It feels good to finally write about my home country for once. Hopefully I don't let my fellow Canucks down. Buckle up and get ready to enjoy the splendid sceneries of Western Canada!
***
Vancouver.
The city skyline filled up my window as the plane continued its descent into the city. A combination of buildings, parks, and roads came into and then out of my view. Moments later, the unmistakable thud of landing gear meeting runway signalled that we had touched down. The plane came to a roaring stop before making its way towards the gate.
There was an awkward silence when the plane stopped at the gate, but we weren't allowed out yet. Some people grew a little bit anxious. Annoyed, even. As soon as the seatbelt light turned off, a few people got up and stepped into the aisle, trying to grab their bags before others, only to find themselves surrounded by people with the same idea. The flight might have only been an hour or so, but the crowd didn't want to sit any longer than they had to.
Eventually, the line began to move. Those blocking the aisle quickly reached into the overhead bins and grabbed their bags. Chatter picked up once again. A bit of chaos ensued as people shuffled their way out of the plane. I overheard a couple of different conversations, including a group of guys a few rows back who were here for a bachelor party.
Two beefy arms came down on my shoulders with enthusiasm. It belonged to the mountain of a man that sat next to me. He might have been sleeping soundly for most of the flight, with his head pressed into the window, but as soon as the flight landed, he popped up as if there was an eject button on his seat.
"This is going to be the best week of the year, Liam. Let's show up and show out," he declared loudly.
I smiled, letting Brett's enthusiasm sink in for a moment. Months of training had led to this. We were finally in Vancouver for the big week.
Fight week.
Brett and I both trained at Strikers, a local boxing gym and club, that competed in several events each year. Most were amateur tournaments with other clubs around the city, but the Western Canada Boxing Championships was a totally different thing. The gym had circled this mid-July week way back at the start of the year. Some of the biggest up-and-comers from this side of the country had entered this competition. We weren't expecting to get any silverware out of this event, but it was a good opportunity to measure our skills against of the best in class.
As we made our way into the airport, Brett continued to pour on the enthusiasm. He was the walking definition of "looks can be deceiving", as the muscular six foot five frame and thick brown beard covered up the energy and attention span of a five-year-old. Brett was intimidating until he started to talk.
"Look, Liam, this is the week to prove yourself. Lots of people come to this event, including the ones that call the shots. And I'm not talking about guys like Jamison. I'm talking professional scouts. They're always looking for the next big thing, and they're looking for them early. You won't be able to tell who's who, but someone in the crowd is always watching. Impress the right guy and you will be set."
It was hard to imagine someone of Brett's height being overlooked, but by many standards, Brett's career path has often gone under the radar. He barely squeaked past high school, bounced around a few dead-end jobs for a couple years, took up boxing, and up to this point, had a fairly modest record to show for it. Sometimes people misinterpreted Brett's energy as being lackadaisical, but if there was one thing that he took seriously, it was boxing. He knew he was one lucky break away from making a career out of this.
"You ever run into a professional scout?" I asked him on the escalator down to the arrival hall. This was Brett's third year in the circuit and second WCBC. With less than twelve months of boxing under my belt, I wanted to get every bit of advice that I could get before my biggest competition to date.
"You think I'd still be here with you if professional scouts had reached out to me? No offence to Strikers, but the gym is nothing more than a stepping stone in the grand scheme of things."
"True."
A handful of us trained at the tiny boxing gym in downtown Edmonton, tucked away neatly between a barber shop and a massage parlour that might have been a rub-and-tug with its shady exterior. It wasn't the prettiest place at a glance, and the equipment was not state-of-the-art by any means, but Coach Jamison and the trainers did a great job of running a tight ship with what they had.
Brett paused for a second, thinking to himself, then added, "A few 'scouts' have approached me before, but they turned out to be scammers."
"Maybe you're just not good enough for the real ones."
"Eat a dick, Kearney."
We made it to the carousel ahead of schedule. A few people from our flight had already gathered here, waiting for the bags to show up. I recognize a couple faces as being the early risers who stood in the aisle right at the end of that flight. I hoped they enjoyed those extra seconds of getting off the plane and standing at the carousel. A true game changer.
Neither Brett nor myself brought a lot of extra clothes for the week, but our fight gear was enough to fill a suitcase to the brim. Boxing gloves, shorts, mouth guard, tapes, and the works really added up quickly. We brought a few extras as well, in case some of the gear really started to stink. We weren't planning on doing laundry this week, either.
A minute passed. Another minute pass. And the clock above the carousel indicated that five minutes eventually went by. Not a single squeak from the machine in front of us. People started to grumble about the delay, and to no surprise, Brett was right in the thick of it.
"For fuck sakes, how long does it take to unload, like, thirty bags?"
