The Grounds Keeper

Chapter 13 The Boy From Kalamata

Chapter 13: The Boy From Kalamata

Dinko, Stavros, and Bella sprinted through the alleyways, calling behind them for the younger kids to keep up. Sophia panted, struggling to close the gap. "Wait for me, Dinko!"

"We'll miss the fight if we go at your pace!" Dinko shouted over his shoulder.

They reached the Mana Gazette building and flinched at the sharp, thunderous sound of fists colliding inside. Peering through the frosty windows, they caught glimpses of Eathon trading brutal blows with a stranger. Inside, Theo ducked and countered with precision, his fists slamming into Eathon's ribs, forcing him to drop his guard. An overhand crushed Eathon's jaw. Twelve more strikes followed like a drumbeat. The final left hook dropped Eathon to the floor. He lay staring up at the flickering lights. He couldn't even touch the roof of his mouth with his tongue—his jaw was shattered.

Theo stepped back, clutching his side. His ribs were cracked, maybe worse. This man, this groundskeeper, had taken him to his limit. But he wasn't getting up. Theo dropped into a chair, breathing hard. He looked at his bruised knuckles. Fighting Eathon felt like punching a tree trunk.

As he sat there, the memory took him. The streetlights of Kalamata. The gentle weight of his father's hand on his shoulder. The first time he fought. The first time he bled. The first time his father looked at him with pride—not love, not warmth, but pride.

Theo remembered the alley. Three boys, a bottle, and rage. He remembered the blood that stained his shirt and wasn't his own. His dad never asked why. Just ruffled his hair and bought him boxing lessons.

From there, it was routine: train, fight, win. Leave school. Carry lead weights up a mountain. Watch his mother's eyes dim with worry as he drifted further from the boy she raised.

Every summer, his father returned with big smiles and bigger secrets. Theo fought for him. Fought underground. Fought older boys. Fought until he was the one being bet on. Until his name was shouted louder than the punches that landed.

Until America.

He was supposed to win. But Karzon had strategy. Let Theo burn himself out, then crush him blind. Theo lost. Not just the fight—everything. His father raged. His coach lay bleeding. And the words that would never leave him: "She dies, it's your fault."

His mother faded. Her bones showed through her robe. But her hands still stroked his hair. Her lullabies still warmed his chest.

He went looking for answers. Found them in a casino. In a brother he never knew he had. Everos. The golden boy. The real son.

When Theo finally fought Everos, it wasn't a fight. It was a slow dissection. His brother dodged, danced, and pitied him. And in that moment, Theo knew: he didn't belong there. He left the ring. Left the arena. Returned home.

Too late.

His mother was already gone.

She died alone, waiting by the fire.

The rage came again. A storm. He found his father. Found the women. Found the laughter. Found the bathhouse. And with every swing, he tried to kill the truth: that he had once loved this man.

When the fire faded, and the screams were done, Theo sat covered in blood. A silver ticket shimmered in his hand—a ticket to anywhere but here. He tore it.

Now, years later, a little girl clung to Eathon's robe.

"Uncle, help me!"

Theo looked down at her, annoyed, and reached to pull her back. Her scream pierced the air.