June. A few months earlier . . .

I won’t be beat.

Pushing my way through a swarm of people, I’m determined to be heard over the deafening noise of the media scrum.

Bodies are jam-packed together—microphones held aloft, the shrill screams of adoring fans, flashing lights, cell phone cameras . . . it’s a circus, no other way to describe it.

I’ve only been working at the New Jersey Herald for a little over a year, so I’ve never covered such a big story before. It’s my first field trip out of the state, giving me a great opportunity to prove my writing chops. Perhaps my ass of an editor will throw me a few more bones if I can pull this gig off.

As I slip through a tangle of fellow reporters, all hungry for their piece of the drama, I spot the prefect pitch to fire off my questions to Connor Patrick: Current and undefeated heavyweight boxing champion of the world.

Fight week in Las Vegas, and this is the final presser before Friday’s weigh in. Thousands of people have descended on Vegas as boxing fever grips the city: Professional gamblers, casual sports fans, the rich and the powerful, dignitaries, A-list celebs, the best news channel commentators in the country, even a few top politicians. Seems that everyone loves the glitz and glamor when a big fight comes rolling into town.

I don’t get the appeal myself. Never was a huge sports fan growing up. But being here now I must admit the chaos is pretty fun.

The pundits all agree that this is a 50-50 pick’em fight, with Connor’s opponent being a very dangerous challenger hailing from a deprived part of Mexico. The contender for the champ’s belts has never been beaten. He also boasts a perfect KO ratio in all twenty-five of his professional bouts. One thing I know, being Mexican myself, is that there’s no one more tenacious than a boxer who comes from the mean streets of Mexico. Even though this is prize fighting they fight for more than financial gain—they fight for honor, for their country. Boxing is in our nation’s DNA.

I don’t know much about Connor Patrick as a fighter yet—although I’m aware he’s boxing’s highest paid athlete, and number three in the Forbes sports rich list—but going off the scarred up look of the challenger I’d say Connor has his work cut out come Saturday.

Just when I think I’ve found the perfect vantage point to shoot off my question, a big lump of a guy stands in my way. At over six-foot tall and five-foot wide, he fully eclipses my diminutive five foot-three inch frame. He also has a shocking personal hygiene issue. I have to cover both my nose and mouth to stop from gagging.

I try to move around him but find myself blocked in by other journalists who all rapidly throw out their questions like darts to a board.

I’m not surprised reporters get a bad press with celebrities; we’re like vampires in a way, draining gossip like blood. Connor’s different, though. He seems to reveal in the attention. I can tell this is pleasure for him. He plays with each reporter with a confident and cocky ease.

He grew up in Brooklyn but was born in Cork, Ireland, so there’s a Celtic banter which spills from every word he speaks. It’s quite a treat to see him at full play, goading his opponent—who probably hardly understands much English—and taunting the press, who always ask the same unimaginative questions like When did you first realize you had the gift for boxing? or, what’s the most expensive thing you own? These are the same tired, regurgitated questions I’ve read in every magazine or online article that’s covered Connor’s career. I believe I have a more engaging one up my sleeve and I’m desperate to ask it. I was told by my editor to get something the other sources couldn’t . . . an insight into his mind. See what cracks I could find, if any.

In my motel room last night, I did my fair share of research. Seeing that his thirty seven fights were all won with ease, I had a Eureka moment. A question which I’m sure would throw him off his stride. As far as I know no one’s ever got close to the real Connor Patrick, not in public anyway. I’m convinced that beneath all the flashy macho stuff is someone who deals with insecurity. Surely no one can race through life so self-assured, twenty-four seven.

I keep trying to squeeze past the huge man in front of me. He’s a real jackass. I’m sure he’s blocking me in on purpose. The jerk has already broken the press scrum rules of one question only. He must be on his third or fourth by now.

Like a small child escaping a huddle of parents to go play outside, I manage to finally wriggle free and head off to the front of the stage. Connor is on the podium, dressed in a snazzy designer suit and aviator shades.

I fling my arm in the air, standing on tip-toes like I’m alerting a Kindergarten teacher.

He breaks the latest insult to his rival and points down to me. “You. What’s your question, angel?”

Just before I can speak, his promoter pats him on the back and whispers something in his ear. Connor smiles and waves him off.

“They say no more questions,” Connor tells me. “But I’ll make an exception for you.”

Again, just before I can speak up, the big man mountain charges ahead, his voice booming over the crowd.

Connor verbally launches at the guy. “Hey, asshole, I said the girl gets to ask, not you.”

The crowd all laugh, making the immoveable giant shuffle back in apparent defeat.

I blush, pulling back a loose tendril of dark hair past my ear.

“Come on, angel . . .” He pulls his shades down the bridge of his nose and looks around the crowd. “Hey, someone give her a mic.”

A woman standing to my side, with permed peroxide-blonde hair and a figure hugging business suit—probably a reporter for HBO—pushes a large foam microphone in my face. As I start to talk I can hear my own voice back, which makes me even more self-conscious than before. A spotlight then shines in my face, almost blinding me. I stall with fear.

Connor glances at his diamond studded wristwatch. “We’re almost out of time, hurry up and ask your question.”

“Mr. Patrick—”

“Ooh, I like that,” he cuts in. “Respect. Take note you people . . . Mr. Patrick.”

More laughter from the crowd.

“Connor,” I correct, clearing my throat, “you’ve had thirty seven professional fights now . . . do you ever think that what people say could be true?”

“What. That I’m pretty?”

More laughter.

Quite the comedian.

I speak up louder. “No, that your record is padded.”

A shocked hush blankets the whole auditorium.

