I'd rather be alone than be a convenience.
18
ROMAN
My opponent's fist catches me on the jaw, and I feel it all the way down through my neck and into my shoulders. It's a clean shot that snaps my head to the right and sends spit flying out of my mouth, nearly sending my mouth guard flying too. I reset my stance and bring my gloves back up and circle left.
He's younger by fifteen years. He's got reach on me by at least three inches and he's been bouncing on his toes since the bell rang, throwing jabs that come fast and loose, testing the distance between us. Someone trained him right, and if I were watching, I'd probably peg this one for a draft.
I slip the next one and throw a right cross that connects with his ribs. The impact travels up my arm and into my shoulder, and I hear the air leave him in a grunt that carries over the noise of the crowd. He stumbles around a bit while I throw an uppercut and knock some sense into him, then give him a bit of space.
He backs up two steps and resets and comes forward again. He's got quick hands and decent footwork and the crowd is behindhim because he's young and hungry. They always love the young ones who haven't been broken yet. Though I figured there would be a bit more support in my corner, considering I'm the one who runs these fights. Maybe they just like a good underdog.
I shouldn't be in this ring tonight. I should be sitting in my chair watching two of my fighters earn their keep, but those two are sitting in a police station with bruised knuckles and assault charges because they couldn't keep their hands to themselves outside a bar on a Tuesday night.
They know the rules just like everyone who fights for me. You don't brawl on the street where someone can call the police who start asking questions. Those questions can lead back to this building and everything that happens inside it. It could cost us the entire club if we're not careful. When I get them out, I'm going to make them wish they'd stayed in the cell.
That fury is what keeps me upright now, pushing to win this fight.
The guy throws a combination—a jab, a cross, and a hook that comes low and fast toward my liver. I catch the hook on my elbow and it stings a little, but I answer with another uppercut that catches him under the chin and lifts his head back. His mouthguard shifts, and he bites down on it and shakes it off and keeps coming.
I hear screaming and cheering, and the loud hyena-like cackle of one of the Koval girls. The minute they heard I'd be fighting, Vera called to announce they had front row seats, and she wasn't lying. They’re there annoying me and trying to distract me with their rowdy cheering.
I throw a left hook that he ducks and answers with a body shot that lands flush against my ribs and drives the breath out of me. I clinch him and hold on for three seconds while I get my air back. His forehead presses against my collarbone and his gloves push against my hips, and the ref steps in and separates us and we go back to circling.
It's exhausting. At forty-five, I'm almost aged out of this sport, but I keep myself in top shape. Still, I'll be feeling it tomorrow. Especially after he throws a jab that slams into my left side, making me turn, then gives a couple of fast body jabs to my kidneys. The crowd's on its feet now and the noise is so loud that I can't think straight. How did I ever do this and maintain concentration every Friday night for years?
As I step away and the ref holds the guy back so I can get a breather, I notice Mila sitting stoically in the front row. Her expressionless face and square shoulders are entirely unanimated. She almost glowers at me as I smack my gloves together and look down at her. This entire room full of people is on their feet while she sits there like she'd love to be anywhere else. It's that more than anything else that grabs my attention and gets in my head.
When the guy comes back at me again, this time, I feel more ready. But that doesn't equate to success at all. He comes in swinging, a right then a left, then a jab, and my hands are up, protecting my face as I get hammered, blow after hard blow. And finally, the bell rings and I drop my gloves and turn toward my corner.
Yegor's already through the ropes with a stool and a water bottle and a towel, and I sit down. He presses the bottle to my lips, and I drink until water runs down my chin and down over my sweaty chest.
"You're dropping your right hand after the cross," he says, pulling the towel across the back of my neck. "He's timing you. Next round, he's going to throw the counter and you won't see it coming."
"I see everything coming."
"You see everything except what's right in front of you when you're busy looking at the front row." He presses the towel against my forehead and holds it there. "He caught you clean on that liver shot and you didn't breathe right, Boss."
"I breathed fine." I'm heaving, angry that this guy is handing my ass to me when I'm supposed to be showing him how this is done. I have the experience and the height and weight on him and I can't get ahead.
"You clinched him because you couldn't breathe and we both know it." He pulls the towel away and swings it over his shoulder. "Two more rounds now, focus."
I spit into the bucket beside the stool and lean back against the ropes. Sofi is on her feet now, waving at me with one hand and holding a drink in the other. Sabine is leaning over to whisper in Vera's ear, and Vera is nodding without taking her eyes off me. They seem so interested in this damn fight, and the one woman I want to notice me out there is ignoring me. It's driving me mad. That's why I’m losing.
"Get Radimir," I say to Yegor. "Tell him to bring Mila to me right now."
Yegor looks at me for a second longer than he needs to and then ducks through the ropes and disappears into the crowd. I sit on the stool and press the towel against the cut on my jaw where the first punch opened the skin, letting sweat sting me. If I can't gether out of my head, I'm gonna lose. I signal to the ref for a break and he waves me off. It's not typical, but I run this show so if I want a break, I get one.
Then I push my way through the ropes and hobble back to the locker room where I find a clean towel to mop more sweat off my torso. Two minutes later, Yegor comes through the locker room door and holds it open. Mila walks through behind him in dark jeans and a fitted top, her hair pulled back, her face still giving me nothing.
"Sit down," I say, and I gesture to the bench across from me.
She sits and folds her hands in her lap and looks up at me with pursed lips. I really can't figure her out at all. She's so hot and cold. I can read Sofi or Sabine easily, but Mila is a locked door. I never know what's going through her mind.
"Why the hell are you just sitting there?" I grumble, and I realize how petty I sound. "A whole room full of screaming women shaking their tits and you can't even cheer once?" Yegor seems to get the point that I'm having a moment, and he backs through the door of the locker room, giving us privacy.
"What would you have me do?" She doesn't blink. "Stand up and scream and wave my arms around?"
