Page 1 of The Breaking Pointe

godspeed

COLTON

They say that if you seek revenge, dig two graves.

One for them, and one for yourself. It’s ugly, no doubt, but I’m exceptionally prideful.

I always plan to be the last man standing, and to push my point further, I’m the last man to give you an explanation.

There’s no way to say it without being cliché, so to make it simple, I’ll say it like this: I don’t like to talk.

I’m all about action. It’s one of the best qualities I’ve maintained in my career, but it undoubtedly hinders me in my personal life.

I pound the fists of my gloves together, huffing heavily through the mouth guard I’ve been biting down on intensely. I can feel the sweat on my body, running down my skin like I’ve just stepped out of the shower. As I walk toward the center of the ring, Trey lays a firm hand on my back.

“We only got five minutes. Let’s keep it short and sweet, my guy,” he says, patting me and stepping away.

I clench my fists as tightly as I can before turning to face my opponent, who is anticipating his next blow. His face tells me everything that I need to know. The man is pissed off beyond any reasonable measure. Rightfully so, because I am about to finish bursting his ego bubble. I’ve been training like an animal for weeks, and I’m not about to embarrass myself in front of hundreds of people. Even though that’s what I’m hoping to make him think is going to happen. It’s my favorite tactic—play dead until the last minute.

We’re set in motion, circling each other. His eyes are soulless. I let out a deep breath and shake my body loose, chuckling, “The animosity could quite literally slice you with a knife right

now, huh?”

My body starts to bounce out of habit as I prepare my body. “Bro, just shut up and fight. Not all that talking shit,” he spits, in a maniacal tone.

Raising my brows briskly whilst shrugging off his comment, an onset of energy fuels my insides rapidly. Like an arrow from a bow, I lunge an arm forward, my fist flying through the stuffy, humid air. It collides with his cheekbone, causing him to stumble back. I’m already dominating, but this blow had a little extra kick to it. The man has been repeatedly bouncing back from the floor like a fucking rabbit for the last fifteen minutes, and now I’m starting to wonder if it’s more than resistance. He looks like he ate a tub of protein powder, and the sight before me is almost nightmare-inducing. As if I need more of those.

What started as a loud roar from the crowd quickly turned silent in reaction to the impact. He snaps his head toward me, angrier, if possible. He’s flabbergasted, as some would say. I, on the other hand, am having a grand time watching him try to piece together what my fists are capable of.

As he re-positions himself, I do the same, watching his nostrils flare wide. He sucks in a wad of breath, taking a swing. Just in time, I duck my head, sending a fist at his torso—but not a great one. Not enough to take him down.

“Colton, three minutes! Let’s go!” Trey urges, clapping his hands.

I take a quick look at him before looking back at the platinum- blond man, who now has blood running down his lip. Before I know it, I’m met with his fist connecting right into my cheek, making my head bob straight back like a Rock ’em Sock ’em. My body stumbles backward and I shake my head vigorously. I bring my forearm to my face to wipe my cheek, feeling it throb momentarily. I smile at him.

“That’s not very fair. I wasn’t looking,” I say sarcastically.

Right as my words exit my mouth, another fist immediately comes my way. But this time, I’m able to dodge it.

Rounding up all my strength, I curve my arm, preparing a decent right hook and throwing it right at his gut once again. There and then, it’s like all the stamina he had drained entirely. I watch as he flies back, crashing into some people who were watching from his team before hitting the floor of the ring. In a frenzy, some of them try to help him, but he shoves them all off, clearly embarrassed. He seems to be in a daze, standing up at the speed of light to go tumbling right back down again like a limp noodle. I had to laugh, only a little bit. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t comical.

“Kennedy! That’s a win!” The referee grabs my wrist, lifting my arm in triumph as he announces my victory.

