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Karen looked wildly out of place—she was well aware of this fact. In truth, she’d gotten quite used to it; to sticking out like a sore thumb in a sea of inebriated, sweaty men, all yelling and jumping and carrying on like teenagers. With her pencil skirt and patent leather heels, she seemed like she belonged in a board room, not shoving past sloppy, drunk frat boys on her way to the locker room at Barclays.
In her early years working as a sports reporter for CBS NY, she had tried to blend in with the crowds: baseball cap, jersey, sneakers, jeans. She’d done the beer-in-the-hand, locker room talk, eating hot wings, ‘just one of the guys’ bit (as most female sports reporters do when they are just beginning), mostly in the hopes of gaining a little bit of respect. Of being treated like an equal, by fellow reporters and athletes alike. But she’d quickly learned that it didn’t matter how she dressed—or how competent she had proven herself to be, time and again—because as long as she had a pair of tits, respect was really out of reach. Despite her near-encyclopedic knowledge of sports history and statistics (baseball, basketball, football, boxing—you name it), she was still a woman. A tall, attractive, blonde woman; and that, apparently, outweighed every other fact about her. She was, she’d realized about a year into the job, no more than the “hot chick from CBS with the killer legs” (a direct quote from one of the players for the Mets who hadn’t realized his mic had been on).
So eventually she’d said “fuck it”—fuck all of it. Trying to dress the way she thought she should; trying to play the part of the “cool girl”; trying to appeal to the lowest common denominator, who wouldn’t even show her basic human decency. She was a professional—one who was fucking great at her job—so she was going to dress like one. Silk blouses, pantyhose, and an elegant updo. And fuck anyone who tried to demean or devalue her talents.
“Woah, woah, woah. Watch the equipment there, sport.” Foggy Nelson, who had been Karen’s camera man for the past five years, bumped into her side as he tried to avoid a man stumbling around with Frank Castle’s face on his t-shirt. “Fucking hate this part, walking through the crowds. It’s like nobody respects an expensive Hasselblad around here.” He cradled his camera close to his chest, protectively.
“Who could’ve possible guessed that boxing fans weren’t all secretly AV equipment enthusiasts?” Karen threw over her shoulder sardonically, side-stepping a puddle of what looked suspiciously like vomit. She swatted at a hand that tried to grope her ass in passing, biting down bitter words.
“All I’m saying is that boxing matches are the worst. The crowds are always rowdier. And way drunker.” Foggy shook his head, trailing Karen in the path she was cutting through the mass of bodies. “Why couldn’t you cover something nice and mild? Like golf? Or badminton? I love badminton!”
“Because there’s no glory in being mild, Foggy.” Karen navigated them to a quiet hallway off to the side of the main lobby, slipping behind a door marked “Employees Only.” Foggy hesitated for a moment before following her—Karen always knew the backways and secret passages in every arena and stadium they visited, though he had never asked how. Part of him liked to imagine that she spent her evenings poring over blueprints like a bank robber. “You know the saying, Fog,” she ducked under a velvet rope clearly meant to keep people out, “no guts; no glory.”
“Yeah, but why does the guts part have to be so fucking literal?” Foggy grumbled. He hated boxing—hated it. The blood and the bruises and the teeth flying. It was all a little much for him. He preferred the quiet sports, like tennis and baseball, where the chances of someone spitting blood on the camera lens were far less likely.
Karen, on the other hand, lived for it. Had grown up watching boxing matches with her father and her brother; even took classes at the gym. So every time there was a big match in need of coverage, Karen was the first to volunteer, dragging Foggy along for the ride.
And tonight’s match…well it was one for the record books.
Frank “The Punisher” Castle in a comeback match against Matt “The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen” Murdock. As soon as the event had been announced, pay-per-view numbers had shot through the roof. Tickets to the live show were selling for the thousands; people who didn’t care about boxing were amped for the match. Even Foggy had been less reluctant about taking on the assignment than he had been with boxing matches in the past. It was that big of a deal.
