Everyone Has A Plan

“Heng! What are you thinking about?”

I open my eyes to find Socheat looming over the sofa where I’m lying, trying to calm and ready myself. There’s always an electric feeling in my chest on fight days, like a storm willing itself into life.

“Shithead. What if I’d been asleep?”

“Then you wouldn’t answer.”

“Oh, perfect logic. What do you want?”

“What are you thinking about?”

Seriously? “Food.” A lie, but a safe one. There are eight kickboxers scattered around this changing room and we’ve all starved for days to make sure we make weight today.

“What food, bro?” Socheat pushes. He’s nervous and trying to distract himself.

“Dumplings. A bowl piled past my chin.” My stomach actually gurgles. “What are you gonna eat later?”

“If I win, pizza,” he says, closing his eyes as if tasting it.

“What about if you lose?”

Some fighters would get angry at that, think you were cursing them. But Socheat opens his eyes and grins. “Two pizzas.”

I laugh. I’ve known Socheat a year, ever since I started fighting in the televised tournaments in Phnom Penh. He’s one of the good guys. I wish I could tell him he won’t lose, but he probably will. After a good run when he was young, he’s started losing more than he wins. I can barely survive on the two hundred dollars I get for winning, so don’t know how he gets by on the half-pay losers get.

Money. That’s what I was really thinking about but can’t talk to Socheat about. If I win tonight that will be ten straight victories, my golden ticket. Coach has a promise from Klang, the biggest Kun Khmer promoter in Cambodia, that if I manage a run of ten I’ll fight in their primetime tournament next month. They pay eight hundred a win and there’s rumours the best get more and live in condos in the middle of Phnom Penh. Condos with AC, like they’re Manny Pacquiao or something.

Then the door swings open, belching crowd noise and cigarette smoke from the stadium. Socheat’s coach, waving for him.

“I’ll order that pizza now,” I say, getting up. “Just one.” Socheat grins and hugs me, our sweaty, shirtless skins sticking together. Would he be so easy around me if he knew the truth? I hope so.

I’m fighting next. I start stretching. No good thinking about money now, that can only cloud me. But instead I find myself thinking about Phearak, and that’s no good either. He was upset when I said goodbye this morning. He’d just had his second fight in a month cancelled, which meant he wouldn’t be able to pay his half of the rent. I told him I’d cover it, but that just made him feel sorrier for himself, which he always expresses as anger.

I wish I could call him, but Coach confiscates my phone on fight days. He says it keeps me focused and maybe he’s right, but I feel itchy and alone without Phearak’s non-stop torrent of Telegram messages and stupid memes.

We all hear baying noise explode in the crowd now, even through the closed door. Shit, the first round can’t even be over, and that’s the noise the audience makes for a knockout. Probably bad news for Socheat.

It’s almost my turn. There’ll be ad breaks, and a few minutes for the fighters to take their bows and cash envelopes from some fat businessman, then I’ll be out. 

The door swings open and Sam, my coach, charges through. He’s got a huge grin on his face and my heart lifts.

“Did Socheat win?” 

Sam stares, briefly baffled, then snorts. “No! When does that guy ever win?”

“Shit…. You looked happy.”

“Because you’re going to win.”

“Yes, coach. I’m focused.”

“No, no, I’m not trying to talk you into the right frame of mind. You don’t need it. Tonight, you’re definitely going to win.”

 “What do you mean?” 

“That bull from the north you were meant to fight, he weighed in two kilos over. They’ve been arguing over it for the last hour, but they just confirmed he’s out. He should sack that halfwit coach of his and sign up with us at Kingdom.” Out of the corner of my eye I see the other fighters listening. That’s my least favourite thing about the boxing circuit. Everyone knows everyone, and they gossip like girls.

But I’m confused. “You mean I don’t need to fight?” This hasn’t happened before and I don’t know how I feel. Where will this electricity in my chest go? “But what about the Klang deal?”

“No, you’re still fighting, that’s the best thing. They got in a substitute to keep the sponsors happy, but could only dig up some no-hoper from the province circuit.”

I hate Sam sneering about the province circuit. Phearak and I both fought there, and I haven’t been out of it for so long. Still, I can’t help enjoy the prospect of a crappy opponent. If they’re really hopeless, I can show off some flair, throw in a few flashy roundhouse kicks I wouldn’t risk if I was fighting the bull. My Instagram followers will lap those clips up. Maybe I’ll land a sponsor. Promote some energy drink or beer I’d never drink—that’s where the real money is.

We hear my name over the loudspeakers.

Showtime.

Sam walks me out. In the corridor I pass Socheat, head down and nose bloody. He tries to say good luck but winces. I slap him on his arm and step into the light, heat and noise of the stadium.

I can hear a few people call my name. I’m finally getting a reputation among the fight fans. I keep my head down to block it out. If it was a normal fight, Sam would be shouting all this to me now. “Ignore the crowd,” he’d yell. “None of them would throw a punch for you, let alone take one.” Or his favourite motto: “Once you’re in the ring, only you matter.” But tonight he’s too hyped at our good luck to bother with the pep talk. I know it by heart anyway. 

