The Protege by Cole Denton

Marcos

Thirty-nine-years-old | December

Isat in the smoked-filled sportsbook at one of the run-down casinos in downtown Vegas with my eyes strained and squinting at the big screen TVs. The fifth round of the TCF fight between Brendan Rowe and Hollis Ward had just started.

I tugged the brim of my baseball cap down further; I’d be surprised if anyone in this shithole recognized me. It was full of the older crowd of Vegas and those who didn’t grasp or appreciate the mixed martial arts sport.

These run-down casinos had become my new home and my new source of income; it sure as fuck wasn’t TCF anymore.

I didn’t care for Brendan Rowe, and I hated Hollis fucking Ward. Hate wasn’t even a strong enough word for what I felt for Ward. I fought that little fucker three times, and each time he collected the wins while my losses stacked up. He took my title. The last time I fought him he took my career from me.

We fought this past July, and I could have had him. But forty-two seconds into the fourth round he knocked me out with that fucking upper cut of his that slices through the air in the blink of an eye. Over the days that followed the fight, I still hadn’t fully regained vision. A week later I went to the doctor and learned I had a detached retina. My career was over at age thirty-nine.

And TCF hardly acknowledged it. They made a brief statement in the newspaper about the demise of my career, and that was it. It was like the entire TCF family breathed a sigh of relief that I was gone. They were all so in love with Hollis Ward and thrilled that he would become the face of the sport.

Hollis pranced onto the TCF scene, and the owner was so eager to climb up his ass that it made me sick. Vin liked guys like Rowe and Ward; guys who played by the rules and brought a fucking family friendly image to the sport. That wasn’t what it was created for, and it was a disgrace that they wanted to turn it into a Mickey Mouse sport.

I was supposed to continue to be the face of the sport.

Me.

Not Ward.

I fucking hated that kid because he took everything from me. And in time, I planned to take it all from him too. Even before he ended my career, I’d begun using him to my advantage. That fucker had a perfect record, and I had no shame in putting down money on several of his fights. He’d fucking won everything else, and even though I despised him, I had no problem using him for my financial gain. His talent had been lining my pockets by betting on him to defeat his opponents.

Tonight was no different. I put down $500,000 on Ward beating Rowe. The money was a drop in the bucket for me. Of course I wanted to win money, and it was a substantial amount that I stood to win tonight, but I also wouldn’t mind seeing Ward get the shit beat out of him.

Initially I’d been using the money to stockpile. I had started a side gig by loaning money to addicts to gamble, then I charged an asinine amount of interest. Addicts would pay just about anything to get their hands on more money to gamble. And because of my extra deep pockets, thanks to Ward, Las Vegas had become mine. It was one of the few places that could make a person and break them in the same day. Sometimes within the same hour. I was an enabler, of sorts. I gave men the chance to be “made.” And just like the cruel city, I had the ability to break them like the pathetic twigs that they were.

Now, I fed addicts—sports betting addicts. I loaned money to the desperate so they could place sports bets on whatever game or fight their little shitty heart desired. They paid me back the money I loaned them, plus interest. Yes, the interest was steep, but I didn’t really give a fuck. It was my money, and I could do whatever the fuck I wanted with it. Besides, if someone was desperate enough to borrow from me, typically they didn’t give a damn what the interest was. And if a client was late or fell behind on making their payments… Well, let’s just say that was when the breaking began.

Since my TCF career ended abruptly over the summer, my plans had changed slightly. Now, I was using the money I earned off Ward and the money the gambling addicts paid back to build a team of young fighters designed and trained to destroy Ward at every turn.

I wondered how the silver spooner would react if he knew I’d been placing bets on him to win, and that my winnings were going to form a team of fighters to cripple him.

“Come on, Dragon! Fucking knock him out!” I turned my head in the direction of the voice and closed my right eye so I could get a look at the fucker making the noise. The man paced in front of the row of seats as he yelled at the TV.

Dude was desperate… And just the kind of guy who’d be eating out of my hand soon.

I’d seen this guy’s type here before. They were usually younger than they looked but had given into an addiction, or sometimes multiple. It all eventually took a toll on them. This guy was no different than the others I’d enabled.

I glanced at the TV screen and saw that the round had ended. I was surprised Brendan Rowe had managed to last in the cage all five rounds with Ward. Brendan was about ten years older than Hollis, and he wasn’t nearly as capable as Ward. But Ward must have been nursing an injury or something because he didn’t fight as well tonight like he usually did.

“Fuck,” I murmured under my breath when I realized I was probably going to lose my $500 grand bet. “I fucking hate you so goddamn much, Ward.” I reached for my bottle of beer and downed the rest of it.

Was I pissed that I’d lost? Yes. But the trade-off had been somewhat satisfying since Ward lost his first fight.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” the man in the opposite aisle swore.

He paced frantically as if trying to decide how he was going to get out of this one. These guys were so predictable. He clutched a can of beer and then brought a tiny stub of a cigarette to his lips with his other hand. I watched him for a few minutes before I decided to reel him in.

“Hey, what’s the problem?” I raised my voice so he could hear me over the noise of the sportsbook.

“I lost,” the man said.

I laughed and nodded.

“No shit, man. Everyone here who bet on Ward lost.”

“The Dragon doesn’t lose, though! How the fuck did he lose?” the man continued to pace.

“He’s human. He can lose.”

“Shit. Shit. What the fuck am I going to do?” he mumbled to himself.

Perfect. Get him.

I stood and adjusted my cap before I walked over to him. He was probably about six feet tall, thin, and lanky. Possibly sickly. He had a hint of a beer belly starting and messy, thinning hair. His teeth were crooked and stained from coffee and cigarettes.

“How much did you lose?” I asked. I had him pegged as a small gambler and that he’d bet on whatever he could get his hands on.

“A grand,” he said as he paced.

I refrained from laughing out loud. He wasn’t even a small gambler. He was a pathetic gambler.

“Come on, buddy. A thousand bucks is hardly anything to get uptight over. Go home, get laid, and think twice before betting on Ward again.”

“Easy for you to say. That grand was my rent and food money for the month,” he barked at me. Because of the way he was talking to me, I knew for certain he had no clue who I was.

“What’s your name?” I asked him.

He looked up at me and narrowed his beady eyes before asking, “What?”

“What is your name?” I repeated the question, already growing annoyed with him.

“Joel.”

“Do you have a last name Joel?”

“Barnes. What the fuck do you care?”

My right hand twitched, begging to make contact with this scrawny fuck. Even being partially blind in one eye, I could still kill this guy.

“Because I like to know who I’m loaning money to.”

His eyebrows raised, as if he was checking to see if I was for real. I opened my wallet and pulled out two grand in one-hundred-dollar bills. I offered the stack of cash to him, but my grip held firm.

“Now, Joel Barnes. When do you get paid, so I know when you’ll be able to pay me back?”

“In two weeks. I got paid yesterday and put it all on the fight,” he said.

“Okay. This is a loan and comes attached with five percent interest. Can you handle that?”

I always started them slow just to see the level of addiction I was playing with.

“Yes, five percent isn’t an issue at all. How do I pay you back?” he asked. I grabbed a parlay card from a stack on the table and one of the small golf pencils. I scribbled my phone number on the card and gave it to him.

“You call me in two weeks when you have the money.”

“Okay—”

“Two weeks, Joel Barnes. Don’t make me come get it.”

“I won’t. I promise. Thank you.”