Pitfalls of the Boot Pit - 1. Thwack!

Thwack!

THE LIGHTS TIMED OUT, smothering Zen in darkness. He could switch them back on, but it'd draw too much attention to campus security. Just as well he had each step of the staircase mapped in his mind. He descended two more flights, proving he'd committed each of his visits to down here to memory.

The stairs ended in the basement of the humanities department. Zen let himself into the main corridor, turned left, and then ran his hands along the bumpy wallpaper, counting the doors he passed. The stench of mold tickled the back of his throat and he rung out a rough cough. His ears stretched, searching for sound. Hearing nothing but the slapping of his boots against the linoleum, he hurried his pace.

Shit, he couldn't be too late already, he needed tonight. Needed a win.

Zen slunk around the corner to his left, wishing there were windows to shed at least minimal light on his path. A muffled chanting came down the corridor, and he let out a relieved breath. He yanked the end door open, blinking in the sudden light.

A weighty male, slouched on the wall, slowly shook off his sleep and growled. "Password."

Zen clapped three times palm to palm, then knocked his knuckles against each other. "The name's Zen, by the way," he said, striding past. "I'll be coming here a lot, learn it."

"Cuz," the bouncer said, his voice surprisingly soft for a man of his stature. "You don't want to do that. This ain't a good long-term hobby. No matter how good the money is, kid."

The man had a point, and Zen knew it. If only it were so simple. Coming down here every Thursday night was not something he'd do if he had any other choice. He didn't like fighting, despite being good at it. But the money was his mission.

He shrugged off the comment and moved toward the last set of doors. A roar from a pulsing crowd blew over him. Zen threaded his way to Terry at the sign up table. He palmed a tenner on the collapsible table and scanned over the list of contestants. Three of the five he'd fought before. They'd be a piece of cherry pie. The fourth sounded familiar, but he couldn't place the face. No doubt someone he'd won against. The fifth name shone out on the paper. The handwriting much too elegant for what was usually seen down here. Christopher Tretson.

"Who's this guy?" Zen had to raise his voice to be heard over another swell of cheers from the spectators.

Terry glanced at the paper and shrugged. "Think he usually comes to the Tuesday night games."

"Do you know if he's any good?"

"No idea. But you usually beat them all, so I doubt he'll present much of a challenge."

Within a quarter of an hour, Zen found himself once more in only a pair of shorts and his boots. He cast his clothes under Terry's chair, making sure to take out his ear and nipple rings and wrapping them in his t-shirt. He jogged on the spot to get the blood pumping. Think of the money. Hit clean and fast. Get them down. It wasn't his aim to hurt anyone; he didn't thrive on bashing the other to pulp before he dropped them to the ground.

His name was called out. With a flip of his stomach, he pushed his way onto the pit. Let the fights begin.

The first three matches, as he expected he took with minimal effort, barely breaking a sweat. The fourth was a feisty little viper, striking with speed, but lacking the strength to present more than a moderate challenge. Still, he shook the guy's hand after. "Good match. Better luck next time."

The only answer he got was a gob of spittle on his left boot. Zen cleaned it off quickly before meeting his last opponent.

The crowds whistled and shook their hands in the air when the commentator announced the next pairing. People seemed more excited, drawing in closer to the pit and rushing whispers to each other. Zen wondered what it meant as he splashed water over the back of his neck to cool himself. He zigzagged his way back to the last fight. Just one more, then he could take the money and go. He wouldn't have to care about this again until next week.

Christopher smiled as Zen stepped into the pit. Zen ran an eye over the male before him; he looked to be a fraction shorter than himself, and marginally narrower, which was likely to grace him with more speed. If he's any good. His upper body quivered with a gentle outlining of muscle, nothing over-pronounced, but there was definitely a strength to his build.

Zen looked at his fine red leather boots. Curious. Looked like the boy came from money. Why'd he do this for, then?

Two red flags either side of the pit were replaced by white ones at the moment the whistle blew for their match to start. Forget a bow. No niceties here. Hell, there weren't any rules, either. Unless it counted that they had to wear boots. Other than that was just first to the ground.

Christopher acknowledged the start of their fight with a wink and a slight upward curve of his lip.

Zen inclined his head ever-so-slightly. Then they began to circle each other. Seeing Christopher's side open for attack, he aimed a punch. He missed as Christopher darted out the way with easy grace. Zen quickly recovered his balance, latching his gaze once more on his opponent. Humor lit his hazel eyes after Zen's third failed swing. "Dammit," he cursed.

He couldn't lose this. Not when Zoe relied on him. Thinking of her, he excited himself into a frenzy of quickly timed hits. Only one of them landed as he intended, letting out a whoof of air from Christopher's mouth.