The spotlights blind me as I climb up to the ring, ignoring the handheld TV cameras that crowd in on me. The shrill fluting wail of Cambodian fight music begins. It sounds like our funeral music, which isn’t an accident. Kun Khmer kickboxing used to be fought to the death. Still can be, on the wrong night, with the wrong kick to the wrong part of the skull.

I diligently perform the ancient rituals of Kun Kru. I prostrate myself on the filthy ring floor and notice a smear of fresh blood that must be Socheat’s. I bow to the raucous crowd. I stretch my arms out like eagle wings, supposedly summoning ancestor strength. Fuck knows who my ancestors were, probably rice farmers like my parents—but it looks good on Instagram.

Behind me I hear my opponent enter the ring. Some of the crowd cheer but more jeer. I feel a stab of sympathy but push it away. No room for sympathy in a boxing ring. 

A klaxon screams and I head into my corner. Sam rubs balm into my skin to keep my muscles hot and fluid. I close my eyes and focus on the only thing that matters. Winning.

The bell rings, Sam moves aside, I turn and step towards my opponent and… 

...the world stops spinning.

Phearak.

It feels like all noise is sucked from the air and the whole stadium dims, leaving only the two of us. 

He stares, wide-eyed. I know those eyes so well, can read their panic and guilt. He opens his mouth, showing that Cambodia flag mouthguard I bought him, and I know he’s going to apologise or explain and now it’s me panicking. Not here. Not now. Everyone can see us. 

I spin around and shout for Sam’s attention, my brain somersaulting as I march to my corner.

“What?” Sam shouts.

What can I say? I can’t say Phearak’s my friend. Friends fight all the time in Cambodian kickboxing, it’s a small world. We put friendships in a box at the start of a fight and open it back up when it’s over. So what am I meant to say? Not the truth, I know that much.

“Didn’t wish me luck,” I mumble through my mouth-guard.

Sam looks at me like I’ve got brain damage. Not for the first time, I wonder if I hate him. This is his fault. Phearak’s probably been trying to get a message to me, but Sam had to take my fucking phone. 

“Fine!” Sam bellows, eyes wide and incredulous. “Good luck! Don’t break your fingernails! Happy?”

No, but there’s nothing left. I’ve got to fight.

I turn to find Phearak still staring, his beautiful skin so drained and pale I’m worried he’ll faint before I’ve even landed a punch on him.

Our eyes meet. I feel sick.

The referee appears at our side, a fat white phantom, and the bell rings.

For a moment, nothing. We stand frozen as temple statues.

I normally start every fight the same way. A rapid step in and a hard jab to the face to test my opponent. If they block easily, I learn something important, but if the blow lands I learn something even more important. But I haven’t hit Phearak’s face for five years, not since we first met in that shitty gym two hours south in the countryside, the one where desperate farm kids from shitty families would turn up, hoping to punch their way out of poverty. 

I don’t know if I can hit the face I kiss before I leave the house, the face I kiss as soon as I get home. My favourite face in Cambodia.

But then I hear the crowd or, rather, don’t hear them. They’ve fallen silent, wondering what’s going on. I try to signal with my eyes to Phearak that he has to do something, but he’s staring at the floor like he hopes a tiny earthquake will strike and swallow him up.

I step forward fast and Phearak snaps to attention. He retreats, but his guard is careless. I move in on his left and kick low, more probe than real strike. That’s meant to make him skip backwards so I can study his footwork, but he doesn’t dodge. Our shins connect with a mutual flare of pain, and I scowl at him with sudden anger.

Then I see it in his eyes. His plan.

He isn’t going to try and win. He’s going to let me roll over him like a truck. 

And I can’t let him. My head is hot and confused and I’m not sure why, I just know I can’t.

I move in, throw a hard jab and soft hook, then grapple him into a clinch. I move so carelessly that if he was actually trying to fight he could bruise a rib with a hard knee to my torso, but he doesn’t. The crowd roars as I pull his head to mine. I hiss through my mouthguard.

“Gotta fight, Phea.”

He struggles to break free and his elbow slips across the sweat of my chest wildly enough to land on my jaw. It’s not a hard blow… but it might look hard enough.

I stagger away and let my knees go, flopping forward onto stinking canvas.

There’s a hiss of shock from the crowd. I clutch my head as if in pain, and hear the referee counting me down. I let him reach seven before struggling back to my feet.

Phearak’s staring at me like I’ve lost my mind. I have to stop him from acting weirdly. It’s not just the audience—there are TV cameras. This has to look like a real fight, nobody can work out what’s really happening between us. I move back in with another low kick, and this time it’s hard enough that his brow furrows with pain and he instinctively lashes back with a lazy hook that barely grazes my arm. I pretend it’s worse than it is and back away.

