Page 3 of The Breaking Pointe

COLTON

I carry out the same routine almost every time I leave my mother’s.

I try to get some creative juices flowing, followed by a steam- ing hot shower, and then a bit of TV. The TV part normally is cut short by my desire to shut my eyes. Then I’m met with Bonnie desperately trying to wake me up to give me the memo to go to my bedroom and actually sleep.

I’ve been working on a sculpture for about three months now. At first, I had no real goal, except for making something spontaneous. Over time, I’ve realized that it’s starting to look more and more like my mom. I can’t decipher whether it’s a good thing or not—or if my thoughts can’t stray far enough from what’s happening to give me any fresh ideas. Cancer has been my “fresh idea”

for the last year and half since she was diagnosed.

The fresh ideas used to come to me like it’s nothing. All day every day, I could only think of things I wanted to create in my studio. It could be that I’m just waiting for something exciting to happen. Or that I know that nothing is going to happen at all. If I don’t think about it, though, it makes it seem less detrimental. That’s only a comfort to me—ignoring all of my problems head- on and running in a never-ending circle of unhappiness.

My mother is right about me being lonely. I am. But what good would it do me to constantly dwell on it? It only reminds me that I was rejected when I proposed to the love of my life. It can make someone feel extremely unfit. Less than. Not that I don’t think I’ll ever find anyone, but who’s to say they’ll make me feel like she once did? Not even a good one-night stand can do that. It’s all surface level with no deep connections.

I long for that. I want my own person who isn’t my conscious, simply to let me know it’ll be okay. I imagine that everyone wants that.

I would say that all of these mental instabilities came from being picked on in school or just not reaching my full potential, but that wouldn’t be me telling the truth. I haven’t been the same since I was eleven years old, and it’s only gotten worse since then. So I don’t blame my old peers, or my lack of self- righteousness. I’d rather blame my father and his love for wrecking himself, then leaving the scene for me to discover. All it took for him to make me like this was his overindulgence. And me being so naturally curious, I just had to open his office door.

I hate that fucking office, and it’s made me a no surprises type of guy. Nobody likes that guy. Women hate that guy—and my family constantly worries about that guy.

There’s no amount of therapy that can remove the constant nightmares. I’m envious of Steven. He was only a baby. He always talks about how unfazed our father’s death makes him. Meanwhile, I’m living in constant terror, reliving the sight of his deceased body every day. I’m even still attending therapy; except I have nothing to discuss. I’m too busy getting in my head and struggling to talk. The moment I do, I can’t stop.

It’s a typical cat-and-mouse game with feeling like I can say what I saw out loud. Looking at it as a whole, that’s where my disconnect is with all the people in my life. One day, it’ll come back to bite me in the ass.

Stuck on the couch, the voices from the TV have altered to a more isolated volume while I ponder all my thoughts. Suddenly, I tap back into reality, snapping my head at Bonnie who is taking guard at the door, barking.

The knocking is now fully audible, and isn’t going away anytime soon, it seems. “Yo, Colton! It’s Trey!”

The yelling ensues from the other side.

I rub my face, setting my phone beside me as I stand up from the soft pillows, making my way to the door in a drowsy manner. Unlocking each lock with no urgency, I finally decide to say something back. “Hold on…I’m coming…”

Finally, I pull the door open, leaning on the doorframe. “You’re asleep, already?”

He wheezes out a laugh.

I yawn my words out, “I had a long day.”

He shakes his head, pretty much breezing past my words. “I just came to say that I gave you the weekend, but training starts tomorrow.”

I groan, rubbing my eyes more. “Why must you live in the same complex as me?”

He smiles, patting my shoulder. “I’m not your manager for no reason, Kennedy. We gotta put in this work!”

he cheers, clapping.

My body jolts at the intensity of it, covering one ear. “No doubt,”

I mumble, squeezing my eyes shut for a millisecond.

He grabs my shoulder and squeezes it, bringing his energy to a lower level now.

“How’s Mom? I almost forgot to ask.”

I nod, finally looking at him. “She’s alright. Tonight, at least.”

He raises his brows, looking at my face.

“What? Why the look?”

I furrow mine.

He says, “Yeah, get some sleep. Your eyes are bloodshot red, man.”

He pats me one last time before walking down the hall to his own apartment.

“Well goodnight to you, too!”

I watch him as he waves without looking back.

