Chapter 23.
March 9th
Tommy slept in the morning of his fight, it wasn't until that night and Frank had given him the day off from work to rest. He sat up, stretching. Katrina and he had spent the night apart, she had been performing didn't want him to stay up for her night after night. It was strange to him how long it took to fall asleep alone these days, nightmares reaching him far more readily without Katrina's warm presence beside him. As the echo of gunfire and screams jerked him out of sleep, he felt himself reaching for her but his hands clasped only empty sheets.
He sighed, sitting up and stretching, his neck cracked in a satisfying way and he ambled down to the kitchen. As he put the kettle on to boil Tommy checked his phone, rubbing his thumb absent-mindedly over the crack in the screen. There were two messages, one from Katrina and one from Brendan, he saved them both for later, being a strong believer that if something was ever urgent, people would find the time to call.
As it always had been before a fight, Tommy felt himself withdrawing from the world, into the bubble. Other fighters liked to go out the night before, listen to music, get pumped up to meet their opponents, but not Tommy.
He remembered Pop understanding this, how he'd kept the locker room quiet at Sparta, any talking to a minimum, had Tommy run familiar drills again and again or simply prepared in silence. This had always been their routine, since Tommy's wrestling days when Pop had pulled him out of school days before any match, to get him into the zone. Sometimes Tommy couldn't help but wonder if he would have made it to the Olympics. Caught up by a sudden rush of rare nostalgia he tore off a sheet of paper from the pad he kept by the landline and rustled up a pen.
Tommy vs. Theognis he wrote laboriously, a quick copy of the poster still had hanging in his childhood bedroom. He doodled a small picture of the legendary wrester on the margin of the page, hands held high in victory, his drawing skills certainly hadn't improved since grade school. He snorted, feeling foolish but smiling to himself. He counted up his lifetime of fights in his head, high-school scrimmages when some unwise bully picked on the new kid, scuffling with boys in the trailer park where he and his mother had finally settled. There had been bar brawls, too many to count, a fight with Manny on the first day of basic training that landed them doing endless drills where they had become firm friends. The pen tore the page at that last memory and Tommy set it down, a task for another morning.
After a quick breakfast Tommy went for a run, rugging up against the cold in track-pants and his favorite black beanie. He hadn't meant to go far, just a quick jog but his feet had other ideas, bringing him all the way around the park and up towards the Manchester neighborhood, closer to his father's house. Before he knew it he was standing in the weed-choked front yard, Pop's car, still up on blocks, covered with a dustsheet. With no one at home the place was looking more dilapidated than usual, he noticed that the porch was starting to sag on one side, the cold of winter having weakened the supports underneath. He hesitated for a moment before loping up the steps and fishing a spare key out of a plant-pot by the door. Before he knew what he was doing, the door was open and he was inside.
The place was tidier than when Brendan and he had gone to see their father, dishes were no longer piled into the sink; the empty scotch and beer bottles had long since disappeared from the counter-tops and kitchen table. Dust had settled in his father's absence, coating everything in a fine grey film. Tommy wiped it from the framed family pictures, already yellowing with age. He paused by the mantle-piece, there was a new photograph amongst the old, unframed and propped up against Brendan and Tess's wedding photo. He looked closer, surprised to see that the picture was of himself, in full dress blues, sitting apprehensively in front of that mottled-blue background of a mall-photographer's studio.
Tommy remembered having this taken, just before his third tour of duty. Pilar had wanted a picture of Manny in uniform for her mantle-piece and Manny in turn had dragged Tommy off with him to get it done. He looked younger somehow, still boyish with hope and excitement. Of course that was before the tour had come to its awful conclusion, before all Pilar had left of her husband was that photograph and a folded flag. He wondered if she still kept it above the mantelpiece in New Mexico, he hadn't seen her since before he left.
Tommy frowned, where had this picture come from? He certainly didn't remember keeping a copy, maybe Pilar had sent it? Shaking his head Tommy set the picture back where he'd found it and turned to leave, locking the door on his way out.