Five years ago, Frank Castle had been the name on everyone’s tongues—a pure powerhouse of a boxer who could take a hit like nobody’s business. Classic slugger—unpredictable in the ring—lacking finesse, sure, but overwhelming in his ability to apply constant pressure to his opponent; unrelenting in the offense and impenetrable defensively. He’d seemingly come out of nowhere (though some sources claimed he’d worked his way through the underground circuit, which could never be conclusively proven), and brawled his way to the WBA’s number one spot, pound-for-pound. It was a meteoric rise, which Karen had followed obsessively.
Until three years ago, when he’d been injured in a shoot-out in Vinegar Hill. The story that had circulated for months after his injury was as follows: Frank, walking home from the gym one night, sees a young boy being mugged by a group of gangbangers. Having a touch of big-fucking-hero complex, he decides to intervene. Manages to take out three of the assailants before another crew of gang bangers shows up—the boy being mugged apparently one of their own. Guns are drawn—shots are fired—Castle ends up in the hospital with a bullet in the brain and three in the torso.
Three years in recovery—three long fucking years of physical therapy and re-training his body and itching to get back in the ring—all because he had decided to play vigilante. There were rumors that he would never fight again; that his body was beyond repair. But Frank ignored them all and set his sights on the impossible. Someone told him to stay down, and you could guarantee he wouldn’t listen. So he worked hard—and smart, with the help of his trainer, Curtis Hoyle—for three years, knowing that the world hadn’t seen the last of The Punisher. Not by a long shot.
In the meantime, with Castle out of commission, there had been a power vacuum in the world of NYC boxing. A number one spot in the WBA sitting empty, waiting for a new challenger to claim. Enter Matthew Murdock: an out-boxer with enough dexterity and agility to more than make up for his lack of pure voltage. His ascent to power had been much slower than Castle’s—he didn’t have the raw brawn that had made The Punisher so devastating in the ring. But he did have technique. A style of fast-paced, defensive fighting that was damn near impossible to copy. And soon enough, he had claimed the number one spot in the WBA, a new kind of champion.
Until tonight, when a returning Castle had gone 10 vicious rounds with Murdock, defeating him at the 40 minute mark with a brutal TKO, the likes of which the boxing world had never seen before. Murdock had been carried out on a stretcher.
It was the fight of the decade, and Karen was eager to get her interview with Castle, for more reasons than one.
They took several sharp turns, down one deserted hallway after the other, before suddenly emerging at the entrance to the locker room marked “Frank Castle,” which was being guarded by a brawny man in a tight, black t-shirt that read “Arena Security.”
Karen flashed her press badge as she approached the door.
“Sorry ma’am,” the guard shook his head. “No press for another half hour, at least. Castle’s recovering.”
“Oh, uh—” Karen flipped over her badge so that her name, in large, bold letters, was visible. “I’m Karen Page.”
“Oh!” The guard made a surprised little noise, and stepped to the side. “Sorry, Miss Page. I didn’t know it was you.”
“Quite alright,” Karen shook her head, reaching for the door knob. “Thank you.”
Foggy hoisted his camera on his shoulder and shook his head. It was another one of Karen’s little secrets—how she was mysteriously able to weasel her way to early access with some of the athletes. Frank Castle, especially. Every time they’d worked together to cover one of his matches—in the early days, before his hiatus—Karen found a way to get them into the locker room while other reporters waited behind in the press line. But he wasn’t going to question it—his job was just to point and shoot.
Frank looked up from his place on the bench as the door to the locker room opened; he squinted hard in an attempt to see through his left eye—the one not completely swollen shut. It had been about ten minutes since he’d stepped out of the rink, bloodied and victorious, which meant that it was still too early for press. For endless interviews and answering asinine questions, all while dreaming of a hot shower and a cold ice pack.
“Good showing out there, Castle.”
