of thoughts raced through her mind. They weren’t romantic in nature, just dreadful and shuddersome thoughts, while Matt’s were full of glory and strategy.

Jacob turned toward Keelen, as he untied the knots on the back of Matt
’s protective headgear. “I need the next fifteen minutes to make sure Matty boy here has his head on straight. We don’t need your pretty little self messing up his concentration.”

“
Good luck. Take care of him, all right?” Keelen said to Jacob. She then turned around, and exited the locker, walking the long, dimly lit hallway that led to the ground floor of the arena.

She walked past the white
-jacketed security guards who stood watch over the four exits at ground level. The arena was still buzzing despite the scattering of empty seats.
Estil
’s logo was everywhere. From the ring’s skirt, to the floor in the ring, high above in the rafters, and on the plastic cups the spectators had in their hands.

As soon as Keelen approached the ring, she was immediately greeted by an usher who escorted her to the rows of seats ringside. Her seat was in a row behind the one
Estil
had sponsored for all of Adam’s candidates.

“
Thank you,” she said to the usher, as she scooted through the row of knees.

Sitting by the aisle was the debonair Hanz Ratliff, wearing his custom
-made L.A.P.D. uniform from Hugo Boss. His chrome buttons, velveteen trim, and Italian leather holster, made the handsome policeman, the apple of a 1930s fascist
fashionista’s
eye. Next to him was Bobby Smith, sporting his oversized black denim jacket and matching jeans, his can of spray paint missing, but his dead eye displayed front and center, making the producers in charge of broadcasting the fight nervously request their cameramen avoid focusing on the young man’s roughened and street-corrupted visage. Next to Bobby was an empty chair with a sign on its back. It was reserved for Logan Drake. Keelen glanced at it and sighed.

As Keelen settled into her seat, a young blonde, wearing a short black skirt, approached from behind, her bulbous cleavage greeting her face.
“Do you want anything to drink?” asked the cocktail girl.

“
Diet Coke?”

“
Is Diet Pepsi fine?”

“
I guess.” Keelen smiled.

High
in the nosebleed seats, Adam Cagle  sat next to a concrete pillar stained with the adhesive and colorful strips of old posters that spanned decades. Parts of his thighs spilled over to the chairs next to him, his large egg-sized fingers gripped a set of binoculars. Through his smartphone, he radioed Tracy, who was sitting in one of the press boxes. “How you doing?”

“
I’m fine,” she said. “The walls in here are stained with nicotine, eww.”

“
Yeah, this place is a dump. You see any sturdy tables around you?”

Tracy glanced over her shoulder.
“Yeah, there’s one behind me. It looks quite firm—why are you so obsessed about the possibility of an earthquake?”

“
I don’t know, I had a nightmare about one a few nights ago, I guess. Also, this building is older than anything in the entire city,” Adam said while cleaning the lens of the binoculars with a handkerchief. “You’re my eyes and ears, remember that, Tracy. I want you to observe the minutia of an event such as this. I want to see what you’re made of when you write the article. You got heart and courage, right?”

“
Yeah, but this is just an amateur boxing match, not a war zone.”

“
Would you cover a warzone if you could?” asked Adam.

“
Sure,” Tracy said, while her eyes focused on Keelen Grant ringside. “Hey, she’s here.”

“
Who?” asked Adam.

“
Logan and Drake’s girl.”

“
Is Logan with her?”

“
Nope, seat is still empty.”

“
Believe me, he’ll show up, if he’s my man. Once the main even gets going, he’ll show up,” Adam said, lathering the black finish of the binoculars with the sweat of his palms.

Keelen thanked the girl for her Diet Pepsi. The waitress lingered for a tip. Feeling the perturbed energy of the waitress behind her, Keelen looked over her shoulder and snagged a quarter from her jeans and placed it on the waitress
’s metal tray. The waitress gave Keelen a cold stare.

“
It’s all I got,” Keelen chagrined.

Surprised by the ringside frugality, the waitress huffed and walked away. Soon thereafter, the lights in the arena started to dim.

The crowd roared as the spotlight centered on Matt, who wore his satin royal-blue robe. He kissed his gloves and threw them up in the air, further intensifying the feverish pitch from the thousands who showed up to support the charismatic, homegrown pugilist. Matt sashayed lightly toward the ring. The Olympic committee frowned upon grandstanding, so Matt’s swagger was subdued, but showy enough for all his future sponsors that were in attendance.

“
Go, Matt!” Keelen cheered, raising her fists in the air.

Adam, squeezed into the cheap seats, an entire section to himself, stood up and clapped for Matt
hew Nix. “Such a beautiful man,” he said out loud. “Wouldn’t surprise me if you were my brother. I hope if you are, you show your hand when the entire arena is in rubble...”

Across the 10 freeway
, across the neighborhoods filled with Craftsman and Victorian homes long forgotten, and beyond the bodegas and muffler shops, Logan sat in his hotel room in his favorite black hoodie, typing his yet-to-be-released
Sunset Edict
on his laptop. Matt’s qualifying fight played on the flatscreen TV in the background. He leaned back in his chair, turning his head toward the television. “Kick his ass, Matt,” he said, before turning his attention back to his work.

Matt entered the ring and flashed Keelen a wink. Keelen blew back a kiss and mouthed,
“Be careful.”

After Matt settled into the ring, the spotlight shifted toward Cesar
’s entrance, a rally of boos ensued. The negative energy leading up to the fight, that was spewed Cesar’s way, fed his antagonistic persona. He was quoted in the paper saying that after the fight, the only endorsement that would take Matt would be the association of plastic surgeons. Matt was too focused to let Cesar’s cheap shots faze him, but the press ate it up, and goaded Cesar for more at every press junket.

Cesar strolled toward the ring, waving and kissing at the crowd, his robe decorated in the red, white, and blue of the Texas flag, with a giant white star patched squarely on his back. His father and trainer, Ramiro, an ex-champion in his own right, followed.

“Focus
mijo
,” he said. “Enough of the act. Make your state proud.”

“
Dad, I got this. This
guerro’s
got a glass jaw. He’s not fast enough to guard it against my speed.”

Cesar climbed in through the ropes and met Matt at center ring, while the lights re
-illuminated the arena. Matt stuck out his gloves and waited for Cesar to return the favor.

“
Come on, red, it’s in the rules,” the ref said, standing next to the fighters.

Cesar complied and gently tapped Matt
’s gloves, while winking and blowing a condescending kiss. “Your hair looks uneven. I’ll fix it for you in a moment,” Cesar quipped through his mouth guard.

Matt didn
’t respond as he stood stone-faced. The ref stepped in between the fighters, using his arm as wedge, subduing the street fight animus. “Okay, guys, no hitting below the belt. No elbows, head-butts, or hugging. Once the bell rings, back to your corners.”

Matt and Cesar stepped back and bounced in place, as if the bottom of their boxing shoes were layered springs.

“Torso,” yelled Jacob. “Protect the jaw. Remember...torso...he’s a toothpick.”

“
Right here,” hollered Ramiro, pointing at the middle portion of his jawline. “Fast quick jabs, then your mini-hook.”

The bell rung and the crowd roared.

“Be careful, Matt!” yelled Keelen, her voice vibrating with anxiety.