The fruitful hit was rewarded by three pummels to his torso, each forceful enough to knock him off balance, but Zen swallowed the pain and braced himself. Usually this was the point the cursing and insults started, but Christopher remained quiet, other than the occasional deep grunt that escaped him as he exerted himself in his attack.

Sweat matted Christopher's slightly curly blond hair to his forehead, but it was the only sign of exhaustion. He kept sneaking in small smiles whenever given the chance. Zen frowned more than once. What was he doing? Toying with him? Why didn't he scowl and spit like the others? The poise and playfulness of Christopher disconcerted him. Was that the plan? To throw him off his game by not rising to expectations?

Oh, this guy was good. Too good.

Zen rallied up his confidence and struck again. The sound his fist made on the guy's abdomen rung through the air. Zen jerked away from any advantage he'd gained, worried the hit had been too hard. He'd never had to be so forceful; others barely looked at him before practically offering to lie themselves on the ground.

A whack hit his side, followed closely by a hit to his underbelly and thwack! a weight toppled him over, slamming his back to the hard floor.

Cheers whooped and Zen could see the crowd's feet jumping up and down. It took a moment for him to realize what had happened. Fuck, he'd lost. The first time, ever.

Lost. His stomach flipped with anxiety. There'd be no money for him and Zoe this week.

A hand dropped into his vision and he blinked to see Christopher offering him a hand up. He wanted not to be a sore loser, wanted to accept it with a gracious smile. But Zen caught sight of the guy's red boots. Real leather. Smart. A flash of the guy's handwriting came to him. He had money. He didn't need this win, Zen did!

Ignoring the hand, he pushed himself up and stalked off the pit. Zen shoved on his clothes and piercings without meeting anyone's eye and stormed out. And hauled his ass up the staircase and into the half-moon night. A cool wind spiraled around him, heading in the direction of home. Failure bubbled in his gut and he wanted to puke.

A shuffling came from behind him. A group of spectators, huddled together, moved out of the Old Burns building. One drifted from them, coming towards Zen. It only took a moment to recognize the guy as Christopher. For the barest second, their eyes caught, but Zen quickly lifted his gaze skyward as if he hadn't noticed him there.

But he had, and he'd caught the friendly smile on his face, too. What a strange character. Just what was his game? He shook himself. It didn't matter, he wouldn't fight the guy again. He'd be bruised enough tomorrow and he was going to have to go out searching for a night job. Though it was his last resort. He never wanted to have to quit Uni. Life was a bitch.

Another wind scuttled the first autumn leaves over the courtyard. Without hesitating, Zen took off, leaving the smiling, red-booted Christopher in his wake.

***

Zen woke up to the rich aroma of coffee.

"Zoe, you angel," he said, tumbling into the kitchen in his jocks.

"Holy hell!" Zoe cried. He could see her taking in the bruises to his torso, and he cursed his hazy mind he'd not thrown on a t-shirt. "Zen, what happened?"

A shrug and a grin. "I lost my balance running up the Burn's building stairwell. It wasn't such a bad fall, but my bag was in the way. Drink bottle and books rammed into my gut. Nothing to worry about, anyway. You got everything you need for school?"

Zoe patted her side bag. "All there. Yes, homework's done. Anything else?"

Zen flashed her his biggest brotherly smile. "Don't you have to wear a tie?"

She scowled at him. "I hate wearing that thing."

He raised a brow.

"Yeah, whatever. I'm getting it." She placed her mug of coffee on the table and left the room, muttering, "Stupid uniform. Why can't every day be mufti day?"

Zen smiled, remembering how much he'd hated his catholic school uniform too. Thank God he hadn't had to wear it for over five years now.

He helped himself to a giant mug of coffee and splashed in the last of the milk. Shutting the fridge, there was already a long list of necessities on the shopping list. A separate list jotted in Zoe's writing reminded him of her fifteenth birthday party she planned on holding here. Shoot, only three weeks away. How fast was his sister growing up?

"Zen?" Zoe said, dropping a bunch of notices on the table, "The school trip to Wanaka is next Friday." She flipped through the papers and handed me one. "I still need your signature of permission and a hundred and fifty bucks."

The air expelled out of his lungs. "School trip? Is that required?"

Zoe raised an 'are you nuts' brow? "Everyone goes, Zenny. Plus, it's designed for us to prepare together for our end of year exams."

Eyeing the permission slip, he nodded. Fifth-form. Another three and a half years at school. He had manage to scrape through it. Somehow. He had to.

He looked around their warm home with a backyard and a view over the city. He didn't want to have to sell the family home. It held all the memories of their childhood. They'd been a family here. Mum, Dad, Zoe and him.

