Fighter (A Liam Payne Fanfiction)

Chapter One - Do I Wanna Know?

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Have you no idea that you're in deep?

I dreamt about you nearly every night this week.

How many secrets can you keep?

'Cause there's this tune I found that makes me think of you somehow, and I play it on repeat.

Until I fall asleep.

Spilling drinks on my settee.

- "Do I Wanna Know?", Arctic Monkeys

....

Swing. Left. Right. Duck. Hit.

"You're leaving a side open, Payne!" my trainer's southern accent barked from the sides.

Hot sweat and white blinding lights of disposable cameras flashing in the dark room clouding my vision only fueled me to go faster. The deafening bass of the thumping Kendrick Lamar song sent gasoline down my nerves, igniting an inferno in me that was burning hotter by the second. My nerves were a live wire. Dodge, swing.

My opponent's fist swung to my cheek, but I quickly lifted my arm up to block him. Another hit for me, feinting and making him stumble forward.

"Nice dodge by Payne Train!"

He decided to feint me as well, making me lose sight of my next move. I couldn't recover fast enough - blinking the sweat out of my eyes, I swung blindly.

"A miss for Payne!" the announcer screamed over the shocked, dramatic gasps of the crowd.

Ah, fuck.

"Liam!" my trainer yelled, but it was too late. My opponent's fist smacked against my right shoulder—my weak shoulder—making me fall back against the tight red ropes. A groan of agony fell from my lips before I could hide it, and my teeth rolled uncomfortably together. Holy hell. Shockwaves of pain kissed my nerves, and I could feel my face getting hot. Ouch.

"Shake it off!" called my trainer.

I rotated my arm a bit, quickly getting my shit together. God, that really fucking hurt. White-hot agony echoed down my shoulder and down my arm, all the way into my fingertips. Shake it off.

Block, swing, strike.

Crunch.

Right in the nose.

The crowd immediately shot up into an uproar. My opponent stumbled back, gripping his bloody nose with a pained hiss. Blond hair stuck to his brow, and he was glaring harshly at me from under his sweaty forehead.

"He's open!" my trainer screamed.

And I went for it. Everything moved in slow motion. My fist, protected by my trusty glove, knocked him twice across the face. Right, left.

I heard a satisfying crack.

My opponent stumbled back, tripped over himself, and smashed against the ropes. I watched as he crumpled pathetically to the floor, falling with a thud like a tree that'd just been knocked over.

"One...two...three, knockout!" the referee cried. The bell sounded, clanging through the whole room. The sound made the hairs on the back of my sweaty neck stand up, and a warm glow passed through my throbbing, aching body. It meant victory. That bell was clinging for me. That crowd was screaming for me.

The referee—a short balding man who looked about five months pregnant—yanked my left arm up, turning me to the wild audience. "Winner - the rookie, Liam 'Payne Train' Payne!"