It was an early domestic flight. The airport wasn't busy, and our plane wasn't super full either. About a third of the seats were empty. The math wasn't really adding up for this delay, but I learned that complaining wasn't going to fix the problem. None of Brett's swearing was going to make the baggage claim process quicker.
A sudden rumble caught our attention for a completely different reason. It wasn't the carousel. Instead, it was the rumble coming from the footsteps of a large group -- maybe a hundred plus -- that made us turn around. We saw a crowd of baby-faced teenagers, likely several years younger than us, repping their schools in hoodies and sweats.
"You think they're university kids?" I asked Brett, calling them kids like they weren't five or six years younger than us at best.
"I think so. I think I saw something about some student conference in the city this week. A go-abroad fair or some shit. You know, keener shit."
I nodded but I didn't know. I was never a keener in my university days. C's got degrees was a motto that I took to heart. If I couldn't, then I wouldn't was another one that guided me through those four years. Great times, really.
The sound of the carousel buzzer brought our attention back to business. About time. I was hoping for a little down time before the event. After the early drive to the airport to catch the flight, I would love to unpack and power nap before the pre-competition briefing.
As the first black bag came out of the chute and into view, Brett yanked my arm with urgency. "Three o'clock. See that girl?"
There was at least forty girls in the group of university students. "Which one?"
"Tall blonde. White crop top and booty shorts. The one who looks like Gabbie Carter."
I found the crop top and shorts within seconds. There weren't many dressed like her within that group. I didn't know her, but I already felt that she would be a handful -- and not in the same way that Brett would mean it -- given the flirty smirk on her face. Something about her style gave me Regina George from Mean Girls vibes. She definitely liked being the centre of the attention. Now which burly boxer did that remind me of?
"What about her?"
A mischievous grin was wide on the face of Strikers' self-proclaimed player number one. "You think I can land her? That body? Those clothes? I bet she's fun in bed."
Some questions were better without answers. I left Brett hanging to grab my suitcase off the carousel. My teammate wasn't necessarily an idiot, but he didn't have a filter for his words, either. Sometimes he sounded like the testosterone-fuelled meathead that people stereotyped boxers for being. Case in point.
"Come on," Brett urged, blood rushing to his head. "Ten bucks. I'll put a tenner on the line and say that I'll bone her by the end of the week."
I snickered, knowing that his chances were about as good as him landing a professional contract from this tournament. I looked over at crop top girl again, trying to understand why he thought he had a chance, when my eyes landed on the girl next to her. She was short--couldn't have been much taller than five feet--with straight blonde hair that sat on the shoulders of her black windbreaker. The navy jeans and black boots that made up the rest of her outfit couldn't have been more different than what was beside her. I only caught a glimpse of her face, but something piqued my curiosity.
Brett intentionally stepped into my line of sight. "Hey, are you even listening?"
"Yeah, sure." I caved in and took the bait. "I'll bet a ten on you getting shut out. It's easy money. You'll literally never see them again after this."
"I wouldn't be so sure about that. There's a pretty good chance they could end up at our hotel. I think the conference is just a couple blocks away from the hotel, and there was a pretty good group rate at our place, so . . . who knows. If everything lines up, I could be hitting the jackpot tonight."
"If," I reminded him.
Brett scoffed. "If I'm wrong, it's only ten bucks. Chump change."
"And if you're right, it's only the worst ten seconds of her life."
#
"Brett. Liam. Good to see you two."
Coach Jamison stood in the lobby of the hotel, arms crossed at his chest. He was a one-timer back in his heydays. Might have never been took off at the national stage, but won enough fights to make a small name of himself in these circuits. Now, he's mostly known for his no prisoners taken style of coaching and shiny bald head. Coach Jamison wasn't far removed from competing -- only forty-some years old -- and his compact build and excellent technique meant he couldn't probably put up a good fight against any of us at any time.
"Hey, Coach," I acknowledged. Brett nodded halfheartedly as his eyes scanned the lobby.
Bucky, the youngest of the three trainers coming with us to the event, briefed us on registration. "There's still paperwork that needs to be filled out before the team meeting. The OC are expecting you at the fighter registration tables in Hall C. Get that done ASAP and meet here after."
"Do we have time to drop off our bags first?" Brett asked.
"Forms first. Bags second." Coach Jamison was a man of few words, but the point comes across loud and clear. Brett and I slung our bags over our shoulder and made our way towards Hall C.
A long table was set up under a welcoming banner. Small printed signs along the table organized fighters into their weight classes for registration. Brett wandered over towards the end of the table for the heavyweights section, and I waited in line along with the middleweight group.
It took about ten minutes, but I found my way to the front of the line and within touching range of the white tablecloth. It didn't take long for me to realize that the lady sitting on the other side of the table had been here for many ten minute intervals. She was in full automation mode.
"Name? Age? Height and weight? Club?"