Laughing with enthusiasm, I examine all the unfamiliar faces, happy about my win. Watching everyone grovel over my success in fights is like a drug—and that’s no exaggeration. It never fails to fuel my existence. Moments like these may be the only times I feel anything perpetually close to being admired on a personal level—as if I know any of these people for who they truly are. I don’t, nor will I ever. And that’s the emptiness of it all.

Swiftly, Trey begins to grab my belongings, bombarding me as he grabs one of my arms. Everyone has pretty much started evacuating the arena, their echoing voices leaving with them. It never occurred to me how quickly everyone rushes to leave these things while I try to ride my adrenaline high. It’s the same cycle every time, honestly. I fight, I get high, and then Trey somehow brings me back down from my heightened ego trip.

“I know you gotta be starved after that,” Trey says as we slow our pace, walking down the concrete path to the dressing rooms. “I’m down for celebrating another victory,” I say, smiling as the words leave my mouth. “But not too late this time, though.

I got plans for an early morning run, and Bonnie’s been at home alone for too long today.”

“No worries. Bonnie is like your soulmate, I get it.” He lets out a trickle of laughter, elbowing me.

“Enough. You talk a lot of shit for someone who’s just as violently single as I am. Dogs are a man’s best friend. What if I like my little life with Bonnie, huh?” I wrinkle my brows, questioning him in a lighthearted manner as I wipe my head with a hand towel.

There’s a quaint little Thai restaurant that we always go to after matches at the Hammerstein Ballroom. I’ve always been a fan of it since my mother would bring me to the main parts of Manhattan, and in my opinion, it’s the closest thing to the authentic restaurants back in Staten Island.

I prefer everything back in Staten Island, in all honesty. It’s why I stayed there all these years, and even bought my loft there.

It’s cultured, and it feels like home.

While Trey orders our meals out in the dining area of the restaurant, I sit in the bathroom, cleaning my face of the malignant jab that I was so sweetly gifted earlier this evening. He didn’t get me too bad, thankfully, but it will scar—another thing I will have to somehow explain to my mother. It just adds to her interrogation every single time I go to visit her. My answers always remain the same, but she seems to forget that my job revolves around the possibility of me getting my ass kicked if I’m not careful enough.

This is not to be misconstrued as me being a prude about get- ting scratched up. I think it’s pretty bad ass. But understandably, when my mother sees any bruises or scars, she’s reminded of my father’s unbearable nights when he would lose matches. It’s like the sight of it convinces her that I’ve been beaten to a pulp. Except, I would never let it get that bad. That and sobriety has been my thing for my entire life. My father’s first mistake was going into rings fully blasted off of fresh doses of heroin or multiple lines of cocaine.

So this probably would prompt one to ask: why the hell are you involved in boxing in the first place? It’s not that complex. The answer to that is that I simply enjoy throwing a good melee here and there, and I may or may not be holding onto some incessant, pent-up anger. I also consider it to be a guilty pleasure. Not the good kind, though. The kind that’s similar to an illicit love. It’s bittersweet to me because of the person my father made himself out to be. The more I box, the more I see him when I’m looking in the mirror—and that just can’t be. I’m nothing like him.

I conclude my bathroom session after successfully cleaning up my face of sweat and scarring, but I’m left with lingering, greenish-blue bruises. Exiting the bathroom, I navigate my way through a few people, walking toward Trey who is sitting at a small booth. He has papers spread across the table, along with our food, looking at them with his full attention. Sitting down, I peek at the small font on the paper, squinting as my contacts prove to be useless, just barely making out the words. Lo and behold, he’s already fishing me another match.

“No such thing as breaks with you, huh?” I ask, my lips creeping to the side with a sly smile as I reach for my drink.

“Relax, Hercules. I’m only looking at our options.” He glances at me, chest bouncing with a chuckle. “There are three guys, and two of them you’ve already had tournaments with. It would only serve as a repeat for the season. You know what that means.” He shakes his head, returning to his focused state.

It means fighting for free. Which I’ve never agreed to do.

He leaves the papers alone for a moment, and we both start to dig into the food that has been waiting for us.

