Strike (Sphere of Irony 2)

“No, no, no! Lad, are you payin’ any attention to what yer doing? He’s gonna leather you if you lower yer right hand!”

Aggravated, I take a step back into the corner of the cage, praying that my temper will lessen. I know my dad’s angry—really angry, because his Scottish brogue is so bad it’s almost unintelligible. That says a lot since I grew up with the sorry prick. I should know what he’s saying after eighteen years.

“Look at me, ya numpty!”

Gritting my teeth, I control my face before I turn towards my old man.

“Freddie, take a break,” he snaps at the bloke I’m sparring with, never once breaking our eye contact. Fred silently exits the cage, disappearing somewhere in the massive old warehouse my dad uses for his underground fight club. You wouldn’t believe how widespread and organized the illegal fight scene is in London. There are tournaments and everything.

My dad steps over until we’re nearly chest-to-chest. I’m a huge bastard, six foot three and over fourteen stone. Dad? He’s tall enough to look me right in the eye. If he were younger, I coul

d possibly be scared of him.

Who am I kidding? I am scared of him, or at the very least greatly intimidated.

My dad only knows one way—very controlling, very painful, and absolutely terrifying. He’s a decent man, mostly. It’s just that he puts fighting over everything else, including us. Plus, if there’s one thing I absolutely loathe, it’s being told what to do.

Unconsciously, I shift my gaze away from his dark, piercing stare. Faster than you’d think the old man could move, his hand whips out and catches my chin, yanking it until I look at him.

“Face me like a man, lad. Never let yer opponent see weakness.”

Opponent… what a joke. He’s my fucking father. He’s supposed to be on my side. He’s the only man on earth that can intimidate me. With everyone else, I’m fearless.

Rule 2—Never let your emotions show.

He stares for what feels like forever, searching my face for something. Looking in my eyes as if they hold the answers to all of his questions. I wait, not daring to move an inch. You never, ever flinch.

He narrows his gaze. “Did you have a shag?”

“What?”

“You heard me. Did you get fucked?”

I shake my head, hardly able to move with his thick fingers still squeezing my chin.

“Did you have a wank?”

“Dad! No!”

Horrified, I try to pull my head out of his tight grip, but it only makes him clamp down harder. His normally light eyes are nearly black as he scowls.

“You know the rules, aye?”

“Yes.”

Of course I know his bloody rules. They’ve been beaten into me since I was a kid.

Rule 3—No fucking, shagging, wanking, sucking, or getting off for seven days leading up to a fight.

You want your reward? You better win.

Dad shoves me away by my chin, making me stumble back, disgust clearly written all over his face. “I want ya ready for Friday night, Dax.” My dad’s thick finger points at me, “No slappers, no fucking, keep yer hands off yer dick.”

I nod, swallowing down the rage that boils in my gut. He’s a fucking genius. He wants me furious, determined…an outright demon in the ring. He knows the best way to get results is to keep me angry and horny.

“Go’n do the bag. An hour. Not a minute less.”

“But—”