His gaze wandered to the two urns on top of the fireplace. They loved this place. He'd find a way to keep everything together. Promise.

"Zen? Zenny?"

He snapped out of his thoughts. "Um, yeah, Zoe. I'll get it to you for tomorrow. That cool?"

"Sweet as. Now, are you dropping me off to class or should I get going?"

"Give me ten minutes to dress, and we can go."

After dropping Zoe off at school, Zen headed into town. At the National Bank ATM, he checked his balance. It was exactly a hundred and fify-six dollars before the cut off on his thousand dollar overdraft. He pulled the money and stuffed it in an envelope to later give to Zoe.

So he'd be late a second week with the mortgage payment. He could sell the microwave and claim it broke to Zoe. They barely used it anyway. That in combination to his paycheck and maybe they'd catch up on their loans. Dammit! He'd forgotten about shopping.

He schlepped his way to his first lecture, scribbling down notes as the professor ranted a mile a minute. At ten to ten, class ended and the auditorium rows filed out. Zen made his way to the professor. "Excuse me?"

"Yes, what can I do for you?"

"I was wondering, is there some way to get all the OHP and general notes for this class for the rest of the semester?"

"Unlike other lecturers at this institution, I don't make my resources available ahead of schedule, young man. It too easily leads to student laziness. Why, if I did that, this class wouldn't be half so full." The professor moved to collect his materials. Was that the end of the discussion?

He was about to try again, when the Professor walked passed him towards the exit. Standing alone in the empty auditorium, he cursed. It echoed off the walls. He really was going to have to quit to get a job. Shoulders hunched, he dragged himself to the Link just before the library and plunked himself onto one of the bright blue comfy chairs there. He slipped his ass further down, so he could rest his head on the back cushion.

Students roamed the lobby, many lining up to the long café queues or Uni dairy. Zen rolled his head to the other side towards the other black and blue chairs sprinkled through the Link. Five people sat in a circle not three meters from him, their hands danced in the air. Zen stared mesmerized. It took him a moment to recognize the swift, calculated movements as sign-language.

Caught up with their hands, it was a while before his gaze drifted upward. When it did, he straightened himself into an upright sitting position. Christopher was one in the group, though his hands weren't moving. Instead, his eyes were on Zen. Even from a distance, Zen caught the undeniable spark in his eye and the beginnings of a playful grin.

This time when their gazes met, Zen didn't haste to pull away. Christopher raised a hand and gave the tiniest wave.

Embarrassment at how he'd behaved the night before flooded Zen's cheeks. At the same time, his curiosity piqued—Christopher, was he, was he deaf?

Zen's gaze fell back to the hands that skipped words on their behalf. Two girls laughed, one with her head shaking as she continued to sign. He looked up to Christopher again. Except he was no longer in his seat.

Zen found himself scanning the area to the left, how had he missed him leaving?

A sharp tap came to his side. He jerked his head to the side to be met by a pair of curious hazel eyes.

"Christopher!" Zen uttered in his surprise.

The smile grew on the guy's face. He raised a brow at the same time as extending a finger in his direction. Did he want his name? "Um, I'm Zenith."

Christopher curled a finger, much the same way Zen would do to ask someone to repeat something. He held up a finger: wait a tick. Then dug for a pen and paper in his satchel.

Zenith Cole, he wrote, Zen.

Then jotted an additional note. Christopher rested a hand on Zen's shoulder, leaning over him to read as he wrote. There was something so relaxed about the guy that contact didn't seem to bother him in the least. Zen, on the other hand felt the warm weight of each of his fingers, and noticed a subtle hint of cologne. He paused mid word, until the ink pen leaked a splotch on the page. He quickly finished. And capped it.

Sorry about last night, man. Was sour. No way for me to behave. You were good.

"That's okay," Christopher said in a discordant voice, his hands moving. "Call me Chris, if you like."

Zen twisted to see him better. Why had it surprised him he could talk? He was deaf, not mute. Zen felt sharply uncomfortable in his ignorance of what being deaf meant. He knew his cheeks were blazing right now.

Chris stared back at him, the first time without any trace of smile. It was as if he were analyzing him, waiting for Zen's reaction. He emitted a confidence that looked practiced. As if he'd automatically poised himself to strike if he had to.

Zen picked up the pen again, not sure what to write, but feeling like he should acknowledge someway or somehow that he had no problems with Chris being deaf. But that wasn't exactly something to just spurt out now, was it?

Chris took the pen out of his grip, then sat himself on the chair opposite Zen. "I can read your lips if you look at me," he said, his harsh tones taking a moment to get used to.

Zen's gaze kept lowering to his way Chris's hands sliced through the air. Nodding, Zen spoke, slowly and carefully, knowing and hating the fact his voice was rising. He tried to rein it in again. "I wanted to say," shoot, what? "Um, hope you're not feeling too sore today?" I glanced toward his stomach.

