Steele by Sherri L. King

Prologue
     
    “Dad, I don’t want to do this.”
    “Well, you’re going to whether you like it or not, you little bastard.”
    “Please don’t make me, Dad, please! I nearly killed the last guy. I can’t do this again!”
    “Boy, you’ll do as you’re told with no more backtalk.” His father reached up and cuffed him on the side of the head.
    Steele looked down at the tape covering his knuckles, head ringing, and felt a sinking sensation low in his belly. Here he was, the thirteen-year-old champion of an illegal boxing ring, and all he could think about was how not to throw up.
    What would the other fighter think if he knew?
    Steele’s father ushered him out of the small utility room that served as Steele’s gym locker and dressing room. It was a strange sight, this shuffling of feet, for Steele was so much bigger than his father. He was only thirteen but he was already six feet two inches tall. And not only was he tall, he was also very well built, with bulging muscles that should have and could have graced the form of someone much older.
    The boy was exceptionally good at bare-knuckles boxing, no matter his handicap of youth. His father had been taking him to these matches since he was ten years old. Steele had climbed the ladder to a certain kind of stardom among the gamblers and trainers that flocked to the illegal boxing rings. He’d never once lost a match.
    But the last match had been grueling. Steele had thought, at first, that it would be his first loss in the ring, the man had been that good. But Steele’s reserves of strength had not surprisingly been limitless. After thirteen rounds he’d nearly killed his opponent, so badly did he beat him.
    Steele was done. He wanted no more of this world of fists and blood. He wanted out.
    But how to convince his father, who was perfectly happy making money off of his boy, that it was time to quit? Steele didn’t know the answer to that.
    The cheers of the crowd reached his ears before he’d even made it to the ring in the center of the mass of gathered people. They had seen him coming and let out a roar of adulation as he passed through them.
    Steele hated them all. It was because of them and their love of gambling that he was even here to begin with.
    Steele stepped into the ring. His father eyed him stonily. “Try to make it to the tenth round before you throttle him. I’ve got my money on the tenth round and I sure don’t want to lose it. And if you even think to end it sooner, remember my stick and stay the course. You got that boy?”
    Steele nodded, putting a rubber bit in his mouth. His opponent, a large, dark-skinned man named Oscar, also stepped into the ring. The two eyed one another, each sizing the other up as they prepared themselves for the fight ahead.
    The crowd roared as the two opponents stepped to the center of the ring and touched fists. Steele looked Oscar in the eyes and saw fear. It made his stomach roll sickly to know his opponent already feared him, and before the first punch was thrown no less. The bell rang and the match was started before he could even think to walk away.
    Oscar immediately pummeled the thirteen-year-old with his fists, wasting no time in attacking him. But Steele barely felt the blows, his body capable of withstanding far more damage. Oscar’s blows merely bounced off him, without leaving a single mark behind. Oscar’s knuckles split on Steele’s stomach and first blood was drawn. The bloodthirsty crowd screamed its approval.
    The smell of sweat and smoke was suffocating, even up in the ring where the two fighters battled. Steele punched his opponent square in the jaw and he watched silently, resignedly as Oscar went down on one knee. Steele had remembered that he must make it to the tenth round or his father would use the stick on him, and he’d pulled his punch at the last second. But he’d still hit the man with enough force to make it look good for the crowd.
    Steele had honed his showmanship to a fine