Kade

Sweat drips down the side of my face.

My chest is rising and falling with the pounding of my heart, as the ref holds my arm speaking loudly into the megaphone he has gripped in his other hand, addressing the group of anxious fans who are crowded around the base of the boxing ring.

We stand in the center of the ring, my hand is clenched to my side, my knuckles throb and it feels like I punched through a brick wall.

I guess that's what I get for being too aggressive against my opponent, considering his broken nose and the dark purple bruises that are blooming underneath his eyes and beginning to swell. I can feel my sense of pride building inside of me, although he seems like he's in a lot of pain he knew what he was getting into when he decided to take me on.

Kade Bridger does not lose. 

"And the winner of tonight's fight is..." The ref's grip tightens around my wrist as he swings my arm into the air while yelling into the megaphone, "The unbeatable beast of the ring KADE!!"

The crowd explodes into a frenzy as they cheer my name over and over, the one-syllable echoing throughout my head, their cries and cheers follow me off as I swing under the ropes onto the solid concrete floor.

I grimace as Collins, my fight manager, drops a cool towel over my neck and shoulders. A wave of cold relief sweeps through my hot body and I let out a sigh letting my eyes close.

"You did well out there man," Collins slaps my back in praise, "He got a few good hits on you but not enough to keep this beast down."

"I still need to work on my bob and weaves, I am too slow on those harsh fucking uppercuts he was throwing," I admit running a sweaty hand down my face.

Collins nods, flipping through the stack of bills he has in his hands. He sections some out for himself, the rest he hands over to me, "You did lead some good punches, got him to be off-balance, I think that was his weak spot."

I nod in agreement, taking the stack of bills from him and stuffing them into my backpack. The bag feels heavy as I swing it over my shoulder, the feeling of getting closer to my goal weighs on me and I can feel the sense of urgency in every new fight.

"If there is any word through the streets of anyone else looking cocky enough to fight, let me know alright?" I ask, pausing at the locker room to look over my shoulder at Collins.

He looks up from his phone which he's typing away on no doubt already planning to use the money he made today at some strip club or to go gambling. This man can never take a fucking break, ever since I met him at the Den a few years ago, he's been addicted to the lifestyle of betting on unbeatable odds, which almost landed him in some sticky situations with my father. But when he found me and watched one of my fights, he took a chance to take me on and become my manager, securing me all of these fights. I haven't let him down and now with all extra the bets being placed on me, we've been making a shit ton of extra money on easy odds. I don't want to push my luck but with this winning streak we've been on, it seems like I could soon have enough to get my own place, get away from my father.

"For sure man, but I don't want you to burn out on me... This is the third fight this weak. Don't you get tired?" He asks.

"If I got tired, I would have lost a long time ago. Don't pussy out on me, we're just getting started..." I wink.

Collins' deep laugh follows me into the change room, where I sit down on one of the cool benches that are scattered throughout the room and drop my head into my hands.

My brain is wired on the fight, critiquing how I could have improved, everything I did wrong.  I go over every single move and punch in the match. Methodically criticizing myself in the process.

Standing I groan and slam my fist down into one of the lockers, I hear the metal bend under my fist and pull it away to reveal my knuckles cut and bleeding, leaving an obvious dent in the metal.

Not good enough. Repeats over and over in my mind as I shower, the feeling of the scalding hot water cascading down my back burns away my fathers disappointment, leaving an angry streak of red along my skin. The heat releases the tension that has bunched up inside my muscles since the fight began, but my head is still pounding and I can barely focus on my thoughts. My mind constantly returns to my father's stern face as his fist connects with my face, again and again, him screaming, not good enough, useless, unworthy.

I have always tried to live up to my father's standards, he is a brutal selfish man but when I was younger I thought it was tough love. I've only come to understand years later that he is a fucking asshole, abuser, and monster, who gets happy over other people's suffering.

When I walk out of the changeroom and into the main lobby a group of girls wearing barely any clothes suddenly rush in front of me, most of them are flashing me sensual smiles, others are grabbing at my shoulders and arms as I pass by. Most of them are all looking for me to take them home, I can tell by the way that they stick out their chests and bat their eyelashes. Although it's tempting I don't give in to my urges because knowing these types of chasers it seems like they are only doing it for the attention the media will give them. It is honestly sad to think that some people are only interested in me for the popularity that my last name gains. That's the reason why I don't sign up under Kade Bridger, son to Enzo Bridger. In an attempt to distance myself from my asshole Father, using my last name would also bring unwanted media attention, and in doing so would alert the public of these underground fights causing problems if I was ever to get into trouble with the law.

The last thing I need is to have another reason to ask my father for help.

I wouldn't say I'm famous, not in the normal sense, but word flowing through the streets is that Kade is the up and coming new name to watch out for. Kade the beast and Kade the unbeatable are all nicknames I've seemed to garner over these few years in the ring.

"Kade!"

"Can I please have your autograph?

"Kade will you marry me??"

The girls yell all yell as I push through them.

I try and hide my amusement as I sign a few pictures of myself, posing for some selfies, my face remaining passive, not smiling. Never smiling.

Although I have tried to keep my name out of the spotlight, I can't deny that people have figured out who I am, all it would take would be for one google search and I would pop up. So most of my stardom comes from my father's success as a business tycoon in New York, one of the best. But also one of the worst. He's nicknamed the Devil, for better lack of the word, he is a Devil, but only to people who owe him something. To the public, he is Enzo Bridger, named one of the most successful businessmen in 2020 by the New York Times. But behind the facade he is the devil incarnate true to his word, if you mess with him you won't live to tell anyone about it.

That's how he controls people, through fear. Once he's got something, he holds it over your head until the day you die. And for me, the only reason I haven't left yet is the power he has to make my life a living hell at the snap of his fingers.

I escape the frenzy of screaming girls and make it to the car waiting for me outside of the arena, slipping in, I'm finally able to hide behind the tinted windows.

-

The bodyguard knocks on the large oak doors that we are standing in front of. My father's office located on the highest floor of Bridger unlimited in downtown Manhattan. His castle, he built this business up from nothing, man-made, if you could even call blackmailing that.

"Well?" My father says sitting behind his large mahogany desk, leaning over masses of paperwork, while his eyes are scanning something on his desktop computer. He doesn't look up at me as I walk in, the guard closes the door softly behind me.

"I won," I say, taking a seat at one of the seats in front of his desk.

"What do you want me to say? That I'm proud? Good job? Want a prize?" His cold black eyes slide to me, his gaze cold and calculating.

I shrug unfazed, keeping my features calm, "No... I just thought you may want to know your son isn't a total waste of space."

"I could care less about you wasting your time at these useless fights," He grunts, then heaves a breathless laugh, his eyes moving back to the screen. "I'm busy and you have work to do."

My pulse quickens as he holds up a thick folder and tosses it to the edge of the desk. I lean over a pick it up, flipping through its contents, almost a dozen black and white profile pictures stare back at me, along with their details and whereabouts. Bile rises up in my throat but I push it down.

"These are..."

"The men who screwed me over. Teach them never to fuck with Enzo Bridger," My father spits, his eyes burning as he glances up at me watching as I stand turning to leave.

"And Kade," He grumbles, I look over my shoulder, "Do it quietly, I don't need this getting out and talked about in some gossip magazine because my son can't fucking follow orders."

The folder bends as my grip tightens around it, I nod and walk out of the room.