"Liam Kearney. Twenty three. Five foot eleven. One hundred and sixty five pounds. Strikers Boxing Club from Edmonton, Alberta."
She filled out the form with the information I provided at an intense pace. Her scribbling was furious but her expression was blank. There were a few follow-up questions -- never once looking up to make eye contact -- and more frantic scribbling. After she finished, she slid the form and pen over to me.
"Read the waiver and sign at the bottom," she instructed. "Next!"
I signed the form without so much as a glance over the fine print. There wasn't really any need to. These forms were standard print, and most of them acted as a cop out for the organizers. Cuts and bruises? Not their fault. Dislocations and fractures? Not their fault. Death and dismemberment?
Also not their fault.
The lady took my form back with a free hand and added it to the stack next to her. Her writing hand was busy filling out the next guy's form with the same efficiency. Muscle memory was a scary thing.
The rest of our afternoon was fairly boring. We unpacked and split up to do our own things. I got a quick nap in while Brett went down to the hotel gym for a quick cardio session. Apparently he also had time to stink up the bathroom with his colon cannonballs, because I nearly gagged and puked when I woke up.
"Close the fucking door," I yelled when I was finally able to breathe non-toxic air.
Our briefing meeting was also nothing to get excited about. The rules and regulations were pretty standard, and the competition specific stuff was straightforward. Not worth the hour and a half that was spent in the convention hall. I wondered how many guys actually retained any of that information.
The most exciting part of the day came after dinner. It was a long day, and both of us were mentally but not physically drained. There had been a lot of sitting and waiting throughout the day. We agreed that a little bit of loosening up was needed before the first fight tomorrow. Nothing too crazy, but a chill night out to ease the nerves. A poster for the lobby bar caught our eye. No cover fees. Drink specials. Local DJ playing hits past midnight.
"Interesting," Brett mused.
"It sounds pretty good," I said.
Brett was skeptical but agreed to give it a try. "Let's see how it goes. If it's dead, let's bounce and go somewhere else. Either way, let's have a good night and start this week off with a bang."
The bar was similar to most hotel bars that I've been to. It was a small dingy place that had an even smaller dance floor. Some random guy was blasting dance hits through the speakers from his playlist. There were a few spots like this back home. It wasn't anyone's go-to spot, but it usually met a need. Usually. Tonight didn't feel like one of those nights. Maybe it was because we showed up around ten o'clock, but three or four others were in here, spread out across the bar. Besides the music, there wasn't much else going on.
"This shit blows," Brett concluded after giving the bar a once over. "Let's get out of here. I don't want to waste my night like this. There's zero action in this place."
"Let's give it fifteen minutes. We're still early."
Brett had a few choice words, but reluctantly decided to stay and see if anything changes. We ordered a drink each. Something to kill some time. I got a regular iced tea, and Brett chose a double whiskey on the rocks. Some of us liked to start early.
Fifteen long minutes passed by. We tried to nurse our drinks for as long as possible, but eventually, the ice melted and it started to taste watered down. Hardly any one came in, and the one or two that was left moved to the corner seats and kept to their phones. I respected the DJ for pretending to care, but it was clear that the crowd didn't.
"All right. I'm done," Brett announced as he drank the last of his whiskey and slammed the glass down empathetically. "I'm calling an Uber. Let's go."
He pulled up his phone, but before he could even unlock it, the door swung open and a group of people came rushing in. Brett looked up and slowly put his phone back into his pocket. This was potentially a game changer.
Suddenly there was new life in this dead club. These newcomers were loud and proud, and their energy transformed the whole vibe of this place. A group of them rushed the bartender for drink orders. Another group was dancing to a late 2000s hit on the dance floor. Several were taking pictures in an open area. A wave of good chaos swept the room.
"Huh, fuck me, right? Just as I was about to leave. Guess we should stay for a bit," Brett decided.
I nudged Brett and pointed at the dance floor. "Might be a good idea."
It wasn't hard to notice her. Standing right in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by a few drunk and obviously horny dudes, was the same crop top girl from the airport this morning. This time, she was sporting a low cut pink top that was tied at the hip. The frills from her lacy bra was peeking out at the top. This was her spotlight and hers alone.
"We should definitely stay," Brett concluded. He rubbed his hands together, stretched out his shoulder and neck muscles, and headed towards the dance floor. A few people instinctively took a step back when his towering figure approached them.
I didn't join him. Instead, I went to the bar to order another iced tea. This was Brett's thing. I had no interest in being his wingman, and quite frankly, he didn't need one anyway. What he lacked in brain cells, he made up in charisma and strength. The bartender was still working on the group's drink orders when Brett and crop top girl started to dance together on the dance floor. Some of the guys that were around them sulked off, trying to find a rebound target.
