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.
Shaking my head, I pull a pair of fresh boxers and grey joggers from my sports bag flinging them over my shoulder as I dig around for my towel. Finally finding it, squished at the bottom of my bag, I yank it out and throw my clothes on top of my bag for easy access when I get out of the shower.
I yank the temperature of the shower down to freezing and let it beat down on my skin wincing at the contact. Normally cold showers don't bother me when the purpose is to calm myself down in other regions. Not that I have to take many cold showers in that sense. But after a fight? I can't stand it, it's a form of physical torture in my eyes. I tilt my head back and let the water drop down my chin as I rest the palm of my hand on the wall in front of me. I can feel my muscles beginning to relax after each passing second and because it wasn't a physically challenging fight I switch the water off right after cleaning myself with soap.
Fuck staying under that torture device longer that necessary.
Not bothering to dry myself with the towel, I wrap it around my hips and pull the door to the changing room open. No one is ever really in here after a fight so I don't have to worry about someone seeing my dick.
However, my steps halt when I see a brown haired girl, with her back to me, raking through one of the lockers. It's the same girl from earlier. I can tell by her ass. It looks even better in this lighting. My eyes follow her every movement or should I say her behinds ever movement.
Fuck sake. I drag my eyes away from her ass before I have to drag my ass back into the shower for another cold torture session.
Maybe she'll join me if I ask nice enough?
I clear my throat to rid my mind of these dirty thoughts, but instead of clearing it, thoughts invade my mind faster than Usain bolt when she turns around from the noise.
Holy shit.
Shit.
Holy.
Shit.
I'm frozen in shock, and I Luke White, do not freeze in shock.
How is it humanely possible to be so fucking beautiful?
Her big brown eyes are open wide in shock like a little kid being caught doing something they shouldn't. I can't help but be mesmerised by the swirls of green around the edges of her iris that no doubt come and go depending on her mood. Sharp cheeks bones and the cutest button nose I've ever seen accompanied by plump pink lips make up the most attractive face I've ever seen in my life and trust me, I've see a lot of attractive faces.
It's safe to say I'm lost for words and I don't fucking like it.
I refuse to let my eyes move down her body, if her ass is anything to go by, I'll no doubt be captivated be that too.
"I'm so sorry, I didn't think anyone would be in here." She says her voice light and airy. Is that an English accent I'm hearing? I nearly groan in frustration when I feel my dick twitch from the sound. It's not a typical English accent like the one an actor has in a movie or the stereotypical posh accent the queen has. It's sexy and endearing. When she speaks she exaggerates her vowels making the words seem harsher. Yet I can't help but think she sounds like an angel.
An angel with the body of a devil.
I watch transfixed as she raises an eyebrow while crossing her tanned arms across her chest. I realise then that I've been caught staring. I force my face to remain impassive as I shrug my shoulders, leaning against the locker behind me, I mimic her action of crossing her arms.
"Don't sweat it, brownie." I say as casually as I can without showing that I'm in fact nervous as fuck. The jittery feeling in my stomach is so foreign to me that I'm not sure how to act right. I don't even get butterflies before big fights against opponents that have the potential to knock me the fuck out.
As for the nickname, I have no idea where that came from. It just slipped out as I was staring into her chocolate colour eyes. They remind me of warm gooey brownies. My favourite type of dessert.
Shit, will she think I'm a weirdo for calling her a brownie? I'm probably coming across as weird as fuck. I'm never like this in the presence of a girl. I need to get a grip and fast.
I tighten my arms across my chest in frustration. Her eyes zone in on the action and I can't help but smirk as she does a quick sweep of my torso before moving her eyes back to mine. I hope she likes what she sees, because I certainly like what I see.
"Brownie?" She questions her voice a little more breathless than before. I notice her eyes can't stay locked with my own for more than a few seconds at a time. A tell tale that she's either nervous or uncomfortable. I'm hoping it's the former and she's just as nervous as me.
Ignoring her question, because it would be quite frankly embarrassing to answer it, I change the subject. "What are you doing in here?"
Her eyes widen and she returns to the locker almost immediately. "I'm looking for the first aid kit." She speaks as she pulls random items out of the locker.
"Why?" I question with a frown on my face. Is she hurt? I do a quick scan of her body checking for injuries but come up blank, her leather jacket and black skinny jeans covering her skin anyway.
"Because you did quite the number on that man outside. I need to tend to his injuries before he loses too much blood and passes out again." She states bluntly, finally finding the red box and yanking it out.
"What has his injuries got to do with you?" I ask curiously. Though I can't help but feel a strange pang of jealously at the thought of what that man might mean to the beautiful girl in front of me. Is he her boyfriend?
She rolls her eyes moving towards the door. "It's my job. If you were knocked the fuck out, I'd have to help you too."
The breath is knocked out of me when she turns to look over her shoulder and sends me the most beautiful of smiles before walking out of the locker room.
Her job? What does she mean her job? The underground scene has never hired people to tend to injuries caused during fights. It's an illegal organisation, hiring people of that profession draws unwanted attention.
A banging on the locker room door brings me out of my trance. Realising I've been stood in the middle of the room in shock for way longer than necessary I quickly throw on my sweats and hoodie before meeting Pryce back in the arena.
I see him standing by the ring talking to the trainer of the guy I was fighting. My eyes dart around for the girl I was just talking to and find her in the corner of the room cleaning the cuts of my opponent. She works like she knows what she's doing, moving with precision and care. A sense of longing washes over me, and for the first time in my career I wish I lost the fight, just so I could be over there getting attended to by her.
"Oi white, get over here." Pryce shouts. A small growl like noise leaves my throat at being interrupted. From the corner of my eye, I see the girls head shoot up in my direction. I pretend like I don't notice her stare as I make my way over to Pryce. My gym bag slung over my shoulder. A giddy feeling in my stomach.
" You ready to bounce?" He asks gathering his bag and match notes.
I nod my head glancing over my shoulder. "Whose the girl?" I ask before I can prevent it from slipping out. Fuck.
He cocks his head at me with a raised eyebrow. "Why do you want to know?"
Because she's the most beautiful thing on the planet.
Instead I shrug. "Just wondering."
He looks at me a second longer before replying. "The owner of the arena hired her to tend to injures, he says it's less suspicious than men of a similar description ending up in A&E every night. I think she's related to one of the fighters."
"So like a nurse?" I ask with a smirk on my face. Scenarios of the two of us running through my mind. In specific, of her wearing a sexy nurse outfit.
Pryce doesn't reply, clearly not interested in such a trivial conversation.
I, on the other hand, can't help but feel excited at the prospect of being tended to by an angel.