Flashing lights. Different arena. Different crowd. Different opponent. Different scars and wounds. That was the story of Phil Brooks life. He was a walking, breathing, self made athlete in the world of boxing. He was one of the best.
He was used to getting knocked down, but even more used to standing back up. More than often, he came out victorious from his fights, but he had been beaten down many times. He wasn't undefeated. Especially at life in general.
With being a self obsessed boxer, the best around, came fancy suits, title belts and a mansion that he didn't need. He lived alone after all.
"How's that eye?" A doctor back in the locker rooms called out to Phil who sat in his shorts, his eye swollen and purple, holding a bag of ice to it, a towel slung around his shoulders.
"Peachy." Phil nodded. Phil wasn't exactly his go to name. Due to his heavily tattoo'd arms and chest, his love for different punk rock bands and his flimsy lip ring that hung at the side of his lip... he was 'Punk' to a lot of people.
"I gotta give it to him." Punk nodded, taking the ice bag from his eye, "The guy put up a tough fight." He nodded.
It was a nice job. Many people would disagree with him, but he got paid well, he enjoyed punching people in the face, and he got the respect he deserved when he walked into any room.
"Not tough enough." One of the guys in the locker room added as Punk smiled, standing up and stretching his abused muscles.
"Never enough to beat me." Punk winked, getting his things together in his bag, expecting his cab to be outside waiting for him. He enjoyed knowing that he didn't have another fight until a few months. The good thing about his job, was that he was taken care of. He got plenty of time between fights to rest and get back into shape. He was lucky if he fought three times a year, yet had a joyful pay cheque in his bank every month. He couldn't help but take it for granted. He'd been doing it for ten years.
He walked through the backstage corridors of the arena he had just fought his first fight of the year in, of course picking up a victory. His body hurt, but he couldn't say he wasn't used to it anymore.
He got to his private cab waiting at the back of the arena, looking over at a fans lined up behind the gate. He never got into this for the fans. It was always just about the fighting. He was bitter in the way that he didn't care if he had one fan or one million. He was going to fight regardless.
He gave them a nod, not being so disrespectful to not, throwing his bag into the back of the cab and sliding his aching body in, closing the cab door and telling the driver where he lived, having no shame in throwing it around that he lived in a huge mansion in the city of Las Vegas.
He wasn't from Vegas, but since the majority of his fights wound up there, he moved right away, having no shame in buying one of the biggest houses in the state. He was a proud Chicago native. But... like everywhere he had went, held it's memories, bad memories.
He got out of the cab, paid courtesy of the World Boxing Association community he was loved and supported by. The people who worked to evolve the sport had much belief in him and always looked to him to sell out every single arena he walked into. And he was proud of that.
He had gotten used to having everything spoon fed to him. It wasn't good, especially when he came from a background of growing up, looking after himself, but he couldn't help it. He couldn't remember the last time he paid for his own flight, or his own food at different restaurants. He was taking advantage of this grateful life he was afforded.
Unlike many boxers, when he was home, he was home and alone. No one got to see him outside of the boxing world. Yeah, he was sighted out and about with his buddys, but no one had a true taster of what Phil Brooks was like as a guy and not a ruthless fighter in the ring.
He got into his house, watching his two rottweilers bound towards him. He didn't know if it was just a boxer thing, but almost every fighter he knew had huge dogs. They kept him company when he came home and needed to just chill after a fight.
He didn't know how he came up with the names, but both boy dogs were named Tank and Nero. It sadenned him sometimes when he looked around and seen this huge house empty with just two dogs to share with. He knew and was friended with some guys in the industry with wives and kids, but it just wasn't for him. He'd rather dedicate everything he had to offer to boxing and the boxing world.
He began making a green juice shake in the blender in his kitchen, Tank and Nero sitting watching him. They were well trained dogs, friendly but protective over Punk and their house they ravishingly lived in.
Punk leaned against the counter, cracking his neck from side to side, waiting for the juicer to finish up his green juice so he could head for a shower after drinking it. He had no idea the amount of weird food he had to eat to be a boxer. Sometimes he'd just eat beans for dinner. Dry beans with nothing. Other times he would eat two steaks and go work out straight after it to turn the protien to muscle. It was hard keeping up with the dieting and working out, but he enjoyed the challenges.