“So, who’s the third guy then? Can’t be more of a jerk-off than I am,” I say before I take a full bite of food.

“His name is Daniel Aguado. You might’ve heard of him. He has two championship belts,” he responds, stuffing his face as well.

I don’t even have one. Has he lost his mind?

“Trey—man, I appreciate you having such faith in my physical abilities, but that’s setting myself up for failure,” I say as I finish chewing my food and swallow it.

I know exactly who Daniel is. Maybe not personally, but watching him online is enough. His track record is impeccable for someone of his stature and age. Unlike me, he’s beyond his up-and-coming phase and takes this shit way more seriously than I think I ever will.

“It’s more than faith, Colton. Your potential is crazy, and I can’t keep subjecting you to these opponents who are starting to hold less than half of your stamina. You’re getting too good for you not to up the weight class in the matches we choose.”

I take another bite of my food, slowly chewing as he stares at me.

“Have you seen Danny? He’s got at least seventy pounds on me. Maybe more.” I give him an ominous look.

He nods. “And it’s nothing you can’t handle. Trust me, would you? You have three long weeks to train. When have I ever steered you wrong, my guy?” He smiles brightly.

I return the smile, complying with his ideas. Sure, I trust his judgment, otherwise he wouldn’t be my manager. But my instincts are working overtime, telling me that this sounds like a disaster in the making. The next three weeks are probably going to be the steps leading me to the gates of hell.

There’s no doubt in my mind that I’ll be able to prepare in time. My real concern is if any of my training this year will show for itself. I’m a man of many strengths, yet when I’m under pressure, I can fold like a wet piece of paper if my nerves get bad enough. It hasn’t happened in the ring, but I can’t help but wonder if I haven’t met my match yet. All it takes is one mindless match to humble some people—and if I am humbled enough, I’m not sticking around to test any other insane theories.

At the end of the day, I started all of this for fun. The next thing I knew, I suddenly woke up and had a manager on top of a major following on social media. All because I’m decent at right hooks and jabs. It’s fun to think about, but the craft that I’m actually tied to more emotionally has nothing to do with violence at all.

* * *

After arriving home, I grab my mail from my slot in the lobby of the building before entering the elevator and pressing floor fourteen.

The ride up is quick, and soon I’m at the front door of my loft, already hearing Bonnie cause a ruckus on the other side.

Smiling at this, I open the door quickly to get my body inside before closing and locking it.

“Hey, sweet girl…”

I swoon, kneeling to show her some love. Seeing her is honestly the best part of coming home every day. No matter when or how many times. It never gets old, the way she’s exhilarated to see me. It’s so nice and positive after a long day.

Standing up straight, I look through the mail, only to see a few pieces of junk and a couple of business-related letters.

I toss them on the table beside the door, which contains more junk mail.

The silence begins to fill the air, but I let out a big sigh before it becomes too ominous.

I kick off my shoes and slide them to the side before walking down a couple of steps into the living area.

I reach out and press a few buttons on my house phone to play my voicemails.

Bonnie follows me, being a busybody like usual.

I enter the kitchen area and begin to prepare food for her.

She huffs and puffs at my feet, waiting. That’s all she really wants when I get home. The first voicemail plays, and a soft-spoken voice fills the room.

“Hey, Colton, it’s Jennifer. I’m already missing you. I thought I would call you. You never called me after the other night…”

The voice pauses for a moment, then continues.

“Okay, call me,”

she finishes, hanging up abruptly.

I absolutely remember Jennifer.

Do I want to, though? Abso- lutely not.

She was sweet, don’t get me wrong.

Pretty, too.

The downfall is that she was only a good time for me.

I’m beyond intoxicated, and so was she. We met at one of the local bars, it’s no big deal—to me, at least.

I have got to stop it, though.

It drains so much of me to be intimate with a woman that I have no intention of ever seeing again.

