Dan wiped the sweat off Connor’s face with a towel. ‘See the guy in the second row?’
Connor glanced towards a man in his late forties with silver-grey hair trimmed into a severe crew cut. He sat among the cheering spectators, a tournament programme in one hand, his eyes discreetly studying Connor.
‘He’s a manager scouting for talent.’
All of a sudden Connor felt an additional pressure to succeed. This could be his chance at the international circuit, to compete for world titles and even earn sponsorship deals. Besides his own ambition, he was keenly aware that his family could do with the money.
The bell rang for the third and final round.
‘Now go win this fight!’ Dan urged, giving Connor an encouraging slap on the back.
Popping the gumshield into his mouth, Connor stood to face Jet – determined to win more than ever.
His opponent bobbed lightly on his toes, seemingly as fresh as in the first round. The crowd whooped and hollered as the two fighters squared up beneath the white-hot glare of the ring’s spotlights. They stared at one another, neither willing to show the slightest sign of weakness. As soon as their gloves touched, Jet launched straight into his attack – a blistering combination of jab, cross, jab, hook.
Connor evaded the punches and countered with a front kick. The ball of his foot collided with Jet’s stomach and his opponent doubled over. Keeping up the pressure, Connor trapped Jet against the ropes with a torrent of punches. But Jet refused to back down. With the ferocity of a cornered tiger, he blasted Connor with multiple body blows. Each strike weakened Connor a little more and he was forced to retreat. As he stepped away, Jet caught him with a crippling shin kick to the thigh. Connor buckled, opening himself up to another hook punch. Jet threw all his weight behind the attack. At the last second, Connor ducked and the fist glanced off the top of his head.
Realizing he’d been lucky to escape the hook this time, Connor now knew Jet was gunning to knock him down with that punch.
Like two gladiators, they battled back and forth across the ring. Sweat poured from Connor’s brow, his breathing hard, his blood pumping, as the punches and kicks came thick and fast. Connor felt his energy ebbing. But he couldn’t give up now. There was too much at stake.
‘Stay light on your feet!’ bawled Dan from his ringside corner.
Jet launched a roundhouse to the head. Connor double-blocked it with his arms and countered with a side-kick. Jet leapt away then immediately drove back in, fists flying. The crowd was now going wild at the epic to-and-fro of combat. Connor’s name was chanted to the rafters by his friends from the Tiger Martial Arts Dojo: ‘CON-NOR! CON-NOR!’
Jet’s supporters screamed back with equal ferocity. The shouts reached fever-pitch as they entered the closing seconds of the bout. Connor realized if he didn’t knock Jet down, his opponent would likely win on points. But exhaustion was getting the better of him.
‘Don’t drop your guard!’ Dan screamed at him in frustration from his corner.
Jet spotted the gap in Connor’s defence and went for it. Jab, cross … hook!
But Connor had been feigning the weakness to draw his opponent in … and Jet had taken the bait. With lightning speed, he sidestepped the attack and thrust in a jab, stunning his opponent. Then, whipping his rear leg round, he executed a spinning hook-kick. Jet never saw what hit him as Connor’s heel connected with the side of his head. Jet’s black gumshield shot out of his mouth and he crashed to the deck in a heap. A second later the bell rang to end the fight.
A dazed Jet staggered to his feet, helped by the referee. Connor bowed his respect to his opponent, who gave a begrudging nod in return. The presiding judge stepped into the ring. Clasping a microphone, he announced: ‘The UK title for the Under Sixteens Battle of Britain Kickboxing Tournament goes to … CONNOR REEVES!’
The crowd roared in celebration as Connor was presented with the trophy, a silver figure of a kickboxer atop a column of white marble. Connor felt a wave of elation and raised the prize high above his head in acknowledgement of his supporters.
Dan gripped him round the shoulders. ‘Congratulations, Champ!’ he said, grinning. ‘Your father would be so proud of you.’
Connor looked up at the glittering trophy and at the cheering spectators. He dearly wished his dad could have been by his side to share this moment. His father was the one who’d encouraged him to start martial arts in the first place. It had been his passion – and it was Connor’s too.
‘I have to admit, you had me worried there for a second,’ said Dan.
‘Feign and fight,’ replied Connor. ‘You taught me that trick, remember? So you deserve to hold this as much as me.’
Passing Dan the trophy, he glanced towards the second row and was disappointed to see the silver-haired man had gone.
‘Wasn’t the manager impressed then?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him,’ Dan admitted with a playful wink as he brandished the trophy. ‘I’ve no idea who that man was. I just wanted you to fight at the top of your game – and you did!’
A chill wind hit Connor as he emerged from the ExCel Centre in the London Docklands and headed for the bus stop on Freemasons Road. The grey February sky was unforgiving, the tail end of winter refusing to loosen its grip. But not even the dismal weather could dampen Connor’s spirits. He was the UK Kickboxing Champion and had the trophy in his kitbag to prove it. He couldn’t wait to show his gran – she was his biggest fan, after all.
Pulling up the hood of his sweatshirt, Connor shouldered his kitbag and crossed the bridge spanning the Docklands Light Railway. He dodged the traffic on the opposite side and was passing a row of boarded-up shops when he heard a cry for help.
Halfway down a littered alley, he spotted a smartly dressed Indian boy surrounded by a gang of youths. It was obvious that a man heading for the train station had also heard the cry. But, averting his gaze, he hurried past the scene.
Scared of being knifed, thought Connor. And who’d blame him?
But Connor couldn’t walk away. The strong have a duty to protect the weak, his father had taught him. That was the reason his father had joined the army. And why he’d encouraged Connor to take up martial arts. He never wanted his son to be a victim.
The gang leader shoved the boy against the alley wall and began to rifle through his pockets.
‘Leave him alone!’ shouted Connor.
Almost as one, the gang turned to face their challenger.
‘This ain’t got nothing to do with you, mate,’ said the leader. ‘Leg it!’
Connor ignored the warning and strode towards them. ‘He’s a friend of mine.’
‘This loser ain’t got no friends,’ the boy said, spitting at his victim’s feet, clearly not believing Connor’s bluff.
Drawing level with the gang, Connor eyeballed the leader. Dressed in baggy jeans and a Dr Dre T-shirt, the lad was a good few inches taller than him and well built. With a broad chest, bulging biceps and fists like hammers, the boy could easily play front row in the school rugby team. If he still goes to school, Connor thought.
The rest of the gang – two boys and a girl – were less intimidating but still dangerous as a pack. One boy in Converse trainers, baggy jeans and a grey hoodie held a skateboard, his face pockmarked with spots. The other wore carbon-copy baggy jeans, a puffer jacket and a red Nike baseball cap, tipped at a ‘too cool for you’ angle on his bleached blond hair. The girl, who was Chinese with a jet-black bob and a piercing through her nose, wore dark eyeshadow, emo-style, and Dr Marten boots. She shot Connor a hard stare.