Page 55 of Escaping Pirates
The impact of a punch, bare fist against jaw, snapped my attention back to the ring. Flint reeled, and blood splattered the floor.
I shut my eyes while the crowd roared with laughter and cheers.
“That was a good hit!” Gil said eagerly, leaning toward the fight. I fought the urge to pull him back by his collar. He was too young for this sort of thing. “Isn’t this the best?” His grin faltered when he turned and saw my face. “You don’t like it?”
“I didn’t say that,” I replied, though I was pretty sure my expression had. “I’m surprised, I guess.”
Gil shrugged. “It’s just for fun. Most of the time no one gets hurt too bad. They got rules.”
“That man’s lip is split open.”
“Flint always bleeds. It’s like his thing,” Gil said with a chuckle. “He’ll be bragging about it by dinner when it’s all swelled up.”
Another blow landed, this time to the stomach, and the crowd howled again. I saw coins flash hands and heard someone muttering excitedly about what tallies to mark for who won the most matches.
“It’s not just for fun,” Gil added, hopping up onto a crate for a better view. Even with the additional foot, he was barely at eye level with most of the other pirates. “The winner gets the next day off of work and extra food and stuff. It’s a big deal to win.”
“I’m sure,” I murmured.
Flint went down, finally, after a particularly brutal uppercut, and though I half expected silence or concern, the crowd erupted in cheers. Two men hauled Flint up, bothclapping him on the back like he’d just won something instead of lost. He was grinning, bloody teeth and all.
“Who’s next?” the announcer shouted.
Cheers erupted around us. A few names were called out, and then I heard it.
“Gil!”
My heart leapt into my throat.
Gil was already pulling off his hat, exposing his shock of mussed blond hair as he pushed up his jacket sleeves over his thin forearms. “My turn!”
“Wait, are you—?” I stepped forward. Hadn’t he seen what had happened to Flint?
“I’m allowed,” he said proudly. “Captain said so, long as no one breaks anything.”
I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it again.
I watched, helpless, as Gil hopped the rope and bounced on the balls of his feet like he’d been born for this. His opponent, a burly man with a beard thick enough to hide half his face, looked down at him with a bemused smile.
“Don’t worry,” the man called to the crowd. “I’ll go easy on the lad.”
Laughter rippled through the sailors, and I found that I could breathe again, just barely. How I hoped he was telling the truth.
The match started, and it was clear from the first jab that the older man wasn’t throwing his weight around like the two in the previous round. He let Gil get in a few playful hits, danced backwards more often than forwards, and only lightly tapped him in return. The crowd still roared, but it sounded more amused than bloodthirsty this time.
I watched Gil duck and jab, his grin wide, his fists clumsy but enthusiastic. He had no technique. He’d never survive a real fight, but that didn’t seem to matter here. Themen were laughing. Even the grizzled older sailors clapped their approval as Gil managed to dodge a swing and thumped a weak punch into his opponent’s chest.
“Come on, Gil!” someone shouted. “Show him your secret weapon!”
Gil dramatically wound up a punch and then promptly tripped over his own feet. The bigger man caught him before he could fall.
My stomach twisted, then loosened again when the man patted Gil on the head and helped him back up.
“All right, all right,” the announcer called. “Let’s hear it for the little shark!”
The crowd cheered wildly as Gil bowed, sweat-soaked and beaming, then hopped back over the rope.
He ran over. “Did you see me? Did you watch?”
