The Protege by Cole Denton

Hollis

Twenty-four-years-old | February

What a shitty day.

I glanced out of the floor-to-ceiling windows of the hotel lobby and watched snow fall onto the damp streets of Chicago. I stood in the lobby along with several other TCF fighters and TCF employees. Most of us were in small groups, talking quietly. I stood with everyone from Team Dragon, minus Patrick, and my security team. All of us wore suits and some of us had coats on, ready to brave the elements and face the reality of the day.

I was nervous and kept quiet as I paced a little, keeping my head down. I wanted today to be over. I also wanted Patrick to get down here. Before I came downstairs, he received a phone call from Chase. I hung around making sure everything was okay before I had to be downstairs in the lobby. Patrick had been the one who Chase reached out to the most when he felt like talking. I was so grateful he’d connected with Chase, though I was irate they had something like this in common.

I stopped pacing once I saw Patrick approach our small group. I instantly felt better now that he was here. He carried a newspaper and a cup of coffee. He handed me the paper and stood beside me.

“How’s Chase? What did he want? Is he okay?” I asked.

“He’s okay, relax. He’s getting ready for school and wanted my opinion on something.”

“What? What did he want your opinion on?”

Anything involving Chase, I’d been all ears for.

“He was asking if I thought your parents would get upset if he decided to try out for the soccer team.” I raised my eyebrows, suddenly excited. “He said he feels like he has too much unused energy, and he has a hard time falling asleep. He thought since he used to play soccer that he might like to try it again.”

“And? What did you tell him?” I asked, eager for Patrick’s response.

“I told him that I thought they would support him no matter what sport he wanted to try.”

“Thank you. I’m so glad he’s interested in something again,” I said quietly to him.

“I know. It’s been hard, but I think he’s going in the right direction,” Patrick said as he clasped his hand down on my shoulder.

Relieved that something potentially bad or worrisome wasn’t going on back home, I looked down at the newspaper Patrick had handed me.

“The hotel concierge said they had requested more newspapers and will be delivering them to all of the rooms where TCF employees are staying,” Patrick murmured. I nodded and focused on the front page of the sports section.

Somber Day for Chicago and Sports.

Carlos Agustin, beloved Chicagoan and TCF star will be laid to rest this afternoon. Agustin suffered from a lengthy list of complications stemming from a TCF fight this past summer with the now retired Marcos Silva. Carlos was knocked out in the fight and was rushed to the emergency room. He’d suffered a severe concussion, and though he seemed to recover, complications arose off and on since the summer. In January, Agustin complained to his wife that he felt dizzy and lightheaded. He suffered an intracerebral hemorrhage and never regained consciousness. After a month of being on life support, Agustin’s family decided to take him off the ventilator. Carlos Agustin was thirty-four years of age, and leaves behind a wife and three children. Many community leaders and TCF members are expected to attend the service and funeral today.

I sighedand handed the newspaper to Marty so he could read it and pass it along.

“The front page of the sports section has a big article about his life in TCF. It was a nice article too,” Patrick said.

I nodded. I’d read that part later. Right now, I was focused on the service and funeral. Carlos’ wife had asked Vin to select six TCF fighters to serve as pallbearers, and I was one of those selected. All of the pallbearers would be riding in the same limo, which was what we were waiting for.

I watched as limos pulled under the shelter of the valet section. I saw my security guy, Steve, talking to a handful of other guys that I didn’t recognize. They all dispersed at the same time and went over to different TCF fighters.

“Hollis, you’ll ride in the front limo with the other pallbearers, and everyone else will filter into other cars. There will be plenty of room for everyone. As planned, I’ll ride to the service in our rented SUV with Zed, Jacobi, and Alfonso,” Steve explained.

“Take Patrick with you,” I told him. “You can drop him off at the front.”

“Very well.” Steve nodded and went to talk to Patrick.

As the other pallbearers were slowly stepping outside, I jogged over to Patrick to make sure he was okay with the plan. He would have been fine riding with Marty and the rest of Team Dragon, but I wanted my security guys with him.

“You good riding with Steve and the guys?” I asked Patrick.

“Yes, that will be fine.”

“Okay. I’ll see you at the service.”