When my life gets boring and I’m dying to spice it up, sleeping around is becoming the last option lately.

It’s a massive improvement from when I was feeling worthless after my breakup—sleeping with any woman who seemed available and willing.

Then my guilty conscience would eat me up the next day.

It’s a very emotionally consuming cycle, but a cycle I learned some valuable lessons from.

Sometimes I still think about my ex.

Thankfully, it’s no longer in a romantic way—considering I spent about three years trying to fall out of love.

It’s more of a, am I really that bad of a guy? kind of way.

It haunts me to think about the embarrassment she gave me, watching me kneeling on the cold floor—waiting for her to burst into tears and agree to be my wife.

At that time, it seemed like my entire will to live depended on it.

It sure as hell felt like it. I had to move mountains to remove myself from such a dark place, to unlearn everything my body was used to when it came to having her comfort.

I finish plating Bonnie’s food, listening as the next voicemail holds a familiar voice. My mother.

“Colton, it’s Mom. You never called me yesterday, so I’m remind- ing you. Dinner is tomorrow at my house, okay? Friday. And don’t wait until the last minute to call me, you give me a heart attack every time I don’t hear from you. You make my nerves bad. Love you, call me,”

she says as brassy as possible. I totally waited till the last minute, seeing as I’m just now hearing this. Unintentional, but I still won’t be able to live it down.

I snicker to myself, processing the thought as I make my way over to Bonnie’s food pad, setting the bowl down as the voicemails conclude. I then sit at my kitchen island, pulling my phone out of my pocket.

Once upon a time, I was thriving in my art.

And I had every intention to expand on that talent.

I even went as far as studying architecture in college.

I feel tethered to all of my artwork, and to this day, I spend most of my free time doing anything artistic— if I’m not slumped from training, that is.

It’s why I bought the loft in the first place.

I merely wanted a space to dedicate to sculptures, and paintings—or anything else out of the ordinary that I make.

If it weren’t for my own insecurities involving my potential—plus all of the harsh arguments between Hannah and me with her constantly judging my pottery and other work— maybe I could truly love my craft.

I couldn’t while I was underneath her close-minded thumb.

It made me insecure.

Then again, I also spent all of my childhood and teen years feeling that way.

I think the last time I had a woman care for me—and I mean really care about me—was before I graduated.

When I first met Hannah.

I finally gained some sort of confidence after altering my entire body with aggressive dieting and exercise.

I’m your standard, dorky, fat kid.

One day, I got tired of it and spent countless hours overcoming binge eating and being scared of the gym.

I was a completely different person, just in time for my senior year.

Hannah saw me when nobody else did, and even then I was in a vulnerable state in my life. The most genuine affection I get is purely from my mother at this point.

Not to mention, this will be the third time in the past week that I’ve eaten at her house.

Not very bachelor of me.

Then there’s my kid brother, Steven, who is painfully petulant and doesn’t know when to shut up.

I love the kid, but he makes me question if I was that idiotic at eighteen.

Then I questioned how my mom had us almost ten years apart.

Somehow, after all these years, I’ve managed to disassociate hard enough that I make it through his shenanigans.

We have a disconnect that often makes me wonder if he likes me at all.

I know that I’m gone often because of my choice of work and lack of enthusiasm for much else, but I can’t recall being as angsty as he is when I was that age.

Nevertheless, I recently have visited more for my mom. With her being sick, I try to spend some extra time with her. Steven, too.

I feel so awful sometimes, thinking about how she must feel without my dad.

It happened a long time ago, him passing away, but I know that I remind her so much of him.

Steven is still too young to get it.

I don’t think he’s been paying attention to how sick she’s getting.

It’s not his fault, but his brain is consumed with skateboarding and applying for classes at New York University this fall.

Which is something good to look forward to, and I’m beyond proud of him.

He deserves to have something hopeful to plan for—the same as we all do.

That’s another reason I come around often.

With Steven being so hyper-focused on normal things, I like to check in.

