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“Because the only thing bigger than that cue ball he has for a head is his ego. He’ll seethe that he isn’t the one getting attention. And the person he’s going to fight isn’t responding. Worse still, I’m a chick. That’s the key. You make him think he doesn’t count. That he’s insignificant. Get into his head. Trust me, there’s space. To pull this off, we need to gain back lost ground in the mental fight first. And it all starts with the press conference.”
* * *
Owen peered down at the packed press conference from the viewing booth of the Le Grand Hotel in Darling Harbour, on the waterfront. There wasn’t a spare seat in the house as the countdown to what was being dubbed the fight of the century was officially on.
He was one step closer to his childhood dream. Yet two people were on his mind. The one standing in his way, belt over his shoulder, and the one sitting alone in Fiona’s apartment. He closed his eyes and willed himself not to think of her.
“It’s time,” Robert said. Owen nodded and walked towards the door, pausing and holding it open for Fiona. Fiona zipped up her pink Team Gasnier hoodie, bouncing on her toes. Wringing her hands, breathing out deeply.
“You OK?” Robert asked, touching her shoulder. She barely nodded, and the colour had drained from her face. “It’s perfectly natural to be nervous.”
“What’s to be nervous about? There’s only like a thousand people down there. Millions watching.”
“Fiona,” Owen said. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?” he asked. “We can figure out some other way.”
“Because you need me to. And I’d do anything for you.”
Owen smiled and reached out to hold her hand. She held on to him with both of hers and he said, “OK, let’s do this.”
Owen led them out the door and down the stairs. They passed people along the way, most of whom strained their necks to get a better view of him, but few said anything. The MC had just finished introducing him to the crowd as they went through the curtains to an explosion of cheers and boos.
They made their way to their end of the table and sat down. Microphones were fed through holes in the table and curled to face them.
Diaz entered the room. The crowd appeared fifty/fifty. He sauntered up the stairs to the table, belt gleaming as ever. He looked over at Owen, holding the belt out in front of him and beckoning with his other hand. Come and get it.
“Ladies and gentleman, members of the press and fight fans around the world, let me welcome you all to the official press conference of the most highly anticipated match up in living memory. Brent Diaz versus Owen Gasnier for the Undisputed Heavyweight Championship is the stuff fight fans dream about. Skill versus brute strength. Speed against power— ”
“Massive cock against a mangina...” Diaz cut across him.
The crowd had a splattering of laughter at this. Owen focused on the water bottle in his hand. Fiona was right. He had fucked up in letting Diaz bait him. He couldn’t afford to make the same mistake twice. This was his one chance to gain back some ground.
The MC waited for the laughter to die down before finishing his introduction. “We don’t have a lot of time, as usual at these things, so we will open the floor up to questions at this time.”
Hands across the crowd shot up, and the MC began randomly picking them out.
“Brent! Is this the toughest challenge to your title so far?”
Diaz smiled, looking out through his sunglasses. “Nah. Not at all. A challenge means he has a chance of winning. The MC and you guys can build this up all you want, but there’s only one way this is gonna go. And if you were all being serious, and not fake news, you’d tell the truth.”
Camera flashes and mutterings echoed throughout the room.
“What truth is that, Brent?”
“That I ain’t a woman, so he won’t hit me. There is no way a cute little father-son team from a butt fuck desert in Straya’ can beat an athlete that outweighs him by twenty pounds on my worst day. Not to mention, the prick has no ground game to save his life. Literally.”
More hands shot up, and the next question was aimed at Owen. “You’ve been asked this many times, but given the calibre of your opponent, do you have any plans to change your style? To counteract your lack of a ground game?”
Owen held in a breath, and flicked his eyes towards Fiona, but she was looking stressed. Unsure. A pit welled in Owen’s stomach as the seconds with no answer drew on. He should never have agreed to this. It wasn’t fair. He hated this and had since day one, but he was used to it. She had no experience with any of it.
Diaz was the one that broke the silence. “Not a clue. See? Clueless in the Cage. Clueless out, and you wonder how this is going to go.” He laughed, pointing out to the cameras in the crowd. “Get your tickets quick. Secure your seats at the local pub. This one ain’t gonna last long.”
Under the table, Owen reached for Fiona’s hand to reassure her. When he found it, she squeezed her apology hard. Luckily, the next question went to Diaz who was only too happy to hog more of the limelight.
“Brent, you are known as the bad guy of the sport. Do you find that mantle gives you fuel for fights, or do you wish people saw you in a different light?”
