Path To Redemption (Fighter's Den, #1)

Chapter 33 - Jaxon

The continuous flashes in my face cause a headache to start deep in the centre of my forehead and I'm not even close to being inside the arena yet. I put a hand up to shield my eyes from the cameras and microphones practically shoved at me while I use the advantage of my large body to boulder my way through the crowd of reporters. From my peripheral, I can see Coach creating a barrier between me the swarm of people by keeping his arms outstretched and on my sides. Coach is a big fucking guy himself so even his forearms take little to no strength to shove everyone back.

"Give the guy some space." He barks and pushes away a reporter who ducked under his forearm in an attempt to reach me.

"Mr. Cage, what made you take the rematch?"

"Was your first match a fluke after all?"

"How did you manage to lie to the public for so long?"

"Were all of your matches rigged?"

"Is Greg Resnick a traitor to this industry?"

Questions thrown left and right and every single one of them makes my jaw clench to restrict myself from saying something that could cause me this match. I cross my arms to tuck in my balled fists because I don't trust myself to not hit anyone either. It pissed the ever-loving fuck out of me that the importance of this match couldn't allow me to say anything.

"Fuck off, information hoarding cunts." Coach grumbles and physically shoves away any reporter within a foot of him. My mouth twitches. The rule obviously doesn't apply to him.

"Mr. Cage, how can you possibly expect to win?" A male reporter yells after me and grabs the back of my robe in a pathetic attempt to get me to answer. It manages to slip off halfway before I grab his forearm from pulling further and turn on him with a snarl. He shrinks back when I size him up, getting in his face.

"Don't make me beat the shit out of you. That's not how I want to prove the extent of my skills but keep this up and I'll go there."

The hum of the reporters dies down marginally but it's enough to tell me everyone got my message loud and clear. Without a word, I shrug my robe back in place and keep the reporter's gaze as I back away slowly. Microphones slowly lower and cameras stop clicking and I don't have to see myself to know I look fucking pissed. I don't have it in me to care though because I'm already nervous as shit, with my career and seven million dollars on the line, and these fuckers were seriously testing my already minimal patience. Coach was right: information hoarding cunts.

I keep my head down and stuff my hands in my pockets with a bit of saunter to my steps. I don't want anyone else approaching me. I just want to win this match and get over the huge spectacle of my career. I'm ready to make something out of myself and not have my life be perceived as a fluke. I worked hard to get here damn it and I wasn't about to let my efforts be manipulated.

When we enter the building, Coach immediately leads me to my private room that's just on the outskirts of the hall that leads to the main arena. Security is trying to control the hoard of fans that are poised with pens and papers and cameras and I try not to gawk. There is easily a crowd of a hundred packed behind the valet line and they're all either screaming my name or other obscenities I'd rather not address. Most of the males are shouting out boxing questions or their favourite moves of mine while the girls are trying to flash their tits and phone numbers. I feel like I'm having a fucking alienated experience. How the actual fuck did I go from being the poor piece of shit with barely there parents and trying to take care of his kid brother to this?

Just the sudden thought of Sammy hits me so deep in the chest that I have to stop walking. He should be here. He would've loved to be here. He'd be my biggest and loudest fan, win or lose, without a doubt. Something bitter and ugly takes up my insides and twists my guts and I make a beeline for the bathroom in my private room. I barely fall to my knees in front of the toilet before I lose all the contents in my stomach and throw up everything I consumed since the morning. I can't tell if the burning in my throat has to do with the bile or the sudden flow of tears streaming down my face. The sounds of my gestation and my crying is mixed as I heave breath after breath. God fucking damn, how many more fucking meltdowns did I have to go through? This was the fucking third this week alone.