He’s a kid, I can’t blame him.

I would’ve checked out mentally a long time ago if I knew that I potentially wouldn’t have both of my parents by the age of eighteen.

He needs to have me around.

I have to start setting some sort of an example.

One that doesn’t involve crashing out or being a dishonest asshole, like my father.

When I left my mother’s home and moved out, I often found myself thinking hard and long about my childhood.

Sometimes I leave there and I want to cry.

I’m never able to produce tears, but at this point, crying is all I want.

All I need.

I just can’t seem to be emotionally available to anybody anymore—not even for myself.

Not unless it comes in the form of a full-blown panic attack or anxiety-ridden breakdown.

Neither of which I can stomach allowing anyone else to see me go through, let alone a woman. I need to love myself more if I’m going to let anyone into my head.

* * *

Sitting at the table with my mom and brother, I listen as she talks about having lunch with a few of my aunts.

She constantly talks about their mob-wife lifestyles and how she could’ve had that.

She always follows it up by saying that she prefers her life with her baby boys.

She’s nothing short of a bragger—which makes sense, since we both are doing well.

She’s earned bragging rights.

Really, she’s the kind of mom who’d wear your face on a t-shirt and tell everyone who you are. Even if they don’t give a shit, she’s going to let you know and make sure you heard her.

“What about you, Colton? How’d that fight go? I watched, but y’know I love to brag to my girlfriends about your work,”

she says, smiling proudly.

I shoot a half smile back at her, chewing and swallowing my bite of food.

“It’s fine. You know that I won then,”

I say matter-of-factly.

“It doesn’t show by the looks of your face,”

Steven says,

laughing at his verbal jab.

“Steven…”

my mom says, bellyaching at his behavior.

“It’s fine, Ma. He’s all talk. You can’t speak on abilities you don’t possess, little bro,”

I say to him, teasing him with a smug smile.

He makes a tense face back at me.

“I’m kidding, Steven,”

I say, sitting back as I briefly wipe my mouth with my napkin.

“Just a joke,”

I add.

“Yeah…” he says, rolling his eyes.

My mom observes us, as if she’s waiting on some sort of heart- to-heart to happen.

It isn’t going to, but I never turn down a chance to try to have a connection with Steven.

It’s one of the things I have yet to achieve as his older brother, which is not on the top of my list of things to be proud of.

Though I can’t say that both of us being closed-off souls hasn’t made it harder than it should be.

My eyebrows furrow for a second as I keep my attention on him.

“You have any updates on school?”

I ask him.

“Mom tells me you applied for New York University.”

“Yeah. Waiting for them to say something,”

he says, still not amused with me one bit. He picks at his food as the table becomes quiet for another few seconds while we all continue to eat. My mom then steps in.

“That’s okay, honey. They’ll respond when you least expect it. Right, Colton?”

She eyeballs me.

Nodding, with my mouth full, I cosign her suggestion.

“Yeah. Ma’s right.”

“Colton, I’ve been meaning to ask—are you seeing anyone new?”

she asks softly, changing the subject.

I shake my head.

“You ask me every time you see me. I told you last week, and the answer remains the same: there’s no woman in my life right now.”

I chuckle softly, finding the topic comedic.

She smiles.

“I’m sorry, I just don’t understand. You’re the whole package, Colton,”

she gushes as her softened voice turns into a giggle.

Shrugging lightly, I begin to finish my plate.

“Because I’m not looking. My day will come when the time is right,”

I say, sort of joking, but actually, there wasn’t anything to joke about. I do want companionship.

She lets out a small titter in response.

When we finished eating, I had dish duty so I was tending to that in the kitchen. Steven ended up going to take a shower and my mom was collecting the rest of the dishes in the dining room. She comes in, setting a small pile beside the sink on the counter.

“Okay, that’s all of them. Thank you so much for doing this, you know you don’t have to, sweetie,”

she says, giving me a small pat on my back as she stands beside me.