Tommy swung by the apartment, staying just long enough to pack his kit-bag and neck down a protein-shake, he'd always hated the taste. He threw the sports bottle into the sink, he'd do the washing up later, and headed for the door.
The rest of the afternoon was lost inside his own head, getting ready for the fight. He'd always had a knack for disappearing within himself and he practiced it now, doing endless reps at the gym not talking to anybody.
At exactly five o'clock he got bored of waiting, curtly declining Frank's offer of a lift to the fight he trudged up the street to the bus stop that would take him into the center of the city near Whitehall. He took a seat at the back, one knee bouncing in time to the turning over of the engine as the old bus lumbered up the road.
It was almost five thirty by the time Tommy got to the downtown center of the city and to the Hilton hotel located there. He was early but already a throng had started to form around the doors, people milling about, camera crews unloading rigs and equipment from the back of trucks.
Frank had already given him his information pack, security lanyard and all the rest. Tommy fished it out of his duffle bag and put it in his jacket pocket, then, pulling his hood up, he walked briskly around the crowd and through a side entrance, down into the bowls of the Hilton's underground parking.
It wasn't a particularly dignified entrance to his first fight but Tommy would do anything to avoid the inevitable throng of admirers if he was recognized. Thankfully he'd kept a low enough profile since leaving the military that he wasn't instantly recognizable to most people, even truly die-hard MMA fans. He hadn't posed for any pictures at Sparta, and skipped the press conference. Even after the fight, when reporters had swarmed around he and Brendan like flies, no one had managed to get a decent shot of the two of them together. He bounced on his heels, shadow-boxing for a moment in the elevator ride up to the second floor where the fighters were being checked in.
The hall was already a hive of activity, there were three rounds to this tournament, and a number of fighters had turned up early to miss the crush, inadvertently creating a crowd of their own making. Attendants, organizers, trainers and entourages milled about, all getting in each other's way. Tommy couldn't see Frank although he knew that the man must be here now, having driven. He cast about, searching fruitlessly, his eyes did however catch on a flash of bright red, he looked closer, flash of red disappeared into the throng for a moment before reappearing, a handbag.
Katrina's handbag to be exact, Tommy had seen it enough times slung over the back of a chair or over his girlfriend's freckled shoulder. Tommy weaved through the mass of people, following her, he kept his hood up, hoping to escape people's notice.
He could see her clearly now, in black jeans and that oversized denim jacket she always wore when it got cold. She certainly cut a different figure to the girls milling around the place, dressed up to the nines, all long bleach-blond hair and Malibu tans. Katrina reached behind her and fluffed up her hair, a movement so familiar to him now that he smiled in spite of himself, hurrying to catch up with her. The most beautiful girl in the room without even tryin' he thought.
He caught her hand, the one that wasn't holding her fire-truck red handbag that was, and she whirled around with a gasp.
"Hey stranger." Tommy chuckled, "what are you doin' here so early?"
Katrina smiled giving his hand a squeeze, "I sent you a text this morning, told you I was coming?"
"Oh, sorry, I didn' check my phone."
Katrina shook her head, rolling her eyes in exasperation, "you pay that phone bill for a reason Tommy."
"Okay okay." Tommy shrugged, conceding the point and glancing around for Frank. "I gotta go find Frank and sign in." he told her, drawing an arm around her to protect her from a particularly large group of people squeezing their way past. As they past, Katrina squeezed into his side and Tommy felt the now familiar ache in his chest at her touch. It occurred to him then that having Katrina around for the hours before his fight might not be the best thing for his concentration. He didn't know how to tell her this though so settled for silence.
Before long, Tommy spotted Frank, over by one of the sponsorship tables, deep in conversation. He looked up and, spotting Tommy his prematurely lined face broke into a wide smile. "The man of the moment! Come on over Tommy." A little way off, Tommy could see Midnight Lee, newly representing Frank's gym signing autographs and chatting with fans.
