All It Takes Read online

  “This is beautiful.” Kian held the sketch in one hand as the other reached out to stroke my stomach. “The nipper’s gonna love it.”

  “Thanks.” I stroked my tummy, and as my fingers flittered across the bump, they brushed Kian’s. I looked down at our hands, fingertips almost touching, then pulled away. “Come on. Josh and Stacey will be back soon, and I want to get everything moved in before it gets dark.”

  An hour later, and everything had been transported to my new place. With nothing left to do at my old flat, I locked up and dropped the keys round to the landlord, and then the four of us drove over to the new flat, where boxes upon boxes lay stacked up in almost every room.

  “It still needs re-decorating, but otherwise I think it’s perfect,” I said, sitting down on the sofa and looking around my new living room with a contented sigh.

  “Yeah. It’s a nice place you’ve got here. You were lucky to find it, especially at the price you’re paying,” Stacey said, sitting next to me.

  “Luck has nothing to do with it. I had to use most of my savings to secure this place, but it’s worth it. Do you guys want to stop for some dinner?” I asked everyone. “I don’t have much in, but you’re welcome to stay.”

  “Thanks, but Josh and I are going to head back to his soon. He’s going away tomorrow, so we wanna make the most of our last few hours together.”

  “I don’t wanna know.” I laughed and shook my head as Stacey stood up.

  “Thanks for today.” I climbed to my feet and walked her and Josh to the door. “You too, Josh. I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem,” he said, then calling over my shoulder, added. “I’ll catch you in the morning, Murphy.”

  “Yeah. See ya tomorrow, mate.”

  “See you soon.” Stacey pulled me into a hug. “Take care of the nipper.”

  I didn’t miss the emphasis she put on the word.

  Playfully smacking her arm, I shook my head. “Don’t go getting any ideas about double dates, you idiot.”

  As we walked back into the living room, I said, “Kian, are you staying for something to eat?”

  “Sure, but you can’t cook after doing all this moving. I’ll get us some takeaway,” he said, reaching into his jeans for his wallet.

  “I’m pregnant, not an invalid. I can cook us some dinner.”

  The argument went back and forth for a few minutes, until I finally conceded. The longer we argued, the longer it’d take to sort dinner, and I was starving.

  “What do you fancy?”

  “Whatever you want. I’m always so hungry, I’ll eat anything going.”

  “As long as it’s not Belly Busters.”

  “Good point.”

  “Pizza okay?”

  “Sounds good to me,” I said, passing him pile of takeaway menus that were already there when I’d moved in, as Kian pulled his mobile out of his back pocket.

  “How far is the place on Miller Street?”

  “Too far. It’ll take an hour to get here. Find another one,” I said, heading through to the kitchen to make us a drink.

  “Okay. What about Sam’s Sizzlers on Maple Avenue?”

  “Nope, their pizzas are gross,” I called from the next room. “You want a coffee?”

  “Sure. And is Papa Louie’s on Stanford Road any good?”

  “Yeah, call them.”

  When the pizza arrived, and with no plates or glasses unpacked yet, Kian and I ate straight from the box, and drank from semi-cool cans of Coke. Not that I minded. After a long day of moving, I’d be damned if I was going to care about plates and proper table manners.

  “What time do you have to leave for London tomorrow? I asked as I licked the grease from my fingers and threw my last crust into the now empty pizza box.

  Kian and Josh were fulfilling some media appearance to promote the upcoming fight, and they’d be in the capital for a few days while Kian filmed an advert for some new training gear for his sponsors.

  “Just before ten,” Kian replied, crushing his empty coke can between his palms.

  As his biceps twitched from the pressure needed to squash the can, I felt a fluttering in my stomach that had nothing to do with the baby and everything to do with lust.

  “Ah, right. Cool.” I hurried to collect up the rubbish from dinner. “I’m just going to take these out to the bin.”

  My cheeks were flushed, and without waiting for a reply, I snatched the can from Kian’s hand, scooped up the empty pizza box, then bustled out to the wheelie bin.