I joined the back of the line where the other pallbearers were getting into the limo. I ended up sitting on one of the longer seats beside Brendan Rowe. The TCF owner and president, Vin, sat closest to the door so he’d be the first out to greet Carlos’ family. I leaned back in my seat and brushed lint off my pants as small conversations broke out around me. Vin was the only one in the limo who wasn’t a fighter.

“Anyone think Silva will show his face?” Sam Hernandez asked.

“He fucking better not,” Fernando quickly replied.

“Yeah, that would be some nerve,” Brendan said.

There had been an investigation into the fight between Carlos and Marcos to ensure everything had been within the rules and parameters of TCF. And though nothing conclusive had come out, many of us knew exactly how Marcos Silva fought—dirty and violently.

“Anything can happen in this sport. Any accident can happen at any time to any of us that could land us in a spot just like Carlos,” Taysom said.

That was very true, and I remembered when it happened how Mom went on and on about worrying over my safety. Patrick had even voiced concern. I assured my family that I trained hard to make sure my body was in the best shape it could be in. Hopefully that would reduce anything major from happening. But I knew all it would take was one hit and your life could change.

When I found out that Marcos Silva was forced to retire months after our fight this past summer, a huge part of me felt a little guilty. There was a good chance that it was a hit from me in our last fight that detached his retina, but Marty said Marcos could even have been injured after the fight. Word between trainers and doctors said he’d often refused medical care and exams after the fights to show how tough he was. News of Marcos retiring due to a partial loss of eyesight happened shortly after Thanksgiving when everything was going on with Chase. I didn’t dwell on it.

Taysom was right, though… Anything could happen to any of us at any time. It could end up being career ending and be no fault of anyone.

* * *

Tons of peopleattended the funeral, and after everything was done, I rode back to the hotel in a limo with Team Dragon. As they entered the hotel bar, one of the guys turned to me and said they were going to meet in the restaurant later tonight for dinner, and I said I’d most likely meet them.

The hotel bar wasn’t really big, and it was crowded. Most of the people in the bar were connected to TCF in some facet. If they weren’t fighters, they were from the front office, or were trainers and managers. I bought my team a round of drinks, and we raised our glasses and bottles in a toast to Carlos.

As smaller conversations broke out around us, Patrick left to go check the front desk for more newspapers. While he was gone, I stepped closer to the TV that was mounted high in the corner. I took a long sip from my beer bottle and leaned on the tall pub table as I read the closed captioning that gave glimpses of the funeral today. The TV stations had coverage of the funeral and the celebrities, athletes, and local dignitaries who attended. When I flashed on the TV screen along with the other TCF guys carrying the casket, a man set his glass down on the pub table.

“Why doesn’t it surprise me that the boy from Beverly Hills somehow makes it on TV for a man’s funeral,” the man said.

I knew that voice. I calmly set my bottle down and turned to face Marcos Silva. He was almost unrecognizable wearing glasses and slicked back hair. When he was an active fighter, his hair had always been shaved close to his head. And I guessed the glasses were added following his injury.

“Are you even old enough to drink liquor yet?” he asked. He brought his glass up to his lips and eyed me as he drank.

“Did you come here to create a problem?” I asked.

“No. Just came to pay my respects,” he said smugly. “Walked in here to have a drink and I see Hollis fucking Ward on the TV and in the flesh. I can’t get away from you.”

“Don’t do this here in front of all these people. Don’t turn today into being about you.”

“I’m not, boy.” He took another sip from his glass and then said, “I sympathize with his family and feel bad for the guy.”

“Really?” I hoped he picked up on my sarcasm because I didn’t believe for a second that he felt anything for anyone but himself.

“Yeah,” he said and nodded as a smile appeared on his face. “I mean, after all, I know exactly what it’s like to be injured and then forced into retirement.”

His eyes were as cold as I had ever seen them, but he wasn’t going to intimidate me.

“Anything can happen in this sport,” I said as I then brought the beer bottle to my lips and took a long sip while I stared at him. “It’s not the opponent’s fault how your body reacts,” I said and set the empty bottle on the table.

In the blink of an eye, Marcos had knocked the beer bottle off the tabletop with such force that it hit the wall about ten feet away. The bar full of TCF people quieted down at the sound of glass shattering. Though I could hear people heading toward us, I didn’t take my eyes off Marcos. His index finger shook as he pointed at me.