"Hi, I'm Katrina, you must be Frank." Tommy stood back and let his trainer and his girlfriend make their introductions. He couldn't be sure if he'd ever mentioned Katrina to Frank directly but he was sure that Brendan had filled his best friend in on all the details, as Frank didn't seem at all surprised to see Tommy with a girl.
"Frank" His trainer introduced himself with a smile, shaking Katrina's hand before turning back to Tommy.
"Have you signed in yet?" he asked. Tommy shook his head. "The desk's over there," Frank pointed.
"I'll wait." Said Katrina, giving Tommy a little nudge to get him going and he ambled off. Tommy hoped that Frank could come up with some half-way decent answers to the questions Katrina was surely asking him about the coming fight. They hadn't spoken much about his upcoming bout and Tommy always avoided her questions, not wanting her to worry.
Tommy loitered at the back of a large entourage surrounding some fighter or another, from the thick southern accents and number of men sporting Sherriff's stars Tommy realized with a start that the thickset man signing paperwork ahead of him was his competition for the night. He skulked, there was no other word for it, waiting as form upon form were signed and Forrest Griffin's hangers on had had their fill of flirting with the small army of dolled-up secretaries on offer.
He made his way to the front.
"Hi, can I help you?" asked the receptionist behind the desk, smiling up at him.
"Yeah I'm here to sign in…" she looked perplexed for a moment. "To fight." He clarified. The young woman's very well groomed eyebrows disappeared under her fringe.
"And who…?" They both knew it would be rude of her to ask who he was.
Realizing he was being unhelpful, Tommy pushed back his hood and took of his beanie, "Tommy Conlon."
Eyes widened even further the receptionist rifled through the catalog of bouts, searching for his picture, not finding it she asked for his ID. He gave it, lanyard, key card, info-pack and all.
"Okay Mister Conlon," the ready smile was back, "I just have these forms for you to sign." She handed over a small pile of safety wavers and insurance disclaimers along with a pen. Tommy got to signing, the too-narrow pen slipping occasionally in his callused fingers. As he worked his way through the forms Tommy became gradually aware of people looking at him, recognizing him. A crowd was forming around the desk, where people were slowing down to look at him, the back of his neck prickled but he pushed the feeling away, retreating into his pre-fight bubble.
Forms signed, Tommy crossed the conference room, it was much fuller now as VIP guests flooded in, dressed up and taking pictures with grinning, trash-talking fighters. He found his way back to Frank, deep in conversation with a man in a dark grey business suit. Tommy noticed the regimental tiepin and straight-backed manner, reflexively; he rolled his own shoulders back.
Frank beckoned him over, "Tommy, this is Kyle Harrington, sponsorship rep for Dodge."
Kyle Harrington stuck out a hand and Tommy shook it.
"Where did?" he asked, but Frank beat him to it.
"Got a phone call" Tommy nodded. He would have preferred to keep Katrina close but restrained himself from looking around to find her.
"So," Kyle began, "we have a few basic plans."
Frank let Kyle talk for a good five minutes, laying out the benefits of various sponsorship plans, Tommy was impressed with the money they were prepared to offer, thinking of Pilar and his as-yet-unfulfilled promise to her. At the end of the man's spiel however he was rather taken aback to be presented with quite such a large stack of information packs. Frank took them, bantering with Kyle about "getting the jump on all his best fighters." Tommy realized that the two men must be friends and was thankful to Frank for not hawking him around every sponsor he could find, even though it was in his interest as Tommy's manager.
"Time to get ready?" Frank asked.
Tommy nodded, pulling out his phone and sending Katrina a quick text to say where he'd gone. Then, finally, he scooped up his kit-bag and escaped the bustling hall, descending into the relative calm of the bowls of the hotel.