For a boxer, he actually wasn't as buff as some other guys. He had muscles alright, he had the glorious hip dents and V line that was visible when his jeans were low enough. But he had no six pack or extravagant large neck. He was a good size with a lovely smile that wasn't put to use enough. He wore his hair whatever style he felt like when he was at home, but when going out to press conferences, media circles and his fights, it was all slicked back with his stubbly beard tidyed up. Being a boxer came with dressing in snappy suits and looking your best, it wasn't all about blood and guts, although Punk wished it was.
He was just finished pouring his juice into a glass when he seen his phone light up across the counter, the caller ID none other than the president if you will, of boxing, Gilberto Mendoza. He rolled his eyes. He loved the guy, but he had a slight fear of him genuinley liking him in a way he shouldn't. Gilberto knew Punk drew money, and he treated him the best for that reason.
"Mendoza... what you wanting?" Punk answered, taking a drink of the juice he had made, screwing his eyes up at the bitter taste. Even though he was used to the sour and flavourless drinks, it still sucked that he had to drink them. He couldn't remember the last time he drank a can of soda.
"Punk... how are you? Great fight tonight." Gilberto exlaimed loudly through the phone.
"I'm great. I was just headed for a shower actually. What's up?" Punk said.
"Well, as you know. The press are going crazy..." Gilberto said as Punk nodded. It was a tendancy for the press to go crazy after every one of his fights. They always wanted a word with Punk himself and Punk very rarely let that happen. Like he said... he was a private guy.
"So they're sending someone out to my house?" Punk already guessed with a sly smile.
"Exactly." Gilberto said, "Some journalist from the news paper. Be careful what you say, they fuckers twist everything you say into something else. She'll be there around noon tomorrow." Gilberto said as Punk rolled his eyes.
"She?" Punk grumbled.
"Yeah." Gilberto nodded through the phone, "Good luck...and, don't say anything you're not supposed to." Gilberto warned Punk, hanging up as Punk just shook his head, throwing his phone on the counter and downing the rest of his green juice.
The next day...
After a long hot shower and a early night in bed, Punk was up and feeling refreshed the next morning, lounging around in a pair of sweats and old band t-shirt, a cubs hat perched on his head while he waited around for this journalist he was expecting.
He hated doing media, going on TV talk shows or doing Q&A's. He just wanted to fight, and then be left alone, but he understood it came with the job, and some people would love to be in position. He understood that he sounded ungrateful for the majority of his career, but he actually didn't care what people thought of him. He stopped caring about a lot of things when he decided to get into the boxing world.
He greeted the woman who knocked on the large door to his house, letting her in as she looked around with amazement. She was cute, but definitley not his type. She was short but curvy, beautiful skin and hair, but he wasn't instantly attracted. Shockingly... he wasn't very interested in woman anymore. And no... that didn't mean he was interested in men now. He had his reasons.
"Can I get you anything? A drink?" Punk asked her, shutting over his door, looking across at the shy girl, holding a bag in her hand in one hand, using her other to tuck her hair behind her hair.
"Coffee... please." The girl smiled timidly as Punk nodded.
"Milk?" Punk questioned. He wasn't used to making coffee for anyone other than himself.
"Yeah... and two suguars." The brunette added as Punk chuckled.
"I don't have sugar in my house." Punk said, "C'mon..." He said like she was stupid.
"Milk is fine." The girl nodded.
"Ok... you can go through." Punk pointed through to the large living room, "Just watch the dogs." He said, trying to be as friendly as he could. He could have thought of other things he could be doing other than talking to a journalist about his life that she would no doubt twist for the newspapers.
The young girl, long term journalist walked into the huge living room. She knew the house would be big, but she was astonished by everything. It was a good thing she loved dogs, the two rottweilers were huge, lying in their beds in the corner staring at her with every move she made.
She took her notepad and pen out of her bag and sat down on the comfy, soft couch, watching the man walk through into the living room placing down her coffee as he took a seat across from her on the opposite couch, his own coffee sitting on the coffee table.
"I'm sorry if this is inconveniant. I know you're a pretty private guy. I won't take much of your time." The girl made herself clear. She watched this man fight whenever he was scheduled. He was something else. His talent was on a different planet. She thought he was very handsome too, she was so incredibly shocked to know he had no wife or even no girlfriend.