  Get a hold of yourself. I lent up against the wall to catch my breath. He’s just a guy … a guy with huge biceps … a guy with huge biceps and tattoos …

  Remembering the one and only time I’d seen those tattooed arms close up, my heart raced.

  Yeah, and look where you ended up because of that. I patted my growing bump affectionately.

  Shaking the lust from my head and putting the sudden hot flush down to hormones, I went back inside, where Kian was flicking through the TV channels.

  “Anything good on?” I asked, plopping down on the sofa and kicking off my ballet flats.

  “See for yourself.” He handed me the remote.

  As our hands brushed, a jolt of electricity sparked between us, and I yanked my arm away as if burnt, then began flicking though the channels, hoping for a distraction.

  “Boring, already seen it, and that’s just gross,” I said, as I flicked from show-to-show, and then settled on Step Up: Revolution. “Perfect!”

  “Oh, Lord. You’re as bad as my sister. She loves these movies. She went insane when Mum bought her the latest one for Christmas.”

  “I haven’t seen it yet. Stacey keeps promising to lend it to me, then forgets she ever mentioned it. Total flake.”

  “I’ll ask Marie if you can borrow hers.”

  “Awesome. Thanks.” I turned to Kian with a maniacal grin.

  “No problem. Just stop smiling at me like that. You’re giving me the creeps.”

  “Your face is giving me the creeps.” I reached for the closest cushion and smacked it off his arm.

  “You’re gonna pay for that,” he said, grabbing my foot and tickling the sole.

  “Ahhh! Stop! Stop! Kian, you bastard.” This time I aimed the cushion at his head.

  Kian stopped the torment but my heart continued to race. His gaze drifted to the telly, but I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The traffic crawled forward at a frustratingly slow pace, and I glanced at my watch again. I had fifteen minutes to get to the studio.

  Fuck. I hate London.

  Brownie and I had been in the capital for just over a day, and I was already sick of the place. The advert for the new training gear had been okay, I guess. My sponsors seemed happy with the results, so that was one thing sorted. All I wanted now was to get home to my own bed.

  Just a few more hours and it’ll all be done with.

  I looked out the window and saw we hadn’t moved an inch in the last five minutes.

  “How much longer is this gonna take, mate?” I asked the cabbie.

  He gave a non-committal shrug. “You know what London’s like.”

  “Fine. Just let me out here.” Without giving him chance to argue, I shoved a twenty pound note in his direction and jumped out of the taxi. If I hurried, I’d still make it on time.

  I shoved past the crowds and made my way down the street to the studio. I had an appearance on a sport talk show to promote my upcoming fight with Matthews. I’d only done one of these things before, but I knew how important they were. The show would be shown around the country, so hopefully it’d encourage more people to buy the pay-per-view.

  After what’d happened with Bagley, and my promise to Doug Taylor not to fuck up again, I wanted to make sure this interview went off without a hitch. If I could come off well on TV and get more people interested in what we were doing at Ferrum MMA Championship, that’d put me back in the promoter’s good books.


  I walked into the studio and strolled straight up to the reception desk, where a highly made-up woman sat at the computer.

  Talk about first impressions.

  “Alright? Kian Murphy, here for an interview with Elliot Johnson.”

  “Hello, Mr. Murphy. Please take a seat while I let the crew know you’re here and call a runner to take you to the green room.”

  I dropped down onto the leather waiting room sofa as the receptionist made a couple of phone calls. A few minutes later, a pretty young girl arrived, and I flashed her my most charming smile as I scanned her name badge.

  “Alright, Amy?” It always paid to be nice to the staff.

  Her eyes widened in recognition as they fell on me and she blushed. “Right this way please, Mr. Murphy.”

  She led me down a corridor to the left of the reception. In the lounge area, I was ushered into a seat and given a coffee while I waited. I’d only been sitting for a couple of minutes when another girl appeared. Her red hair reminded me of Ruby, and I hoped they didn’t have any other similarities.

