I hate it. I hate every second of being here. Of seeing Noah getting hit.
With every punch that lands somewhere on Noah, I recoil, stomach churning.
The cheers are ear-splitting when Noah lands a hit that has Thomas knocked to the ground. It spurs the crowd, making them get rowdier. They surge forward—propelling me into the fence.
A cry of pain escapes as my cheek gets embedded with the rough metal. I hear Thea shout my name, but I can’t call back, the air gets sucked out of me with the masses piling against me.
Noah’s head snaps to the sound, spotting me. I want to yell at him to pay attention to the fight, but I can’t. An elbow digs into my kidney making me cry out again. My eyes water.
The crowd’s focused on Noah while Noah’s focused on me. He starts toward me and my eyes bulge.
Is he crazy?
Focus on the fight! I want to shout.
Thomas, using Noah’s distraction to his advantage, charges.
Turn around! I try to scream, getting a taste of rusted metal instead.
Noah doesn’t. He keeps walking toward me and with a sucker’s move, Thomas tackles Noah to the ground, hitting his head.
The sound cracks like thunder around the room, taking my breath with it.
He doesn’t move.
Noah doesn’t move.
The room is still loud, people still screaming, but to me—it’s silent.
Silent as I stare at the broad, flattened form that is Noah.
He hasn’t so much as twitched.
No.
No.
No.
Get up.
Get up, I silently beg.
Any second, any second, he’s going to pick his head up.
Except, seconds turn to minutes and Noah still hasn’t moved.
Come on, Noah. Get up.
My gaze is locked on his still form, a weird sense of emotions overcoming me. I need Noah to be okay. He has to be okay. If Noah’s not okay, I feel I won’t be okay.
And I don’t know how to process that last thought.
The “ref” starts toward Noah, no doubt to call the round when Noah’s hand shoots out and grabs the ref’s ankle.
I gasp.
Slowly, Noah’s body moves, a swelling overtakes my chest as he shifts his face and meets my worried eyes.