I look down at her and smile.

“Sure, no problem. I don’t mind at all. After all, you cook for me.”

I chuckle softly.

Her gaze becomes acute as she looks at me. I try not to make eye contact now.

“Yes?”

I ask, making her snap her head away.

“Nothing, nothing. I just wonder how you’re doing. I worry about you living alone at times. I don’t want you to be lonely, Colton. I just wish you would settle down soon,”

she says, sincerely.

I pause my actions and look at her again.

“Mom, you really need to chill. I have Bonnie, and even Trey. I don’t need to get saddled in some relationship just for the hell of it.”

I shake my head, assuring her as I give her a gentle forehead kiss.

Her face lights up as she gives me a side hug.

“I love you, Cole. Let me worry. Soon enough, I won’t have any more babies to do that for,”

she says softly.

I purse my lips into a weak smile.

“You should let me clean your face,”

she mumbles, beginning to poke at a cut on my cheekbone.

My smile lingers, rinsing another dish off as I speak.

“You don’t think I cleaned them?”

She rubs my back before walking over to a cabinet, opening it and retrieving a few packets of green tea.

“I’m sure that you do. They look painful, is all,”

she responds, grabbing a big mug and walking back over to me, slipping it under the running water.

I nod slowly.

“Well sometimes it is. Right now, though? Not so much. Promise.”

She kisses my bare arm and walks over to the microwave.

“I’m going to make this tea and then lay down. I’m feeling somewhat fatigued,”

she exhales, putting the mug inside of the microwave.

“Why don’t you go lay down, and I’ll bring it to you—yeah?”

I offer, turning the faucet off then wiping my hands on a nearby towel.

“No, it’s—”

“Yes,”

I finish her sentence.

She’s getting better at accepting my care, but there’s still a small inkling of her that wants to fight it. Unfortunately, I can visibly see the fight becoming weaker and weaker as the days progress. Cancer is a thief. Sucking you dry of every ounce of life and energy that you have left. I’ve been watching the color leave her skin more and more, her body becoming bonier with each visit. It’s a miracle she’s even still walking around.

Stage three stomach cancer, and she’s behaving as if she’s fine. Hiding the fact that she’s constantly nauseous, refusing help when she bleeds every time she uses the bathroom. Most of the time she’s in pain, and lately, she hasn’t been very good at hiding it. Saying it scares me minimizes how I truly feel. I’m developing an ongoing worry streak, thinking about how one of these days it might slip into something worse. She knows it, I know it—and I pray to God that Steven knows it. It’s something we have to inevitably prepare ourselves for.

Nobody ever knows how to properly prepare for it—and I don’t know a rule book that aids in lifespans and sicknesses.

By the time I make it to her bedroom with the piping hot cup, she’s already fast asleep. I set the mug on her nightstand, watching her cuddle up to her pillow. She didn’t even have the energy to turn her TV on, though the remote is clutched in her hand. This happens a lot, recently. And I understand her being so tired, but it’s almost frightening to know that she falls asleep at the drop of a dime. Who knows where she’s fallen asleep, and what things could be left running when she’s alone.

I turn the TV on to create some sort of background noise for her and cover her with a blanket before shutting her lights off. The rest of the house is so quiet that it’s eerie, making me question what Steven could possibly be doing. I make it a point to pass his bedroom on my way to the stairs. The door is closed, but still I let a few of my fingers knock, out of curiosity.

“Steven, can I come in?”

I ask, waiting for his voice on the other side.

Nothing.

I push the door open, slowly. He’s on his laptop with a pair of headphones in, watching what looks to be a skateboarding video. He’s deep in concentration, not budging one bit.

My lips part to say something, but my brain tells me it’s pointless already. So I reach into my pocket, pulling out a bit of money to give him. It’s the one thing I try to do every single time I come over. He’s never going to have to want for anything, as long as it’s up to me.

I toss the money on his bed, swiftly exiting right after.