  “Hey, I’m Lindsay, the make-up artist. If you’d like to follow me to the prep room, I’ll get you all set up.”

  “Sure.” I stood and placed my half empty cup of coffee on the table.

  The first time I’d done a photo shoot and had to wear make-up was weird. Not just from a guy’s perspective, either. It was odd having someone in my personal space like that when I wasn’t in the cage, and the results were … different. I don’t know how better to explain it. I was still recognizably me, but I didn’t quite look right. Like my face had been covered in plastic film or something. I hadn’t looked any different in the pictures, and after a few more photo shoots, I got used to it.

  “You enjoying London?” Lindsay asked as we walked to the prep room.

  I thought it best not to offend her with the truth. “Yeah. It’s a nice change from Birmingham.”

  I sat on the make-up artist’s stool, and Lindsay got to work, smearing whatever crap it was on my face, then dusting me with some shit. She even combed my beard.

  “All right, you’re all set. If you want to head back to the green room, the director should be in soon to talk you through the interview.”

  “Cheers.”

  As I walked the corridor back to the waiting room, the door over from the prep room opened, and a small guy in glasses walked out. He was so busy checking his phone, he didn’t notice me, and we collided as he crossed to the make-up artist’s area.

  He looked up and his eyes narrowed. “Watch it, idiot.”

  My heart rate increased and I clenched my fists.

  “Sorry mate,” I said, continuing on my way.

  He mumbled something and walked off. As he left, I clicked who he was. It was Elliot Johnson; the guy who would be interviewing me in a bit.

  Fucking London, eh?

  Guys like him really got under my skin. Sponsors and advertising guys were cool, mostly. They respected what I did and we always had a laugh working together. But for some reason, media people had some sort of superiority complex. Like, because I earned a living from fighting and they didn’t, they were somehow better than me. They saw me as some tattooed thug.

  I couldn’t let Johnson and his complex screw this up for me, though. I had to play nice with him, even if it killed me.

  Taking a few deep breaths, I waited for the director to arrive. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before he greeted me with a friendly smile.

  Nicholas Bennett, the director, talked me through the interview process and showed me the questions that’d been prepared in advance. He also explained that a secondary feed would be broadcast in parallel to my interview, showing clips of me in the cage, and that I’d be able to see those clips playing on a screen between Johnson and me. Bennett advised to always act as though the camera was on me, even when the clips played, as often the production department liked to cut to the interviewee for their reaction. Everything seemed pretty straight forward, and I gave the questions a couple of read-throughs. My only worry was Johnson. He’d already rubbed me the wrong way. But the questions seemed pretty standard, so that should keep things on track. I just had to remain cool.

  A short while later Amy from earlier returned to take me to the set.

  “They’re ready for you now, Mr Murphy.”

  “Thanks.”

  I followed her back through to the reception area, and then she led me along a corridor off to the right. We reached the end of the hallway, where some heavy black doors stood. A sign on the wall read: ‘quiet on set,’ and above it was red light saying ‘on air’ that was currently dulled out.

  “Just through there,” Amy said.

  “Thanks for everything, darlin’.” I flashed her another charming smile, and her cheeks turned a deep shade of crimson.

  I made my way through the double doors to find a small set with two leather chairs, a TV screen between them, and the show’s logo forming the backdrop.

  Johnson was seated on the left chair. I ignored him and turned my attention to Bennett, who was perched in a director’s chair next to the camera. He nodded towards the right leather seat, and I moved forward to take my place.

  Johnson took a sip of water and then Bennett counted us in.

  “Five … four …” He held his fingers up for three, two, and one, and the little red light above the camera blinked on.

  The interview started in the standard way; Johnson summarised who I was as clips of my fights played on the screen between us.

  I took a deep breath, running through the questions Bennett had shown me in my head. The first few were standard openers: How was training going? Was I having a nice time in London?