A dazzling smile cracked his face and he laughed, his eyes crinkling slightly at the sides. "Hardly. You were good, but not that good."

That comment in turn had Zen laughing. He liked a sense of humor. Still, a question kept bugging him.

"Why do you do it?" he asked. "I mean, you don't look like you're in it for the money." Zen rushed the last words, rethinking his question and wishing he hadn't asked. It was none of his business, that information was private. He'd hate it if someone asked him.

Chris shook his head. "You speak too fast."

"Never mind."

Chris leaned forward, picking up his hands and speaking, "That smell of coffee is making my stomach growl. Want one?"

Zen thought of the six-bucks left over in his account. He did want one, wanted to keep their conversation going, but… He reluctantly shook his head.

Chris came back bearing two coffees, he extended one towards Zen. Zen took it, his brows pushing together.

"I read your body language," Chris said, "I guessed you really did want one, but couldn't say yes."

Zen was getting used to Chris's unharmonious voice, lacking in intonation in the right places. The sentiment of his words came through clearly, however, and Zen found himself admiring the guy more and more. Sense of humor, kind, dazzling smile, penetrating gazes that, yep, sparked through him. He nodded in answer. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Zen ducked his head to the take-away cup and sipped. "What do you study?"

"Law."

Spluttering on his coffee in astonishment, Zen looked up. Chris's expression clouded, his eyes narrowing. He picked himself off the sofa, and shaking his head made his way back to his group.

Shit. How rude had he just been! Why was his first reaction disbelief? What a dick he was. Zen grabbed his things, coffee included, ready to approach Chris and start over.

His cell vibrated in his pocket, then began to ring. He quickly fished it out to turn it off when he caught the name on the screen. He gulped and hit receive—this he knew he couldn't hold off. "Zenith Cole here."

"National Bank, you're speaking with Tim Holden—manager of Dunedin South branch."

Zen nodded, not clicking he couldn't be seen. He knew who it was, and the curling in his gut could tell him exactly why he'd called. On automatic, he rubbed a palm to his forehead.

He heard Tim's next words in excruciating clarity, yet it was only the key ones that burned in his brain. Behind on mortgage payments last six months. Have until end of the month to balance payments. Or his house would be repossessed.

Zen's hands shook and breathing quickened. He managed to affirm he'd have sufficient funds in time before Tim hung up. Slumping into his seat, nausea coursed through him. Fuck. He knew he'd been late with payments. Had known it was bad. But not this bad.

All he had to do since his parents died was provide for his sister and look after their property. Zoe had no idea what financial trouble they were in. And she shouldn't have to. This was his responsibility. He was the older brother. Man of the house. Protector.

And if he couldn't support Zoe, they'd take his guardianship away. She'd go to Uncle Steven. Zen banished the thought and memories that arose with it. Like hell he'd let that happen. He needed that money. And quick. He calculated the amount he could make pawning his father's watch and mother's wedding and engagement rings. It wouldn't be enough. He needed cash fast—he needed the Boot Pit. Tuesdays and Thursdays—and he needed to win them all.

His gaze drifted toward the group signing with their hands. Chris was no longer with them. Zen sighed. He'd meant to apologize—guess he really did mess everything up. Zen knocked his head back on the chair and glared at the high ceiling as if he could laser through it right to God and ask him what the hell was up with this life.

A brief, unlikeable thought crossed his mind: Probably, it was a good thing Chris had up and left. Zen didn't need to be making friends right now—especially not one he would have to fight his guts out against to win.

He shook his head and pulled himself out of the chair. Winding toward the signing group, he made up his mind. He approached the guy Chris had been sitting next to. "Excuse me?" Then shaking himself for saying it aloud when he couldn't see him, Zen tapped his shoulder.

The others in the group stopped their talking, their hands stilling. The guy looked up at him. "Yes?"

"Sorry. Do you know where I can find Chris?" Zen pointed to Chris's empty chair.

The guy's eyes narrowed, flicking over him. "Why?"

Zen forced a smile. Had Chris already told them how rude he'd been? "Just to talk."

The girl across from him spoke up, "He left for the Richardson building to meet his tutor. If you hurry, you could probably catch him."

"Thanks."

He made for the main doors to the Link. Heading over the courtyard, he scanned the sparse crowds. He spotted Christopher as he ducked inside. Picking up his speed, Zen followed his trail, only to be greeted by an empty lobby once he'd gotten through the doors. Shit. He had no idea where he'd be. Zen's eye caught on the time and he rang out another expletive. Time for his next lecture.

The apology would just have to wait until next Tuesday—before their next fight.