Connor’s brash smile fades. “And who said that? Some piss drenched teenage blogger?” He looks over at his opponent and stretches his arm out. “Does this pussy look like one of those padded fights? Hey, it’s not my fault they fall so easy.”

Suddenly, a guy’s arm shoots across my chest and starts pulling me away. “Right, you. Out.”

“Hey, what the hell—?”

“No media pass, no questions . . . out!”

He manhandles me past the scrum, directing me with force toward the back of the room. The fat guy, who obstructed me before, smirks as I’m dragged off like some common criminal.

“What are you looking at?” I snap at him. “Ever heard of deodorant?” As I’m prodded along, I glance back over my shoulder. The lump is sniffing at his stale, sweaty shirt—an undeniable look of embarrassment riding across his reddened face.

I chuckle at my quip but feel pissed off at being chucked out. Just because I’m not with the big boys, I’m treated like some sort of gate crasher.

So far, this isn’t the glam reporter’s life I hoped it would be.

* * *

Sitting on a high stool at the casino bar, I check through my thin collection of hand written notes. As I pick at the crust of a club sandwich, and try to make sense of my shocking shorthand, I look through the bar window at a hustle of patrons glued to slot machines. Neon lights bounce off the glass and chrome of each one, as the clang of dollar coins being fed into slots echoes across the floor. Some people play just for fun, some more determined for that one big jackpot to free them from the shackles of reality back home.

Although colorful and shiny, I find the spectacle pretty depressing. Las Vegas is a monster. Unless you’re already rich, the whole place is like financial quicksand—ready to swallow up poor people and what little money they have. Some love this place but to me it stinks of desperation, reminding me of every materialistic thing I don’t have.

I pick up my slim line tonic, remove the wedge of lime, and take a sip—the ice at the bottom of the glass cooling the burn of my lip. I’m tense, readying myself to break the news of my non-story to the editor. All I want to do is go back home. Getting anything tangible from Connor seems to be an impossible task. Not only is he highly defensive but one of his goons is always standing by ready to send me packing.

Before I can sink into self-pity, my phone pings. It’s a message from William Dunne, my editor:

Any quotes yet, something we can print? Every day you’re there we’re losing money.

I snort.

I’m on a personal allowance of fifty dollars a day—hardly enough for the sandwich I’m eating let alone the crappy motel I’m staying at down the strip.

Our paper is so cheap. My editor is so cheap.

Just as I take a deep breath and begin to text back, I see a mass of people gather by the roulette table. Arms are held high in the air, hands clutching onto notepads, printed photos, and sharpies. The animated congregation all shove each other to get close to what’s of interest.

I leave a twenty for the waiter and run out of the bar to see what all the fuss is about.

As I get close to the crowd, I see Connor—a thick roll of money in his hand like it’s nothing. He places a few chips on red and throws down the bundle of cash.

He’s standing between two huge security guards who both wear stony expressions on their faces. They push away fans who all want a piece of the champ. Connor’s a big guy, standing at around six-feet tall, but these beasts dwarf him. I’m surprised such a tough guy like Connor needs security detail but I guess any fool with a gun could take a pop.

As I get closer, one of his bodyguards stares straight at me like I’m a bug he wants to squash.

Just as I consider walking away, saving any shred of dignity I have left, Connor shouts over. “Hey, you, reporter girl.”

I freeze, gripping my folder of notes tight. He curls his finger. “Over here.”

I look around, not quite believing he’s singled me out through the crush of people.

He motions me in. “Come on, I don’t bite.”

As I shuffle forward, one of his monster-man security guards grabs me by the arm and pulls me through the frantic crowd.

Unable to resist, I’m pulled to within an inch of Connor’s handsome face.

My breathing is irregular. “Mr. Patrick . . .”

“What’s your name?” he asks, arching a brow.

“Sofia. Sofia Chavez, from the New Jersey Herald.”

“I asked you your name, not where you work, angel.”

I nervously smile.

“I want you to come to the fight on Saturday,” he says.

“Really?”

He stares at me for a second, which makes me feel uncomfortable.

“I’ll have a member of my staff bring you back to the changing room straight after,” he continues. “I can give you a private interview when I’ve won. Maybe I can show you what a champ gets up to after a victory.”

I pause for a moment, and then shake my head.

“Why?” he asks, keeping one eye on me and the other on the thousands he’s just picked up on red.

“I’m only here until tomorrow.”

“You’re not covering the fight?”

“Our paper is small, no budget I’m afraid.”

He laughs.

“What?” I’m partially offended by his response.

“I’ll take care of it. What’s your boss’s number?”

“I’m not sure he’ll agree to—”

“Nonsense,” he interrupts. “I’ll take care of your expenses. I’d like to give you an interview. You’ve got huge balls asking me what you did at the press conference. I wanna know where you dragged that shit up from.”

Before I can explain, he stops me. “Where are you staying?”

“The White Rose.” I say it like I’m asking a question.

“What, that shitty motel next to the Elvis wedding chapel?”

“Yes,” I murmur, completely mortified and turning redder by the second.

He smirks and then draws in one of his guards. Connor hands him a clip of money from the breast pocket of his tailored suit. “Put her up in the MGM.” He turns his attention back to me. “Is that okay, Sofia?”

“Oh, I don’t want to inconvenience you, I mean, it’s too much.”

He rolls his eyes. “You want a story, right?”

“Of course, it’s my job.”

“Then it’s nothing. You just go and check out of that shithole motel and then make your way to the reception of the MGM. My assistant will book the room for you. Just collect your key in around half an hour.”

“Okay, thanks. I’ll just clear it with my editor.”

“You do that. And if he’s funny with you then you tell him you’ll have something juicy to report. Tell him that the champ requested you . . . personally.”