Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 118459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 474(@250wpm)___ 395(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 474(@250wpm)___ 395(@300wpm)
In just a few minutes, I’ll walk around a thick, black curtain and take a seat a few feet away from Hunter. There’ll be a mic in my face, a swarm of reporters staring at us, hoping to get some quotes they can spin. A few reporters asked to meet with me privately before the start of the conference, but I denied them.
I don’t want to be here.
This fight isn’t some ploy to get famous or gain endorsements. I’ve seen the reporters come and go from Hunter’s dressing room all afternoon and I know he’s using that to his advantage. He has a whole team around him designed to build press. I look around the room. Sal is leaning against the wall, drinking coffee from a thin paper cup. Will is flipping through his phone. This team was designed to win one fight. That’s all I need.
My stomach rumbles. I try to focus on what I’m doing and not on what I’m feeling. Because what I’m feeling is like a whore. Not because I’m fighting for money, fuck that. But because I’ve already been informed that the reason why I’m fighting will come up. Apparently the NAFL decided that it was a good marketing ploy and reporters will undoubtedly ask me questions about Everleigh.
I don’t want my personal business out there like that. I don’t want her name in the mouths of those vultures. I don’t want what’s precious to me to be tainted with the filth that I know is this industry. I don’t want some asshole in a suit, some silver spoon-fed motherfucker with insurance no less, making money off of my niece’s sickness.
My blood singes my veins. I stand up, needing air.
Will looks up from his phone. “Keep your head together.”
“How in the fuck do I do that?” I kick my chair, sending it skidding across the room.
“Because,” Will says, standing, too, “if you don’t, those cocksuckers win today.”
“They already win,” I roar. “I had to call Julia and listen to her cry today. I had to tell her it’s going to be okay when she takes her sick kid home later on and I’m not there because I’m here, fucking using her situation, splashing her business all over the fucking media.”
“This situation blows. I get it. I do. But, man, look at it this way: maybe this will get people to donate. Maybe this will help them.”
I pace a circle, untucking my black dress shirt. Fuck appearances. “Just go out there and say what you want. Don’t say what you don’t want. But stay fucking calm. Hunter’s gonna try to get under your skin. You know this. So be prepared.”
I laugh and watch Sal toss his cup in the trash. “I want to break his face on any given day. How do I stay calm when he’s across the table from me, asking me to fuck him up?”
Will laughs and shrugs. “Pretend you aren’t you, I guess.”
Sal walks towards me, his face stern. “You have a few weeks ’til the fight, Gentry. Your sidekick here is right. Davidson is going to try to work you up. That’s why we’re here, to some extent. You know that. Play with it, try to have some fun with it. Use this to your advantage.”
“What if I just smash him in the face?”
“Then I’ll jump across the men with pens and start throwing. I’ve got your back.”
“Don’t encourage him, Will,” Sal barks.
“Be ready to bang.” I wink at Will.
“If you don’t fucking stop, Davidson won’t have a chance to kick both your asses because I will,” Sal says, popping open the door. “It’s showtime.”
CREW
I didn’t know cameras still clicked.
I walk up the steps and onto the stage. A long table is set up along the edge, a podium separating the two sides. Journalists and members of the media are sitting in folding chairs facing the man standing at the podium. I take the last step and make eye contact with Hunter Davidson coming up the other side.
Suddenly, this room doesn’t seem big enough for both of us.
He smirks, his surfer-boy blond hair sticking up every which way.
I want to rip him apart right now. And he hasn’t even said anything yet.
Sal and Will are sitting in the front row, facing the seat I pull out.
Coach gives me a look, obviously noticing I’m ready to rock. He points to his head, mouthing, “Use it.”
I grab a seat as Kyle French taps the mic. He’s the face of the NAFL, a slightly overweight former fighter turned mouthpiece, a guy who, quite frankly, couldn’t walk the fucking walk.
“On behalf of the NAFL, I want to thank you all for being here today. We’re so excited about this card coming your way on July 13th.”
The journalists’ cameras click. The lights above us are hot, the air is thick, and the room is filled to capacity.