Harold Beaumont's Bruises

Ice Packs and VIP Passes

Andy dragged me to the owner's office, and here I sit in a leather chair rather in a trophy room than an office. Towering trophies, plaques of honor, and medals take up every available space in the so called office. As my hazel eyes scan the room I notice Harold Beaumont engraved in a majority of the awards.

"She angered our audience by running right up to the ring! Can you believe the nerve?" Andy exclaims to his boss, the owner, Mr. Bernard. Mr. Bernard is an elderly chap with a soft wrinkled face, a head of white hair, and fading grey eyes. Mr. Bernard sits behind his desk patiently, and calm in his vintage suit as Andy continues to rat on me. Although, Mr. Bernard doesn't look the slightest bit outraged, he is simply tapping his cane in thought with his wrinkled hand.

"Oh! Not only did she invade the ring's permitter, which could also put the fighters at risk, she blocked the audience! Both sets! By obnoxiously standing on her chair like a child!" Andy rages on. Andy is making it sound so much worse than it was, and I wouldn't have had to do any of that if they allowed me to roam around. Andy opens his mouth to continue his tangent but Mr. Bernard holds up his wrinkled hand, and hushes the man.

"Joey, can I see the pictures you took?" Mr. Bernard asks.

"... Of course." I answer, taken off guard. I was expecting him to scold me, maybe even fire me. I turn on my camera, as Mr. Bernard slides on a pair of glasses.

"Um... These didn't come out very good." I state, coming around to show him my pictures. I feel my stomach knot up as I reveal my mediocre shots. The angle is terrible, you can barely see the fighters, and the ropes block all the good aspects of the photos.

"Ah.. But this one is incredible." Mr. Bernard's words catches me off guard. The photo on the camera is the finishing blow Harold delivered. Sweat is glistening on his body, his muscles tight and breath taking, you can see the fire burning in his brown eyes, even the mouth piece clenched between his teeth is visible.

"Um... Thank you, Mr. Bernard." I say, still running my eyes over the incredible shot. Harold Beaumont made this picture, this is talent and drive in one picture.

"Where did you take these?" Mr. Bernard asks.

"Next to the ring." I answer.

"Get Joey a press pass, she is allowed to take pictures in my gym wherever she wants."

"But Mr. Ber-" Andy starts.

"Get her a pass." Mr. Bernard cuts him off.

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I'm sitting on a bench in the gym's infirmary with a blistering cold ice pack on the back of my head, and a VIP pass around my neck. Despite my head still pounding from my fall I happily twiddle with my new pass. I didn't get fired, instead I got rewarded. Take that Andy.

"The bleeding won't stop!" Panicked voices exclaim outside the sick room. The door suddenly bursts open, making me jump. A mob of coaches drag a boy in boxer shorts in, half his face covered in dry blood. My stomach drops at the sight, and I try to look away, but I can't pull my eyes away from the oozing bodily fluids.

"Nurse!" One of the coaches calls, still fussing over the injured athlete. Looking pass the blood my eyes find familiar brown depths, and I feel like the wind is knocked out of me as Harold Beaumont stares back at me. Despite the fact that he is the one bleeding, he is the only one in the mob calm, actually indifferent. He doesn't even seem to care that he has a gash on his head that won't stop bleeding.

A nurse rushes up to Harold, and places the indifferent champion on the bench next to me. My nostrils are immediately filled with the stench of sweat, and blood, but I'm to engrossed by Harold to really care.

When did he get hit so badly? Did Lucas Nelson actually land such a blow? And if he did, when? I think back to the match, not remembering Harold wince like he was in pain. He acted as if the wind was simply knocked out of him throughout the match, as if nothing was wrong, as if he didn't feel pain.

"How much does it hurt?" The nurse asks, applying pressure to the gash. Harold shrugs as if someone asked him what time it is.

"It doesn't." He states in a smooth deep voice. My eyes widen as the nurse, and Harold's team gawk at him like he's insane.

"Are you on medications?" The nurse asks.

"No, I don't believe in that junk." Harold answers, rolling his eyes.

"This is going to need stitches." The nurse states. "Someone get a sterilized needle, and some epidural." The nurse orders.

"Fuck your epidural." Harold grunts.

"You can't keep doing this-" The nurse starts.

"Get that stuff near me and I'll punch you." Harold threatens through clench teeth. A heavy silence washes over everyone in the room, no one makes a sound and freezes in fear as if they were in front of a predator. Harold is fuming with that angry drive he had at that match, the pure rage that actually hurts to be in it's presence.

"H-h-ere is the needle." Someone pipes up, breaking the dead quiet.

"Don't cry if this hurts." The nurse says, giving in.

"I don't cry." Harold grunts. I watch in horror as the needle disappears under soggy, bloody flesh over and over again. But he sits there, back straight as a board, his jaw clenched, and his knuckles white as they grip the bench. His grip is so tight he might snap the bench in two.

"There. Hope it was worth it." The nurse says, wrapping his head in gauze. Harold simply ignores the nurse as if it, and the pain were nothing.

"I need to speak to you about your bionic man." The nurse huffs to Harold's team. I hear them step away, leaving me alone with the bloody champion. I swallow thickly, suddenly nervous in the thick silence between us.

"You must be a huge fan." Harold's words make my toes curl. He is actually talking to me.

"I'm not actually a fan." I say quietly, staring down at my hands in my lap.

"Then please explain why you thought it was a good idea to run right up to the ring. Lucas or I could have done something, you're lucky you didn't get hurt." Harold's words collide into me like one of his punches, and I have to steel myself just to pull my head up to look up at him.

"I'm allowed, because I'm the new photographer." I explain, holding up my camera. "So, I'll be in the line of fire a lot. Please try not to punch me."