They soon reached his dressing room, just one corridor behind the main room, which was set up with rows of seats, bedecked with TV-recording equipment and papered with the scowling posters of fighters. Tommy set down his bag and cracked his neck, preparing for a long wait, he and Griffin wouldn't the first to take to the cage that night.
"Don't get too comfortable," warned Frank, loosening his tie a notch, "there's a press-conference soon- did you bring a shirt?"
"No?"
Frank sighed, "You have to go you know, give an interview, let people take some pictures."
Tommy shrugged "never done it before," thinking of Sparta.
"I know, but this is how you make the money out of fighting, you can't live of your winnings, not unless you want to work the smokers and strip-club parking lot bouts."
Tommy had to crack a slight smile at that "Okay, okay-" he tugged off his hoodie, shivering slightly at the chill. Underneath he had on just a plain t-shirt, for some reason he'd chosen camo-green that afternoon.
"You'll do." Said Frank, taking off his tie all together with visible relief.
"What d'you want me to say in the interview?" asked Tommy, refusing to show any nerves.
"Just answer the questions, reporters on the MMA circuit are used to dealing with fighters who've had one too many to the head so there'll be no hard questions."
Tommy nodded, mulling it over.
"Ready to go?" asked Frank.
Nope thought Tommy, tucking Manny's dog-tags, worn for luck, under his shirt before following Frank out the door.
Tommy joined the throng back in the conference room, looking around as he did so for Katrina, she must be around somewhere, he thought, scanning the crowd.
Frank propelled him up to the front where, behind a long table sat the fighters and their managers. They had to fight thorough the journalists, tv-crews and excited fans to get there, wending around camera rigs and ducking under sound booms.
Not wanting to draw attention to himself, Tommy took his seat at the very end of the table, gazing nervously over the crowd. Not even in Sparta had been up in front of such a crowd. Then he'd had the luxury of anonymity, skipping the press conference and skirting the cameras.
The journalists immediately started taking pictures of the newcomer, a thrill running around the room at the infamous Tommy Conlon finally stepping into the limelight. Tommy forced himself to sit still, not fidget around in his pockets for a toothpick or just straight up walk out of there, he clenched and unclenched his fists, waiting the flashing of cameras to stop and the barrage of questions to begin. Finding himself with six microphones pointing his way, Tommy looked to Frank for guidance.
"Start on the left." His trainer advised, and Tommy nodded wordlessly at the outermost microphone. The first few questions went by hesitantly, not planning ahead for anything but the upcoming fight its self, Tommy hadn't prepared any kind of answers. He mumbled out a few things about training at Frank's gym, living in Pittsburgh how much weight he was lifting and how many reps he could do. Any personal questions he simply ignored, the press could speculate about his private life on their own time. Aware of his composed discomfort Frank nodded along to all his answers elaborating here and there whenever Tommy looked to be about to dry up all together.
Finally, it was over and the fighters, trainers and entourages started to get up and leave, people swarmed around Tommy again, reporters, photographers, sponsors and well-heeled VIPs. Tommy attempted to wend his way through the throng but it was no good, waylaid and asked for pictures, signatures, and quotes, the door was looking further and further away.
Suddenly, he felt a hand on his own started slightly, looking down he saw Katrina, smiling up at him. He put an arm around her, not wanting her to get swept into the crowd around them and cameras flashed left and right like lightening strikes. The ducked away and Frank left them to it, indicating "five minutes" on his fingers.
"Hey." Mumbled Tommy, finally weaving past the last few people and making it to the elevators.
"Hey yourself." She replied, "You did amazing up there."
"Thanks." Tommy felt himself flush slightly.
Tommy had an hour before his scheduled fight, he started to get into the zone again, composing himself. Endless press-ups and shadow boxing in the quiet of the changing room cleared his head. Occasionally Frank would pop in making sure he had everything that he needed, water, towels, quizzing him about his walk-out song. Tommy hadn't chosen one and, in keeping with his style at Sparta, he wasn't planning to. Katrina watched him, mostly in silence, perched cross-legged on the dressing room table, handbag on her lap. If he hadn't been so wrapped up in his oncoming bout Tommy might have noticed how white her knuckles were, clasped around the handle of her bag or how pale and quiet she was. As it was, he didn't.