“Seven in the morning, Cole!”

he shouts back. I close the door and sigh.

“Why do I do this, Bonnie?”

I ask out loud as I let my head fall back against the door.

I bet if she could talk, she’d be the one to agree with me.

* * *

Each fist that I land on the punching bag isn’t enough to shake the weird cloud that I can feel hovering over me. Any moment and it’s going to burst into a terrible thunderstorm. That’s arguably a good way of describing what anxiety feels like for me on a daily basis. It’s also another way of saying that I’m a ticking time bomb.

If training for the past six hours wasn’t enough, then I’ll consider myself a dead man by tomorrow night. Six hours, plus the additional one hundred and fifty-seven other hours that I’ve dedicated to trying to up my game for the past three weeks.

It’s a surprise that I haven’t wiped out yet. Though once this fight is over, I’ll be sleeping like I’m getting paid just as much as I do to throw fists. I wanna be unavailable to everyone for at least one day, and if I can get even more lucky, I’ll shoot for two.

I’m pretty much done with my last extensive attempt at trying some different combinations that I managed to come up with. Now I’m standing in the middle of the gym, contemplating multiple thoughts at once as I drip in sweat, showing no urgency to wipe it off with my towel. Saying that I’m exhausted is an understatement.

What I could really use is an ice bath.

Finding the consciousness to grab my gym bag and other things, I hear Trey doing the same, rummaging through things in the office. I assume he’s getting ready for us to call it a night and get home. Probably my favorite part of the night when it comes to counting down the weeks of training. Except the part where I only got three weeks this time, as opposed to five or sometimes seven. It varies in skill and management, but I’m sure Daniel has every person you could need standing in his corner. Moreover, he doesn’t need more than three weeks to train.

Hell, he probably doesn’t even need to. I’m testing pure fate at this point.

I’m normally more confident when it comes to my range and abilities. Yet, you have to look at things a little more realistically when someone has much more experience than you do.

I have no doubt that he’s possibly not the brightest.

He looks to be satisfied quite easily with his material things from what I’ve seen, and that speaks for itself.

But this isn’t an academic competition, and it doesn’t matter how intelligent I think I am.

I have to be the quickest, the most meticulous, and most of all, the most sovereign.

The moment I toss my bag over my shoulder, my phone stops me with an urgent vibration. When I manage to get a grip on it, the message is from nobody I can think of. No name, and a number I’ve never seen in my life.

Ready for tomorrow? I hope you know it’s a wrap, dumb fuck.

I’ll take a guess that it’s Daniel himself, or some deranged freak. Or maybe both. I swipe the message, typing up a quick response as I stand in one place.

Aguado?

Another message from him swoops back in.

Glad you have a brain. It works, too. Good job.

There’s no sense in responding to someone who harbors as much maliciousness as he does. It might sting a little to not take the conversation further, seeing as my curiosity always gets the best of me, but it’s not worth the trouble. I’ve never met the guy, so I don’t resonate with his animosity towards me. I won’t go out of my way to create any, either. Whatever he wants to say can be said in the ring tomorrow night. Otherwise, that’s why we throw fists. There’s nothing to discuss, and no words that could cause me to chase that high. It’s working out great for him, but I personally don’t like all eyes on me.

I say all of this, but it doesn’t burn out my desire to find out more about this guy and what his deal is. It’s smarter to do that than fishing for information about him myself.

Swiping out of my messages, I go straight to Instagram for all of my answers.

I type in his name in the search bar, nothing loading at first.

Then I type it out differently, hoping for a different result, which I get.

Some accounts don’t even look relatively close to real ones, while others are clearly fan pages. How odd to think that people admire you enough to make fan accounts for you?

You can take up so much space in someone’s head without even knowing them personally.

Finally, after tapping various accounts and minimizing my options, I come to one of my last options—this option being the right one.

The first few pictures are of him, flexing with an abundance of diamonds on him. The locations were tropical, and not one picture lacked a voluptuous woman somewhere in the background or on his arm. Even his friends were dripped out in similar attire. They’re like duplicates of each other. Nobody has their own sense of style or self. Not even the women.