Somehow, we eat up two more minutes with this circus act before the bell rings, ending round one. I want to fall to my knees and thank Buddha. The crowd are unusually quiet as I stride to my corner—they know something’s not right.

Sam’s eyes bulge as I sit. 

“Did a cow kick you in the head today when I wasn’t looking? What are you doing? You’re fucking up everything we’ve worked for.”

“That elbow,” I mutter. “It got me good.”

“Heng, I’m not some drunk idiot in the tenth row. He barely touched you.”

“I’m telling you he got me,” I shout, then slump forward, my eyes shut as Sam rubs me down. I can still hear him shouting, but it’s muffled. I need to think. What am I doing? Sam’s right. This is everything we’ve worked for. 

But not just me and Sam. Me and Phearak, too. We’ve trained together since we were practically kids. He’s held pads for me for hours while I worked on combos, got out of bed to run with me even when he was so sick he ended up puking into the Mekong. I know he’d want me to win this fight. He just proved that by not trying to fight. So why don’t I finish this whole disaster with one hard right? I could, easily.

I close my eyes and an image of a younger Phearak flashes, the way he looked when I first met him. He’d been at the gym longer than me and though we were the same height, he had twice the muscle then. He could have humiliated me in our first bout of sparring—lots of others did. But not Phearak. 

He told me much later that he’d liked me the moment he saw my big brown eyes. I asked him how he knew. It had taken me so long to work out how I felt about him, and even longer to accept it. “Well, your body’s stronger than mine, but maybe my heart’s stronger than yours.”   

The bell rings. I open my eyes and see him rising, face miserable and ashamed as a phone thief being photographed by the police. I remember this morning, how dejected and humiliated he’d been over the rent.

And I know why I can’t fight.

Tonight is my big chance. But it’s his only chance. If he loses tonight, he’ll condemn himself to the province circuit forever.

I can fight my way back if I lose tonight. Kingdom Fight Gym are one of the best in the country, they’ll support me. It might take a year, but I can still get that Klang deal. He’ll never get so close again. A shock win tonight would cause enough fuss to give him a shot at the TV circuit.

Phearak has to win. But how, when he won’t fight?

I remember another Sam motto: “Everyone has a plan til they get punched in the face.”

And I know what to do.

I stride back out. Phearak looks resigned, knowing what’s coming. He lifts his guard but it’s sloppy and I throw a fast hook at his face.

My fist lands exactly where intended, on his beautiful mouth. A jaw blow could have dropped him. A punch to the nose could have broken it. But a punch to the mouth won’t end a fight. It’s just enough to spill blood and sting like hell. And pain makes people angry and hot-headed. 

He staggers back and I see a drop of blood arc in the floodlights. I’ve never felt the pain of my own punches before.

Then he comes at me so fast and hard I know he’s not fully thinking. Good, I want him running on muscle memory. We’ve been practicing his new move for months, repeating and repeating. We talked about it in bed last night, watching a video of his last fight, another narrow defeat. I told him for the hundredth time: “Your left kick’s your secret weapon. Use it.”

His body remembers.

His eyes are wild as his left leg lashes at me. I feign a left knee strike, forfeiting my guard for a crucial millisecond.

His shin connects with my skull, hard as a club. There isn’t anything fake about my fall this time. I tumble, vision streaked black, landing on my back hard enough to wind me.

I gasp for air. Faces loom above me. The referee’s counting. Phearak’s mouth hangs open.  I almost laugh. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t get up. Strange, though. Why is everything quiet?

Then noise crashes on me like a tsunami. The bell rings, the knockout is declared, the stadium erupts, and some reckless gambler in the crowd howls with joy. He must have bet on Phearak and won. I hear jeers from people who probably lost money on me. I’ll lose some Instagram followers tonight.

It’s so noisy that I don’t worry when Phearak crouches and hisses.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

I open my mouth to smile and taste blood. I almost say that I meant to, but then think again. Maybe I can make him think it was all him.

Sam saves me by pushing Phearak aside. He looks more bewildered than angry, like an old lady just mugged him in the street. But there’s another look in his face I didn’t expect. Concern.

He drags me to my feet and I almost wish he’d say it again: “when you’re in the ring, only you matter.” Maybe I’d be brave enough to say that tonight that wasn’t true. 

I’ll never forget this, I realise, as I watch the referee lift Phearak’s arm up in victory. You win some, you lose some, that’s what I’d tell Phearak after a bad night. Didn’t know you could do both.

JAIME GILL is a queer, British-born writer happily exiled in Cambodia, where he works for non-profits. He reads, writes, boxes, travels, and occasionally socialises. His stories have appeared in publications including Litro, Exposition Review, BULL, Good Life Review, and Underscore, and won awards including the 2024 Honeybee Literature Prize and a Bridport Prize. He’s a Pushcart Prize nominee currently working on a novel, script, and far too many short story ideas. Find out more and read some free stories at www.jaimegill.com or www.twitter.com/jaimegill