Harold Beaumont's Bruises

Press Conference

Joey's POV
"Mr. Beaumont!" Harold's name is shouted by dozens of reporters, and officials. I never knew what a big deal division boxing was till now.

Mr. Bernard sits high on a platform next to Harold, both over looking the earnest crowd yelping at their feet. Harold is in a navy blue Armani suit, his brown hair combed neatly back, and the usual annoyed scowl on his face. I look up at the two towering above me from my spot in the front row, my press badge swinging around my neck from the earnest masses.

I feel like a sardine trapped in a can. Being steady as possible with jumping reporters on top of me I aim my camera, only for it to fall from my face. I sigh in annoyance, pouting down at my camera. I need this picture! Harold's brown eyes flick down at me, locking with mine for a second before looking away.

"Yes, French Quarter Sports Weekly." Mr. Bernard picks a reporter. The crowd settles, pens and notepads at the ready. Taking advantage of the calm I point my lenses up at Harold, focusing my camera on his scowl.

"Mr. Beaumont, how did your triumph over Mr. Nelson make you feel?" Someone pipes up somewhere in the crowd. Harold snorts, and smirks mischievously out at the crowd.

"Should I feel something?" Harold asks cynically, raising his hands up questioningly. "Of course I won, Lucas didn't stand a chance. I don't even feel sorry for him." Harold's words sends the crowd into an uproar, and earns a disappointed look from Mr. Bernard. My face falls, and my hands slack, the camera falling from my hands.

Why would he say something so awful? Especially in a press conference of all places. He's ripping Lucas apart! Harold looks down at me, his eyes darkening at the sight of my face.

"... Yes, you in the third row." Mr. Bernard reluctantly picks another reporter.

"But Mr. Nelson did land some impressive blows of his own. How do you feel about that?" Oh no, my hazel eyes fall shut at the question. Don't answer that, Harold.

Harold opens his mouth, making me stiffen. Before Harold could even get a word in Mr. Bernard subtly jabs his cane into Harold under the table. I only notice at all because I'm in the front row. Harold looks like he doesn't feel it at all, and just rolls his eyes at the elder.

"Next question, please." Mr. Bernard dismisses.

"I have a question!" A girl announces, her voice making everyone hush. I turn to the back, seeing a tall, sexy brunette girl in expensive tags from head to toe smirk smugly.

"Harry, are you going to win the tournament?" The girl challenges despite not being properly called on. Harry? My eyebrows fly to my hairline at the girl's boldness.

"I'm going to win. Not only am I going to be title holder and champ for the second year in the row, I'm not going to lose one match." Harold is now on his feet, smirking at the audience.

"I vow to have an undefeated winning streak." Harold vows. Everyone loses it. Questions are screamed, and everyone starts shoving at each other, desperate for a comment.

"This press conference is over." Harold says, walking off the stage, leaving behind Mr. Bernard and a roaring crowd.

------

Why did I even come here? I'm pacing nervously in front of the boys' locker room, glancing at it like it is the gate to the underworld.

What did I expect to do when I see Harold? Scold him? Confront him? I nearly laugh at the thought of someone confronting the boxer.

I... I honestly don't even know what to say to him. I should just leave, I just met him. I've had like two conversations with the guy. I turn on my heel, making my escape before anyone notices my existence.

"Oh, hey Joey." I stop dead in my tracks at the sound of Harold's rough, deep voice. I look over my shoulder at the boxer exiting the locker room, the Armani suit traded for a snug tshirt and gray loose hanging chinos.

"... Hey." I greet weakly, my nerves bundling up. I should have hustled, if only I just took one step a minute sooner.

"Got any good shots of the conference?" Harold asks, his bad mood from last time nowhere in sight. Why is he suddenly so friendly to me? Last time we spoke he barely acknowledged my existence when his friend joined. And where did all that spite from the press conference go?

"Harold... What was that?" I ask softly, my tone heavy with concern. It's like my words are a switch. Harold's face twists into a mask of anger, his brown eyes turning stormy.

"What do you mean by that?" He growls. I'm taken off guard by his sudden coldness, my body stiffening.

"The things you said were really uncalled for. You completely just attacked Lucas for no reason. Why would you say that stuff?" I press, locking my knees to stand firmly.

"Just take your pictures, and stay out my business. You're acting really unprofessional, ms. photographer." Harold bites, and my face just crumples. I don't shoot him a dirty look, I don't even retaliate.

I won't sink to his level. I just walk away, leaving him behind. Unfortunately, I don't even make it two feet. The pretty brunette from the conference struts out of the boys locker room, walking straight into my exit.

She's even prettier up close.

The stranger has big brown doe eyes that are burning with confidence. She has faint freckles dotting across the bridge of her nose, and sharp cheekbones. Standing in her presence just makes me feel worse about myself.

"Sorry." I quietly excuse myself and walk off, not even bothering to question why she walked out of the boys' locker room.