The next few photos are your standard gym candid photos. If I didn’t get humbled before, I am with these. He’s huge, but not in a protein-packed, athletic way. He looks scarily strung out and completely unnatural, unearthly. His pupils are dilated like he swallowed a few lines, and based on the veins throughout his arms, I can guess that he’s not getting that pumped without a little aid. I’ve erased a lot of bullshit that came from my father’s addiction and worked hard to not think about the behaviors he held onto because he abused certain drugs. He practically caused me to remember some things against my will—and looking and acting like a freak because of steroid abuse is one of them.

The farther I delve into his pictures, the deeper the lore gets. He hardly posts anything about training at all and spends most of his days and nights partying around the world. Any man of the city loves a good night out on the town, but it’s hard to believe that this man holds the title of one of the best athletes in New York City, while simultaneously gobbling down bottles of cognac for days at a time.

It makes the men like me look like the smallest men alive. After working my ass off with everything I have to offer, it’s become quickly clear to me that this career isn’t always about what you have to offer, so much as people would rather have a contract with a client who has little to no integrity. I’d rather go unsigned, making a couple hundred thousand dollars at a time than selling out. You would have to offer me the rawest, most authentic deal you have, and then maybe I’ll consider it.

Out of all of the pictures I mass scrolled through, I finally slowed down and found one that was a lot different. It’s a bit older, as well. It’s a picture of him and a ginger-haired woman, cozied up on a love seat—both sitting in a remarkably romantic atmosphere. He was as fancy as you could get, when you have a rotten moral, but I quickly forget that I’m looking for any dirt on him. She, however, is something of a distraction. She’s as darling as they come.

And she’s with a half-witted cretin.

What I would do to have that view in my life. She looks light years out of his league, might I add. And her hair—it looks like it could be made of silk. Every quality of this woman has me at a standstill, and it’s just a photo. I can’t fathom that she’d lay down with the likes of him. I don’t know her, or anything about what she’s like, but I think I know women enough to know that he’s not being checked, for sure. Going by the age of this picture, I hope she’s no longer in the shackles of his presence. The sight of him every day would make me rethink my life’s decisions.

“Cole, you ready?”

Trey exclaims, walking out of the office.

Disturbed by the sudden lack of silence, my stare shoots in his direction.

“Yeah—coming,”

I say, my words falling to a softer tone. “Just grabbing my things.”

I slip my phone into the pocket of my basketball shorts, walk- ing over to him so we can leave the building, finally. “Everything work out alright? How’re we feeling?”

“Never been better.”

I give him a tight-lipped smile.

He gives me an uncertain but faint smile, leading us out of the building. The sounds of the city are strong from the moment we step out.

It’s Trey’s job to be the publicity guy, not mine. If he wants me to show my face somewhere or speak for a brand, it’s him who does the thorough background check before consulting with me. I can credit him for picking a number of ways to get my name out there without making me look like a fool. Despite what others might say about his status, he has connections that not a lot of people can say they share. He knows details about people that serve a decent purpose, and it’s why I trust his judgment.

“We need to be at the arena early tomorrow. This guy likes to cause scenes, and he’s apparently just picked up a partnership with some energy drink company. One that might call a few paparazzi,”

Trey says as he locks the metal doors to the gym.

“Paparazzi?”

I ask, bobbing my head back. “Since when are we celebrities?”

“Colton,”

he says, amused, “I don’t know if you realize, but this guy is extremely social media famous. In layman’s terms, and in this generation, that means he’s equal to a celebrity. And after tomorrow, you might make or break that for him.”

“That’s great and all, Trey, but what’s that got to do with me? If I lose, I’m sure he won’t be greatly affected,”

I say with disdain.

“No, he’d be fine. But you’re gonna have some attention either way, and I want you to be ready.”

He turns to face me, pushing us along to begin walking.

My jaw is stuck in a dangle, listening to him.

“No—I don’t want pictures, and bullshit, and autographs, Trey, c’mon,”

I say, waving my hands.

“Cole, it’s just a little publicity. It’s not like that, alright? You’re young, brother, would you just let me put you on?”

He chuckles.

I don’t want to be put on anything. I want to stay in hiding. “I’m generally not the nicest guy, and I don’t serve much purpose. I’m good at fighting—that’s my purpose. I don’t wanna be the next face on some cereal box,”

I say, unable to keep a straight face.

“You don’t wanna sell Box Tops to kids?” he jests.

“It’s funny that you think I’m a good influence for children,”

I respond.

“Daniel is the face of a company that has shown the strict results of using their products. People believe what he says,” he says.