“That’s right, you little dragon fuck. Anything can happen in this sport. You just remember that, Hollywood boy. Your day of reckoning is coming,” Marcos gritted out.

“You’re lucky you didn’t hit anyone with that bottle,” I told him.

“Hey!” Brendan and Sam hollered in unison.

“Get out of here, Silva!” Vin shouted as he hurried over with the others. Marty wrapped his arm around my shoulder and Fletch put his hand on my chest. They were protective moves, but ones to make sure I wasn’t going to do anything.

Vin and Brendan grabbed Marcos by his biceps and escorted him into the lobby where hotel security met them. Steve and the rest of my security team came into the bar. As Steve listened to Marty explain what happened, other fighters were quite vocal about Marcos.

“Man, fuck him!”

“What was he doing here anyhow?”

“He came to create problems.”

“It’s all he does.”

“TCF is a better place without his ass.”

“That’s for sure.”

“Hey, you okay, Hollis?” Frank, one of my trainers, asked me quietly.

“I’m fine.”

Patrick came into the bar and hurried over.

“What the hell happened?” he asked.

“That prick Marcos Silva was here trying to stir up shit,” Frank said.

Worry settled on Patrick’s face, and quickly I tried to assure him that things were fine.

“It’s over. He made a mess with a bottle, but hotel security were quick to intervene,” I said. I looked out into the lobby and saw Marcos talking with security. My grappling coach, Leo, spoke up, which ended up drawing the attention of everyone from my team.

“Did he threaten you, Hollis?” Leo asked.

I glanced at Patrick and quickly tried to make light of it by saying, “He’s all talk.”

“Silva did threaten him,” Marty spoke up. I glanced at Steve and then Patrick again. Out of everyone, Patrick was the one I was most concerned about worrying.

“Hollis—” Patrick began.

“Marcos is just all talk. That’s all he’s ever been,” I told him.

“What did he say?” Patrick asked.

“Nothing worth repeating,” I said.

“He told Hollis that his day of reckoning is coming,” Fletch said. Patrick ran his hand through his hair and then clutched some strands.

“Again, Marcos is all talk,” I said while my eyes locked with Patrick’s.

“Marcos has had a chip on his shoulder since you kicked his ass and stripped that title from him,” Marty said.

“The asshole never held the title again,” one of my conditioning trainers, Herb, added.

Herb high fived Frank when he said, “Hollis kicked his ass three times.”

I turned to face Vin when he came back into the bar and walked toward us.

“Hollis, may I have a word?” Vin asked.

I nodded and then looked at Patrick. “I’ll be right back.” I walked over to one of the corners of the bar with Vin and stood by the high-top pub table he had stopped at.

“I want you to tell me the moment that son of a bitch tries to contact you again.”

“Vin, I’m sure he’s just blowing off steam and bitching—”

“Probably, yes. But we all know how he is and what an absolute pain in my ass he was when he was fighting. He was nothing but trouble at fights that weren’t even his. All the rallies that encouraged violence and fights among spectators who happened to be wearing a fighter’s shirt he wanted to lose.”

“I know. I remember my little brother being worried when he saw the shirts and signs at a fight that read ‘Decapitate The Dragon.’ I remember all of Silva’s crap.”

“How is your brother?” Vin asked when I mentioned Chase. He knew Chase had attempted suicide last November and that I had taken off until the end of January to be there for my family.

“He’s doing well. I found out today that he’s considering trying out for the soccer team at his school, so I’m happy that he’s finding interest in things again.”

“Good, I’m glad to hear that.” Vin paused to look around the bar, I thought to check to see who might be within earshot of us. “Look, Hollis, I was thrilled to death when you entered TCF. I knew you’d change the face of the sport and give it a better image than where it was. Everyone was happy when you yanked that title away from Marcos and kept him from ever getting it back. I don’t want him messing with you, and I don’t want him messing with other fighters. I’ll ensure he doesn’t get into a fight as a spectator. But you’ve got to give me your word that the moment you see him or hear from him that you notify me and your security team.”

“I understand. Everyone’s glad he’s retired from fighting.”

“He would never pass the medical physical,” Vin confirmed.

“It’s good to see more families and young kids at fights again.”

“And I want to keep it that way. You keep being you, and you let me know if he surfaces.”

“I will,” I promised.