Frank grinned (in spite of his badly split lip) as soon as he heard her voice her—Miss Karen Page, his favorite reporter from CBS NY. He managed to focus his good eye enough to get a look at her, pristine and lovely in her high heels and pressed blouse. Golden hair falling out of a sophisticated twist. Damn, but she looked like a dream.
“Well hello there, Miss Page.” He smirked, leaning back against the lockers, his head making a soft thudding sound as it hit metal. “First one on the scene, as always.”
“You know me,” Karen shrugged with a grin. “Gotta get first blood.”
“Well,” Frank spread his arms wide (and Karen couldn’t help the way her eyes darted to all those sweaty, glorious muscles on display), “plenty of blood to go around.”
“I can see that. You gonna get a medic in here for that eye? Looks like you broke the socket.” Karen took a step forward, raising her hand as though to reach out and touch his face. Thinking better of it, she let her arm fall to her side.
“You know me,” Frank mimicked Karen’s statement. “I’ll just rub some dirt on it.”
Foggy cleared his throat from the doorway, eyes flitting between the two with amusement. Frank Castle was notoriously difficult to interview; laconic, dismissive, and grumpy—getting him to answer a question with more than one sentence was like pulling fucking teeth. With everyone else but Karen, that is. As soon as she strolled onto the scene, all of the sudden Frank was a fucking professional, giving multiple-sentence answers and smiling at the camera like he was goddamn Regis Philbin. Foggy had seen enough painful, awkward footage of Frank shutting down interviewers to know that the way he acted with Karen was far outside the norm. And part of it was clearly due to Karen’s skill—that woman could get a Cistercian monk to talk—but part of it was due to the obvious affection Castle had for her. An affection that—again—it wasn’t really Foggy’s place to question.
“Oh, you remember Foggy?” Karen pointed at the disgruntled camera man, wearing his uniform of baggy, khaki cargo shorts and graphic t-shirt (this one had an image of Princess Leia doing the Rosie the Riveter pose, with the words “We Can Do It” over her head).
“Hey.” Frank grunted, bobbing his head in recognition.
“We’ve only got a minute before we go live, Kare. How do you want me to set this thing up?” Foggy removed the cover from his camera lens, squinting through the eye piece.
“Uh…” Karen glanced around, hands on her hips. “We can stand in front of Frank’s name on the locker. That okay? It’ll be a short interview—just a few questions—so you won’t have to stand for too long.” She looked at Frank, head tilted to the side.
“You can put me anywhere you want me, ma’am.” Frank suppressed a grin at the blush that began to creep its way up Karen’s neck.
“Uhm yes.” Karen cleared her throat, gesturing for Frank to stand. “How about right here?” She moved into position, smoothing a hand down her skirt.
Frank rose with a deep groan, feeling his body protest at the movement. Karen’s eyes immediately shaded with concern.
“You sure you’re okay? We can postpone for a bit if you need an ice pack or something.” This time she did reach out to touch him, putting a steadying hand on his arm as he sidled up next to her.
“Nah, I’m good.” He let his gaze dart down to her pale, delicate fingers on his skin, and felt the heat of it blaze a trail down his spine.
“Okay. You pass out during this interview and I’ll never forgive you. It’s live, so we can’t edit it out.” Her voice was stern.
“Would make for great T.V. though.”
“True.” Karen pretended to consider for a moment. “Never mind. If you do pass out, give us a little warning so Foggy can get it all on tape.”
Frank snorted, then groaned again when his split lip began to throb.
“Sorry, sorry.” Karen hid a chuckle. “Won’t make you laugh again. I promise.”
“Okay, okay.” Foggy cut into the conversation, having finished setting up his equipment. He reached into his bag and tossed a microphone Karen’s way. She just barely managed to catch it. “Karen, turn that ear piece on.” She reached up to flick on the audio feed in her ear. “We’re rolling in 5, 4 , 3…” he trailed off, mouthing the last few numbers. Karen raised the microphone to her lips.
