Page 86 of Player
He doesn’t retaliate right away as expected. No Dreary Lane street fighter here. I’ve got to say my respect for him rises. Right then and there, I decide on three rounds.
Round one we feck about, playing with each other and showing off our technical skills.
I meet Clarissa by the stairs. “You look like a professional,” she shouts.
“Only because I’m fighting one.”
“You can win this.” She pauses to bite her lower lip. I love it when she does that. The things I could do to that lip. The things I’d rather be doing instead of taking a beating. Because round two is going to hurt.
“Now would be a good time to hit the jacks.”
“The what?” she hollers back.
“The toilet.”
The bell rings.
I inhale sharply, drawing on the whiskey in me system to carry me through.
Halfway through round two, I catch Clarissa’s horrified expression in the crowd. Bloody hell. Her concern stirs up something far worse than the beating I’m taking. It brings out something in me foreign, unexpected.
I hate disappointing her.
Bollocks. I’m fecked. Tonight, I might be making her proud. But when she discovers what I’ve done to her files, the lies I’ve told, the hurt I’ll be causing her, disappointment is going to be right up there with hate.
Donovan’s fist nails me in the jaw. My teeth rattle and, for a heartbeat, my eyes glaze over. He charges and slams me down onto the mat. We grapple, he nearly gets me in a choke hold, but I slam a surprise elbow into his side and I’m released.
He comes at me again once we’re back on our feet. I brace myself as his fine skills take over. Fifteen minutes of fame. Isn’t that what everyone deserves? A pup like him, honest and hungry, should be fighting Seamus or that punk Eddie. In a fair fight. With someone not trained to kill.
The bell rings.
I hear the crowd chanting Donovan’s name.
Blood drips from my nose. My chin is the size, and likely the color, of an overripe eggplant. My arms, chest, and legs feel like someone took a two-by-four to them. I stagger over to my corner.
“Oh my God, Finn.”
She hands me a water bottle. I take it from her and pour it over my head.
“I’m going to stop the fight.”
“Don’t,” I grunt.
I wipe my face with a towel. It comes away red.
“Edward is going to stop the fight.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve been spreading the rumor that if his next opponent doesn’t show up, he’ll be going up against Donovan next.”
“Hope he likes hospital food.”
She laughs.
I’d chuckle but my fat lip is tender.
Her laughter falters. “You still think you can win?”