“You really believe he’s drinking that shit, man?”

I ask him, raising a curious eyebrow.

“He could be. He looks like it. You don’t?”

He glances at me as we keep up momentum.

“I think it’s a crock of shit. Anyone with a single brain cell could see he’s going through extensive lengths to get to that size. I’m pushing thirty—I handle more than one energy drink in a day,” I snarl.

“You seem testier about this than you were before,”

he observes.

“I just hope it’s a fair fight, is all. People love this guy so much that my only chance at having any victory is matching his energy.”

I shrug as we both approach the subway stairs, walking down underground.

“They love his abilities, don’t get it mixed up. That’s not to be confused with him being a good person, alright?

He’s got multiple offenses and run-ins with the law, and I hear he has a nasty track record with women,”

he says, following beside me. “I’ve managed to find out that he’s not any competition in the charismatic department. Trust me, I won’t be expecting any hospitality or courtesy.”

I huff, hopping down each step. I wasn’t getting my hopes up about anything, actually. I’m pretty good at never doing that, and it only leads to existential problems. I have enough internal ones on my list to begin with.

* * *

My mind is contaminated with the thought of the ginger girl with the luminous, lime-green eyes. I never linger this long on anyone, but sitting alongside a man like Daniel makes me incredibly curious as to who she is. She had a bright, lively, and stunning smile in the picture, and yet still I could see right through it. The moment I returned home last night, I went back to the picture, just to find her tagged in it.

And the investigation began.

Pictures might mean nothing, but to me they say a lot about a person. I’m not the kind of man to go stalking women, though I wanted to delve deeply into her pictures. Based on what I got, she loves flowers, dancing, and she’s enjoying summer. Nothing involving Daniel, but who’s to say what I would’ve seen if I scrolled any further? Everything else is still unknown to me, aside from her name.

Noelle Mayberry.

Generally, I do love a woman who I have to turn into a god- damned FBI agent to get information on. She’s not necessarily secretive, but she’s making me work for the answers I want.

It’s a playful little game that some women love to play when it comes to getting to know them. I like guessing, even though I’m going out on a limb half the time. Noelle seems to be privy to showing just enough of her life that it feels like she knows how to separate her personal life from her public.

I wasn’t fully kidding around when I told Trey that I don’t want to be publicized. The concept of me being slightly known and worth a little more is quite appealing. It’s equally appalling though, because I like my little life. I like my quaint home, with my old dog, and my well-rounded lifestyle. Any more and I’m afraid I’ll probably go insane without the correct foundation.

All day, I’ve thought about the idea of this fight being a big break for me. While it sounds like a miracle, it’s so bittersweet that I’m having a hard time digesting it. Getting to the arena, I’m expecting a few people standing outside, maybe even waiting. I get that some boxing fans take these things seriously. But it isn’t a few. It’s crowds, and they have cameras galore.

Not many are here to see me, I’m sure—but I’ve never felt more seen in this business than now.

I hide in the dressing room for as long as I can, in hopes that some disaster would transpire.

I have a couple of minutes before I know Trey will be telling me to stand up and start swinging.

Every minute I spent pacing the small corner of the ring that was given to me, itching with overstimulation.

Pacing and thinking about ways to ignore everything negative.

Daniel’s entire aura is negative, and it’s steaming from the opposite side of the ring.

Trey went as far as to hire an entire team to help me this time, which I’m extremely fortunate for, but I can’t get used to having people do things for me.

It feels lazy and superficial to me not to be able to do things that I’ve been doing for years now. He keeps telling me to see how I feel at the end of the night, but I don’t even know if I can make it until then.

Trey hops up into the ring, rubbing his hands together as he approaches me. My pacing comes to a halt.

“It’s about that time, you ready?”

I hear Trey’s words before he stops his stride, clapping his hands.

My eyes wander over to Daniel, who’s pounding his chest like some provoked ape.

“He’s literally strung out, Trey.”

I blink quickly, looking back at him.

“Listen, just do me a favor and give it your all. Give him your best shit talking—I don’t care. Just do whatever it is you have to do,”

he stresses.

“I hear you,”

I say, quickly, hoping to make him relax. “Let’s just get this over with, alright?”

He nods in agreement, joining me in an ominous stare at Daniel and his nonstop fidgeting before I walk into the unpre- dictable.