Brett might have been putting on his A-game, but it wasn't a one-way street either. Even from the other side of the bar, I could tell that crop top girl was making some serious moves on my roommate, too. The great Brett "Brick Wall" Wilkerson might have earned that nickname for his supposedly impenetrable defence, but I bet there was going to be a lot of penetrating tonight. At least it meant I had the whole room to myself.
I finished my second drink, then decided it was a good time to call it a night. I had my fix of music and socializing, and I wanted to make sure that I was ready for the Strikers team meeting tomorrow morning. Coach Jamison wasn't going to be too happy if both of us showed up half asleep.
The elevator was right there but I decided to take the stairs and get a couple of extra steps in. We were only on the second floor anyway. A little pre-game cardio.
I reached for my key card when I got to our room, but my pockets were empty. I tried looking in my wallet, my phone case, and anywhere else that I could have put it, but it was just gone. Maybe I dropped it at the bar at some point. Whatever. It was annoying but not the end of the world.
I went back to the lobby to ask the staff for a new key card. Judging by the receptionist's nonchalant reaction, I wasn't the first or the last person to need new key cards. They must have lost a lot of these each year. I grabbed the replacement and walked back up to our room. The hotel mattress was calling my name. Sleep never sounded so good.
And then I heard Brett's grunt.
I wasn't sure at first. But then came the unmistakable sound of grunt number two. If I didn't know any better, I could have assumed that he was taking a number two. But I did know better. There was no way he left that bar by himself. Which meant . . .
They were doing the horizontal tango in my room.
My guess was confirmed when I swiped the key card and pushed the door open. The tangled bed sheets covered most of the bits, but I could see Brett's back and what I assumed to be crop top girl's forehead. She must have noticed me because she pulled the sheets closer towards them.
I wasn't quite sure how to react. There was confusion and shock and awkwardness all rolled into one. I looked away so that I wouldn't make any uncomfortable eye contact. And that was when I noticed Brett's bags still sprawled across the other bed, just as it had been this afternoon when we staked out our territories.
"Dude, are you seriously having sex on my bed?"
Brett, who was still unaware that I had entered the room and busy jackhammering away, finally stopped to acknowledge me. "Oh shit. My bad, man. Don't worry. I'll get it all cleaned tomorrow. Do you mind taking Kayleigh's room key for the night? You're cool with that. Right, K?"
"Mhmm," was the half-response, half-moan that came back.
I didn't want to stick around any longer and be further traumatized by these events. Anywhere was better than here. I swiped the keycard on the table, next to the lipstick and the panties, and turned and left the room. These animals were doing it on my bed. Gross. Housekeeping better clean it with acid tomorrow.
Kayleigh's key card told me that her room was on the same floor, but on the other side of the hotel. That was good. At least it was far enough where I wouldn't have to hear anything.
A swipe of the key card and I was in the girl's room. Or more like the girls' room. I didn't know what I was expecting, but I certainly wasn't expecting two suitcases on the floor and an assortment of clothes, makeup, and personal belongings to be scattered across the whole room. I always thought that girls were tidier than guys, but seeing this aftermath of a hurricane made me question that thought.
One t-shirt in particular was lying on the ground, in front of the mirror by the closed washroom door. I wasn't a neat freak, but this one shirt being misplaced just got on my nerves. I picked it up and did a bit of a double take. The pastel pink tee had a Care Bears type rainbow on it, providing the backdrop for a bad science pun. Even though I knew next to nothing about her, having seen two of Kayleigh's outfits made me feel like this wasn't her style. Must have been the roommate's.
I rolled my eyes at the joke and set the shirt down on one of the beds. A voice called out, "Who are you, and what are you doing in my room?"
Not going to lie, I was startled and my first instinct was to turn around and swing, but her voice was level and non-threatening. She was just curious. Maybe concerned about her own safety. And that was fair, considering that I was the person that broke into her room.
I turned around and got a good look at the speaker. My heart started to beat a little faster and my tongue felt dry as I looked for words. It was the cute blonde from the airport with the windbreaker and the jeans. Only now she was in her pyjamas and staring defiantly at me. I was not making a good first impression.
"Ahem, I asked you a question," she reminded me. "Should I call hotel security?"
I stumbled for an answer. There wasn't a good reason for me to be in here, and even if there was, I couldn't put words together in a coherent sentence right now. Not while I was studying her cute face and dainty frame. I was rattled. And so I said the first thing that came to mind.
"My roommate is fucking yours. Mind if I have a seat?"
***
Started this one a couple of years ago (I think 2020?) but it was badly in need of some polishing. Fine tuned a couple of things and I'm excited to re-release Liam and Charlotte's story. It's always fun to write about my hometown (not Vancouver!), in Canadian spelling, and taking inspiration from people in my life. Looking forward to hearing your feedback. Let me know what you think!
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