"Oh, it's no problem." Punk smiled. He was good at being fake. He'd had ten years of practise, "What's your name?" He asked, being polite as he was brought up to be.
"April... AJ." She shook her head.
"Which is it?" Punk chuckled. He could sense she was nervous, she'd probably never interviewed someone so big as him in the world.
"AJ." AJ nodded, she had no idea why she told him her birth name.
"Ok, AJ... give me your best shot." Punk smiled to her.
The clock ticked by as Punk answered all of AJ's desired questions, making sure to answer them officially and professionally. He didn't want his words being twisted by someone he had kindly invited into his home.
AJ felt so intimidated, the way he stared at her, knowing his fists were capeable of knocking men square out, unconscious. It was terrifying for her, but she sensed some sort of trust from him for some reason.
"You've been boxing for ten years... you started later than other guys in the industry. Why is that?" AJ asked him with her pen in her hand, staring across at him. He was one of those men who stared right in the eye, leaving her to look away to not make things anymore awkward than they already were.
"I wasn't motivated to be a boxer until later on in life. It was never a dream of mine as a child like most of the guys. I had other reasons." Punk replied.
"And what are those reasons?" AJ asked. It was her job, sometimes she hated it, people always underestimated journalists and thought they were only good and putting words in peoples mouths, but that wasn't all they done.
Punk just chuckled, sitting up, putting his feet flat on the ground, Tank lying under his feet while Nero sat watching AJ. It was the hardest interview she had ever done, she wasn't just being intimidated by two dogs, but three, Punk being the biggest dog of them all.
"My wife died ten years ago." Punk said as AJ paused her pen, looking up at him from her paper, "She was in a car accident." Punk clasped his hands together.
"I'm... I'm sorry." AJ shook her head, not expecting that what so ever.
"No you aren't." Punk said, "You didn't know her." He barked back at her, not the friendliest man to be around when he spoke about his wife. He'd never revealed to anyone about her, this would be the first, but he figured it should be well documented, people would find out sooner or later.
"Was she... the motivation to box?" AJ asked.
"Yeah. I had nothing else to do." Punk said, "Everytime I'm in that ring, I'm fighting for her." Punk said as AJ smiled. He knew this would be all over the papers by tomorow, but something just switched him on to tell this interviewer. He didn't know if it was the first time he felt safe with an interviewer, like he could trust her. She seemed so chilled and calm, even though she was dying inside.
"I'm sure she'd be proud of you." AJ nodded. She was sure that underneath this arrogant, ignorant, self obsessed man, was a beautiful, sweet and gentle human being with a lot of pain he wasn't dealing with properly, using boxing as an escape.
Punk just nodded, appreciating the kind words. It was true. He'd been mourning the death of his wife for ten years, as soon as he passed, and everything sunk in, he turned to an old boxing gym in Chicago and trained every hour of every day, until he got here, sitting in a huge house with money he couldn't spend all if he tried.
"I think I'm done." AJ nodded, closing her screeds and screeds of writing on her notebook, putting it in her bag and standing up, watching him stand up, leading her out of the living room and down the hall to the front door.
Punk was surprised how well it went, she wasn't like other journalists he had encountered, she was sweet, calm and as the hour proceeded with her, he actually felt slightly attracted to her.
"I hope you got everything you need." Punk opened the door for her as she smiled up to him.
"I did." AJ nodded timidly, "Thank you so much for your time. Have a good day." She smiled politely as he nodded, watching her walk down the steps and to her waiting car.
He closed the door over and walked back into his extravagant house, sitting down on the couch with a sigh. He was a classic example of a book with no words. He liked keeping himself to himself, but sometimes he couldn't, he was put in front of a world, millions of viewers who wanted to know him. All he was in this for was the fighting, and making his deceased wife smile up in the clouds. The fame wasn't necessary for him, although he had gotten used to it.
Welp. There it is. Another different plot pulled out the bag. Most of you asked for a new story or a sequel to endless love even though that wasn't an option. I can't remember if I've explained but if I am ever going to do a sequel to endless love, it will be when I have no ideas for any other stories and have nothing else to work on. But anyways, I hope you guys enjoy this story that I have for you all. REVIEW and tell me what you think.
10 REVIEWS = New Chapter.