Billy took a breather from the recording sessions; now it was just him and the radio. While training in boxing, to his surprise, he was sparring with a great featherweight contender who was teaching him how to move. He was a great coach, and in just four days his skill exploded dramatically.
—Boxing is about rhythm, kid. Every time I see boxers lose, it's because their opponent managed to read them. At least in the lighter weights, technique and timing are vital for power.—Bobby replied, teaching Billy, even though his own category was that of a middleweight fighter.
—Yes—Billy whispered, his muscles gleaming with sweat, burning fiercely through every part of his being. He could barely breathe; professional training was pure misery, and this would continue for the next fifteen days as he followed the routine.
—Move your head properly. You're not a lamppost.—Bobby shouted, throwing a powerful hook that slipped past Billy's guard and landed squarely on his cheek, leaving him even more dizzy, saved only by the protective headgear.
—Shit, man.—Billy muttered, completely wrecked. Everything burned, and he felt like taking a break.
—Come on, give me ten more punches.
Billy did everything he could, pushing his body to the limit, but it was absolute brutality. He finally collapsed. Bobby's motto was to train complete boxers, not disposable fighters.
—You've got it—Bobby said.
—Yeah, I do—Billy sighed, sitting down; his legs were about to give way.
He thought about the five-kilometer run still ahead. To end the day—the date, the party, the women, the music—he could almost say he just wanted to go to sleep like a child who desperately needed rest.
Robert nodded, seeing that the work was simpler than it seemed. The young guy had a more or less solid base for a rock star: modern knowledge of boxing and how to throw punches, but he completely lacked footwork, counterattacks, and ring awareness; there was a lot of work to do. All he wanted was excellence, but that was enough. He would send one of his instructors to train him over the next two months, until the contract period ended. And what a contract, the old trainer thought, with the thirty thousand dollars resting in his savings account—enough to keep his gym running for the next two years and help his new talent fight in the professional leagues.
The film 300 officially wrapped casting and production, but before that they needed to adjust all the material; the editing required meticulous work to give the film the atmosphere they wanted. Dates were sent for October 2005 in Montreal, Canada, with forty days—about a month—to develop the work.
Jerry accepted the commitment, pulling all the strings between projects to see how the next moves would play out.
—We have England for the summer.—Jerry whispered.—No, before that we have Rock am Ring, a rock and metal festival at the Nürburgring, where high-caliber bands were already invited, at least for the metal scenes. Lollapalooza on July 24 in Chicago.—
Taking the email in his hands, he made a quick call.
—Do we have a date for the West Coast concert?—Jerry asked.
—Even though you requested it two months ago, the date is set for March 16, exactly ten days from now.—the voice on the phone replied.
—Good.—Jerry said, fully aware of how complex everything had been and all the delays involved. The date was originally set for March 10, but due to certain events it had to be postponed from early January to March 15, and since that fell on a Friday, it was moved to March 16. The small West Coast tour would end on April 1, when Billy would return to England. There was nothing left to do, even if he wanted to change it.
Jerry hung up and made another call to the sponsors. Red Bull was on board, while others were already filling the stadium. Corona sponsored them, since Billy liked to drink beer on stage—water, and now disguised as Red Bull, beer mixed with energy drink; it was everything they expected. The sponsors paid for staff, placement, and certain requirements.
The tour came out to a total of two hundred thousand dollars in operating expenses. The good thing about being a star: now only the minimum remained, which was collecting the money for personal purposes, since Billy's ideas about money were never unpleasant.
—We can do it, just for next week.—Jerry sighed, worn down, thinking about the new film project he had secured through many contacts. The indecent story that fueled desire—a boy who conquers his teacher—now the idea of films occupied his mind. They just had to find movies that showed how unattainable Billy was and how he performed. Above all, it was image promotion: the Hollywood heartthrob brought in more money, something he discreetly admired.
Good music, recognition, curiosity, and constant publicity.
—Michael, I want Billy ready in five days. We'll start in Los Angeles. Yes, it'll be that stadium—Jerry said.
The Rose Bowl Stadium in Los Angeles was set for a two-date concert, each with a capacity of ninety-five thousand people. Two dates, tickets at fifty dollars. The price was simply ridiculous, adding up to four million seven hundred fifty thousand dollars per date. The first day sold out completely, not a soul left. The Killer would open the show, Green Day at halftime, and a three-hour concert—counting guest artists—was pure madness.
—For the second half we have zzz.—Jerry sighed, completely insane at the thought of legends willing to open a concert and be part of the second date, completely dominating the—}
***
Billy was at home, playing PlayStation, while his phone rang nonstop. He was a little out of it and didn't want to talk to anyone. That was his usual routine.
On the sixth call, he answered. It was Scarlett.
—Hey, what's up?—Billy said, as if it were nothing, not caring about the missed calls.
—It's me.—
—I've got a small tour here on the West Coast when you finish—Billy said.
—The recordings were delayed two weeks because of the rain. I'm afraid we'll need at least three to four weeks. That's why I was calling; I think we'll see each other for April.—Scarlett told him.
—That's a shame, but hey… we have a premiere in June. Just get ready.—Billy replied, letting out a long yawn; his eyes were already closing.
...