  Johnson then asked what my pre-fight diet consisted of. That one hadn’t been on the sheet Bennett had shown me, but I answered quickly, ready for the next. Johnson wouldn’t trip me up that easily.

  “How old were you when you started cage fighting?” I swear Johnson said that with a sneer on his lips.

  “I’d not long turned twenty. I’d been going to Davi Silva’s gym to work out for a few years, and I was thinking of getting into boxing, like my dad. Then Davi told me the local MMA promotion was looking for fighters.”

  “That’s Davi Silva, former light heavyweight boxer, and now the owner of the most successful gym in the Midlands?”

  “Yeah. That’s the one.”

  “And you said your dad was a boxer, too?”

  “Yeah. Brien Murphy. He was big back in Ireland.”

  “But you said you didn’t want to in either of their footsteps?”

  “Sure, I thought about it. But I wanted to make my own path, ya know?”

  “How very ambitious of you.” This time I knew I’d seen a sneer. Fucker. “And now I’d like to get your thoughts on your last fight against Matthews.”

  On the screen between us, a clip of when Matthews had dislocated my shoulder played, and Johnson mentioned how I’d broken my collarbone in a bike accident not long afterwards.

  I winced, remembering how much it’d hurt, and how pissed off with Matthews I’d been. I knew getting injured was part of the job, but Matthews had been so smug about it, the tosser, and God damn it, having a dislocated shoulder fucking hurt.

  It wasn’t just the physical pain, though. Being away from training was torture. Sitting around my flat, playing video games and eating pizza all day was great at first, but soon, I became restless. I didn’t do well left alone with my own thoughts, and with them bouncing around in my head, and no way to let the frustration out, I started going stir-crazy. Being bored and on edge mixed into a dangerous combination, and soon I was drinking just to stop the chatter in my head. Before I knew it, I couldn’t get out of bed without having a bottle of beer first.

  Sure, the alcohol numbed the anxiety, but it also muted my other emotions, too. I became even more reckless than usual, the alcohol convincing me I was invincible.

  That’s when the bike accident happened. I was still rehabbing my
shoulder, but I was mobile, and my return to fighting was inching closer. The knowledge I’d soon be back in the cage, mixed with my drinking-fuelled confidence, made me feel unstoppable.

  One of the reasons I love fighting is because it gives me a rush like nothing else. I get this clarity when I’m inside the cage, where everything in my life makes sense, and all my worries melt away. Without that, I was craving the same adrenaline buzz, and started pushing the limits of what would be considered safe, still convinced either by the alcohol or my desire to fuck my life up more that nothing could hurt me.

  I rented a bike and took it out into the countryside, where no one else was around. Riding above the speed limit, the wind whipping around me, I felt truly alive for the first time since losing to Matthews. It was just me and the power of the bike. Nothing else mattered. Until I lost control, hit a tree and broke my collarbone.

  Davi covered it up in the media, claiming it was an accident, but the truth was, I was drunk driving. I ended up with a £2,500 fine and an eighteen-month driving ban. Davi also insisted I see a therapist for my alcohol and anger issues, but that only lasted a couple of months before I got bored and jacked it in. Davi hadn’t been happy, and it led to one of few arguments between us that I could remember.

  That time in my life was hard to relive, and all the negative feelings surged to the forefront as I watched the clip. My chest tightened and my breathing became heavy as warring feelings raged inside me. I could hear the blood rushing in my ears, and my head started to throb.

  Taylor had been irate when he found out I’d re-injured myself. He reckoned me not being medically cleared to fight would lower the card’s value, and he’d lose money on the event. He threatened that if he didn’t break even, he’d fine me the difference in compensation.

  The upcoming fight with Matthews had backed me into a similar situation, and as punishment for breaking Bagley’s arm, I’d been fined an amount that equalled my winning fight money, meaning I’d end up paying Taylor ten grand.

  The vein in my temple throbbed, and the overhead studio lights suddenly seemed too bright.

  When can I get the hell out of here?

  “Maybe you should have a few more of those muscle drinks.” Johnson said.