At quarter to, when the last of the commentary from the previous bout was drawing to a close, Tommy started to wrap up his hands. He hadn't realized how was nervous he was until Katrina had to help him with the task.
"Thanks." Tommy mumbled.
She smiled, winding the bandages around his knuckles in the same pattern as she used for her feet before dancing before securing the ends with a long strip of sports tape.
Frank was out of the room again, talking to the crowd of people milling around outside, Tommy had asked not to have anyone in the dressing room pre-fight. He caught her eye as she finished wrestling with the tape, smiling slightly, his first real smile of the day.
It would be so easy to lean in and kiss her but, just as that thought was coming to the forefront of Tommy's mind, someone knocked on the door before entering, they sprang apart, both slightly sheepish. It was Brendan, very windswept and red-faced from the cold outside.
"Tommy." Brendan came over and hugged his younger brother slapping him on the back. "How are ya?" He asked.
Tommy shrugged, "Gonna be a long fight. Griffin probably thinks he's got my number."
Brendan grinned, "Well this will come as a nasty surprise to him then."
Tommy nodded, wordlessly, hoping that all the hours in the ring against Niko and Frank's relentless insistence on new fighting styles and techniques would be enough to give him the upper hand now that he wasn't the proverbial "biggest fish". Even when given free reign by Frank to bulk up his meals and weights to his heart's desire and even given Katrina's regular home-cooked dinners, Tommy's weight loss at Camp George was still telling. In diversifying his fighting style he was working around the issue, playing to his new strengths but in the back of his mind he still wondered if that would be enough to compensate for the loss of his old ones.
"Come on Tommy," it was Frank, back from placating reporters desperate for a pre-fight interview, "time to get this show on the road."
"I'm going to get to my seat, good luck." Katrina said softly, giving his hand a quick squeeze. Frank and Brendan became suddenly very interested packing away bandages, weights and water bottles. Tommy took their momentary inattention as a cue and kissed her on the cheek. She blushed, smiling and slipped out, Tommy felt his heart flip-flop around in his chest for a moment before quashing the feeling- it was time to focus on the task at hand.
Even bracing himself for the noise, Tommy was hard-pushed to appear immune to the uproar as he entered the hall. He was walking out second and had already heard the bag-pipe and heavy-metal thrashings of Forrest Griffin's walkout song, "I'm shipping up to Boston" reverberating around the dressing room. It didn't intimidate him at this point though, Tommy was in the bubble- totally focused.
The singing of marines however, took him by surprise, just as in Sparta a whole section of the crowd was decked out in kaki and insignia, roaring out the Marines' Hymn. Unbidden, Tommy felt his heart swell with pride as he stood at attention on the steps of the cage, acknowledging his comrades before stepping inside. He caught the sound of the cage being locked shut behind him over the final "ooh-rah!", before all noise faded into the background and he finally got a good look at his opponent.
Forrest Griffin, the ex-sheriff turned MMA light-heavyweight, was taller than Tommy at six foot three but their builds were well matched. Tommy's eyes tracked his every movement as Griffin warmed up a little, stretching his neck and arms and bouncing on the balls of his feet. Time stood still inside the cage as the cheers died down and the commentators had their final say. The referee beckoned the two men to within handshake distance.
"Alright gentlemen, I want to see a clean fight, obey my commands at all times" Tommy nodded, "defend yourselves at all times, touch gloves move back-" The two fighters briefly bumped fists before stepping back. As their eyes met Tommy saw his own determination reflected back from his competitor. He really thinks he's going to win this Tommy though, cracking his neck as the shrill bell echoed around the cage, no chance mate.
A/N We're back! A massive thank you to everyone who reads/follows/story alerts/ reviews- you guys inspire me to write! xxx