Pursuing Brownie

Chapter One

Luke White

The sound of air whizzes passed my ears as my knuckles make contact with my opponent; a tall Italian man with too much muscle for his own good. His incoordination with his own body is evident when he stumbles back from my punch. Blood flying from his mouth in the process. Satisfaction courses through me as I watch him struggle to regain his balance. I take the opportunity to throw a quick punch to the side of his head, watching on as his eyes roll to the back of his head, his large body falling ungracefully to the floor. I roll my eyes, my chest barely heaving up and down in exhaustion. I roll my wrists out as I watch the referee count down from ten. The crowd is screaming inaudibly but I drown it out staring down at my opponent. There's blood gushing out of a cut above his eyebrow, his nose is visible crooked from a blow he received not long ago and his left eye is starting to swell suggesting it will be closed shut by the morning. Poor guy is going to be in a lot of pain when he comes round. The noise of the crowd intensifies bringing me out of my thoughts. The referee reaches from my wrist pulling it above my head along with his, symbolising I have won the match. I take in the crowd; shouting and swearing in glee at my victory.

Underground boxing is massive in this town. Everyone and anyone knows about it. Police, from my knowledge, are also very aware of it. However, the population of Storfield are very much in love with it. Therefore, the police do not receive any anonymous tip offs about the location and time of fights. Ultimately, those who fight in the underground scene are essentially secret celebrities in this town. Fighters can generate up to fifty thousand dollars a fight as a result of betting and ticket prices. However, because this fight was a relatively small one against an opponent that offers little physical challenge, I'm guessing my earnings will be close to ten thousand dollars. I smirk to myself, Not bad for a piss easy win.

"White, let's go!" my trainer, Malcom Pryce, shouts from the side-line. I nod at the referee as a sign of respect and head towards him. He's a tall, middle aged man that is African American origin. Pryce was a boxer when he was younger. However, he sustained a career ending blow to his head. His consultant told him if he has one more hit to his head then the probability of him being killed is high. Since then, he's been closed off and distant to everyone around him. He makes one hell of a trainer, though.

As I'm leaving the ring, I glance once more at my opponent. He's still out cold. However, he's no longer alone. There's a small brown haired girl kneeling over him, his face in her hands as she examines the damage. I can't see her face as her back is facing me. I scan her form quickly, my eyes lingering on her round ass for longer than necessary, making me wonder how someone so thin can have such a big asset.

Shaking my head I divert my eyes back to the edge of the ring. As I step through the rope malcom slaps my back in congragulations. "Good performance. You're getting better. But you still need to work on your footing." he coaches, his face void of emotion. That's the thing about Malcolm, he knows exactly what I need to improve on. There's always something that needs working on, nothing is ever perfect. He pushes me to my absolute limits and even then he still thinks I can give more. That's why he's my coach. His mericlessness is what
makes me the best underground boxer in Storfield and all of Los Angeles.

I grunt in reply, removing the tape from my hands and wrists. Indentations from the tight wrapping already present on my calloused skin. I use my shoulder to push the door open to the changing room, ducking my head to ensure my large body fits through the door. Pryce follows behind me, pulling out my gym bag from my locker and throwing it towards me.

"Get showered, I'll meet you back in the arena in 10." He mutters before exiting through the same door. I can't help but think that the whole conversation was unnecessary, Pryce could have saved his old legs and told me that in the rink instead of following me to the changing rooms.