“Good evening, New York. I’m Karen Page for CBS NY, here in the locker room at Barclay Center with Frank Castle, also known as The Punisher, just minutes after his unbelievable victory over Matthew Murdock.” She shot a grin his way. “So tell me, Frank, how does it feel to be back in the ring after such a long recovery period?”
“Well, Karen.” Frank put a little something on her name—something that felt like affection. “Feels real good. Like coming home.” He shifted on his feet deliberately until his arm was brushing against hers. She raised a subtle eyebrow at the move.
“You certainly looked at home in the ring.” Karen turned her body toward him just a touch more, and Frank bit back a smirk. “Were you at all nervous about going up against Murdock’s singular brand of defense? Facing such an unfamiliar out-boxer with your style of slugging must have been a challenge.”
“Nah—wasn’t nervous.” Frank shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. It was a move that made his muscles bulge, and he counted it a victory that Karen’s eyes darted quickly—almost imperceptibly—to his pecs. “Curtis had been training me like the devil leading up to the fight, so I was really prepared for anything Murdock could throw at me.”
“Speaking of Curtis Hoyle,” Karen tucked an escaped strand of hair behind her ear, and Frank’s eyes tracked the move. He was a sucker for all that blonde hair. “I heard that he was instrumental in helping to speed along your recovery, after the unfortunate incident three years ago.”
“Yeah, definitely.” Frank bobbed his head in a nod. “Curtis kept me thinking about the future—focused on recovery. Worked with my physical therapist to create a training schedule. Brought me tapes of matches to study. A lot of Murdock’s matches, actually.”
“I’m sure it was difficult being bedridden while Murdock climbed the rankings. Do you think the idea of facing off against him kept you fighting to heal?”
“For sure.” Frank dropped his arms again, letting the right one lightly skim down Karen’s side as he did so. Her delicate shiver was glorious. “Thought a lot about getting to reclaim my title while I was training. Also thought a lot about all the people I missed seeing while I was out of commission—the fans, my favorite reporters,” the quirk of his lips was entirely too charming, “my fellow boxers. Focused on them and it made recovery a lot easier.”
“Well, we certainly are glad to have you back in the ring.” Karen’s eyes flicked to Foggy, who was giving her the 30 second signal. Time to wrap up the interview. “We’re going to let you hit the showers, now. Thanks for taking the time to talk with us at CBS NY.”
Frank couldn’t help it—he really couldn’t help it. Karen looked so damn gorgeous in her work clothes, with that serious expression on her face and her lips painted red for the camera. And he’d had enough of light teasing; of brushing against her like that was all he was allowed to do. He knew he wasn’t supposed to do it—that they were keeping their relationship under wraps for just a little bit longer—but he was helpless. When she turned those big, blue eyes on him—damn it—he really was a fool.
“Sure thing.” Frank smirked. “I’ll see you at home, sweetheart.” He ducked his head quickly, before Karen could react, and captured her lips with his own. She made a surprised squeak, hands flying up to press against his bare chest, before melting into the kiss ever so slightly.
“What the fuck?” Foggy’s whisper echoed in the quiet locker room.
Frank released Karen’s lips with a smack, winking at her devilishly before turning to head for the showers.
“I—uh—” Karen stuttered, turning to the camera with wide, dazed eyes. “I’m Karen Page and this is CBS NY sports.”
Foggy gave her the signal that they were off air, and they stared at each other for a long time. Speechless. Foggy looking bemused and Karen looking shell-shocked. The sound of the shower turning on in the background shook her from her brief catatonia.
“Uh…I can explain. We—he—uh,” She fumbled for words, but was cut off by Foggy.
“Oh my GOD, Karen Page! You are seeing The Punisher!” He laughed, slapping his thigh in joy. “Good on you!”
“Yeah, I…” Karen grinned. “Good on me.”