Page 23 of The Fight

Hannah approaches me with a curious look, her brows furrowed in mild concern. “Where’s Blair?” she asks, glancing behind me like she’s expecting to see her.

“Back there. She’s coming.” I almost laugh at the joke only I’ll get and jerk my thumb over my shoulder. I don’t have time to explain, not with the fight about to start. I push past her and slide under the ropes, trying to lock my focus onto the ring.

It’s like standing under a spotlight as soon as I enter, and I get my first look at my opponent. He’s already in the ring,stretching his neck from side to side. He’s tall and slim, with a build almost identical to mine—lean muscles that hint at both speed and power. His skin shines with a sheen of sweat, and his hands are taped up tight, ready to go. He’s got a shaved head and sharp jawline, with a look in his eyes that tells me he isn’t here to play games. And there is something in his stance that makes me think he’s experienced. He’s new to me, though—I’ve never fought this guy before.

I size him up, trying to get a read on him. Is he a striker, a grappler? What’s his game? He looks fast—maybe faster than me—and I know better than to underestimate him. Every new opponent brings something different to the table, and I need to be ready.

Glancing out the corner of my eye, I see Blair standing next to Hannah just outside the ring. She’s watching me, her eyes wide with a mix of emotions I can’t quite decipher. When our eyes finally meet, a jolt of something electric runs through me. Maybe it’s the lingering feelings from the locker room, or maybe it’s a sense of pride that I’m out here in front of everyone, wearing her juices like my own little trophy.

She blushes, her cheeks turning a deep red, and she quickly looks away, trying to hide the reaction. I can’t help the small smirk that tugs at my lips. Despite everything—the fight, the tension, the uncertainty of whatever is happening between us—there’s something undeniably magnetic about her.

I force myself to turn away and try and push her out of my mind for the moment because I need to focus. Whatever is going on between us, I can’t let it distract me. Not here, Not now.

Hannah is the first to step into the ring, the glossy “1” card held high above her head. Her smile is wide and bright, working the crowd as she makes a slow circle along the ropes. The crowd’s cheers grow louder, feeding off the energy of themoment. My eyes follow her briefly, but I’m already switching gears, hearing the familiarwhoosh,whoosh,whooshin my ears.

She exits the ring, and the ref steps to the center, motioning for me and my opponent to do the same. Meeting in the middle, the tension between us is thick, but I still raise my fists. We bump knuckles, and his eyes lock onto mine. I see a fire there—a determination that mirrors my own.

The bell rings, sharp and loud, and we’re off.

We circle each other cautiously, testing the waters. He throws the first jab, a quick right that I easily slip, countering with a jab of my own. My fist grazes his chin, but he’s already moving back. He’s light on his feet, bouncing with a kind of agility that tells me he’s no stranger to the ring.

He steps forward again with a one-two combo, and I dodge the first punch, blocking the other with my forearm. He’s fast, but I’m quicker. I launch a sharp left hook that connects with his ribs, and he grunts, his body shifting to absorb the blow. Before I can move again, he pivots away, creating some distance between us.

His movements are precise and calculated. He’s not just throwing punches; he’s feeling me out and testing my reactions. I recognize the strategy—he’s trying to gauge my timing, my rhythm—because it’s my own.

Feinting with my left and snapping quickly with my right, he dodges again, but this time, he comes in close, catching me off guard. His elbow slams into my gut, driving the air from my lungs. I stumble back, my vision blurring for a split second, and he’s on me. I block most of his punches, but one slips through, cracking against my jaw. My head snaps to the side, but I keep my footing, gritting my teeth against the sting.

I shake off the hit and retaliate with a hard uppercut that catches him under the chin, snapping his head back. He staggers, and I press forward, launching a series of quick jabsaimed at his face. He blocks and dodges, his defense tight, but I see him falter for just a moment. I go for a roundhouse kick, aiming for his side, but he ducks under it, coming in low.

Before I can reset, he shoots forward, wrapping his arms around my waist and driving us both to the mat. The air rushes from my lungs as my back slams into the canvas. I struggle against his weight pinning me down, trying to buck him off, but he’s got a solid grip. His forearm is pressing against my throat, and his knee is digging into my side.

I grunt, twisting my body to break his hold, but he’s relentless, keeping me grounded. His technique is good—solid grappling skills I didn’t see coming. He’s been waiting for this, biding his time until he can take me to the mat, where he’s clearly more comfortable.

The crowd roars around us. I shift my hips, managing to create just enough space to slip my leg out from under him. I swing it around, hooking it over his back to gain some leverage. He presses harder, trying to maintain control, but I use his own momentum against him, rolling us over so that I’m on top.

Just as I start to regain control, the bell rings, signaling the end of the round. I push off him and get to my feet, breathing hard, sweat dripping down my face. He gets up slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. This guy is good—really good.

Moving to my corner, I plop down onto the stool Austin produces and take a few sips of water. He mumbles something in my ear, pointers, I’m sure, but I barely hear him over my own heartbeat. My focus is already shifting to the next round.

Now, Blair steps into the ring, holding the “2” card above her head. Her presence is impossible to ignore. She moves with a different kind of grace than Hannah, a natural sway to her hips that draws every set of eyes in the room—including mine.

I clench my fists and force myself to look away, to focus on the fight. But it’s harder with her so close. I feel like I’m splittingin two—one part of me here, ready to fight, and the other back in the locker room with her.

Blair finishes her circle, then steps out, giving me the briefest glance before she disappears out of my peripheral.

Moving my eyes back to my opponent, I watch as he bounces on his toes, ready for the second round. I’ve felt his strength, and I’ve got a strategy. I need to mimic his moves, throw him off-balance, and make him second-guess himself. If I can get inside his head, I’ll have the upper hand.

We move back to the center as the bell rings, and I don’t give him a second to think. I drive forward with a series of quick jabs that force him back. He’s expecting me to be cautious, to keep my distance, but I’m not giving him that chance. I press him hard, cutting off his space, and mimic his own aggressive style.

I throw a left jab, then a right uppercut, forcing him to stay on the defensive. He’s fast, blocking most of my punches, but I can see the cracks starting to form in his defense. He lunges forward, trying to grab me again and take me to the mat, but I’m ready. I sidestep his advance and pivot on my heel, then bring my knee up to his gut.

He doubles over, gasping for air, and I take my chance. I grab him by the shoulders and move him forward, throwing him off-balance. His feet slip, and he crashes to the mat, the sound of his body hitting the canvas loudly.

I’m on him in an instant, locking his arm and pinning him down. He struggles beneath me, trying to wiggle free, but I got him this time. With my free arm, I swing out, connecting punch after punch into his jaw. After the third, his head lulls to the side, and the fight starts to leave him.

The crowd erupts again, a deafening wall of sound, and I hear the ref counting. One… Two… Three…

He’s sluggish, barely moving but making sure it’s still something to keep him in the fight.

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