“I’m a sure thing,” I replied and turned around to walk away.
Someone behind me laughed. “That kid has balls.”
The murmurs of “what’s his name again?” did not escape my ears.
I climbed in the ring, my eyes going directly to my opponent’s corner. He sat there with his team around him and a white towel draped over his shoulder. I made it a point to meet his eyes. I did it every fight. I wanted whoever I fought that night to know that I wasn’t intimidated by their backers, their titles, and their name.
I was here to take it all away.
The clamor of a bell signaled the start of the match. We came out of our corners, circling each other a few times, sizing each other up, looking for weaknesses, for patterns, for anything that might give us the edge.
He threw the first punch. I dodged it; spinning away and then coming right back. He threw another and I blocked it, hitting away his glove like it was a gnat and I was annoyed.
The more blows I blocked, the more flustered he became. Halfway through the first round and I hadn’t even taken a shot. I hadn’t been hit either.
He drew back to attempt another shot when I struck out, the uppercut snapping his head on his shoulders. The crowd went nuts as he stumbled back.
His eyes locked on mine and like a freight train he came at me, knocking into me, back against the ropes, and I used their momentum to push him backward and hit him again.
After that, the fight got real. Fast.
I took several slams that made my vision go blurry, but I stayed on my feet and delivered a few vision robbers of my own. By the end of the second round, we were both breathing heavy, pouring sweat, and bleeding. I fumbled around with the water in my corner, trying to get it in my mouth. It was hard with gloves on and no one to help me.
Someone appeared next to me, standing outside the ring. He grabbed the water and squirted it in my face. I opened my mouth automatically to get some of the cool liquid.
“That’s some good fighting, kid,” the man said. “You just might win.”
I glanced at my helper, not really seeing him because everything was blurry. All I knew was that he wasn’t that big and he had dark hair. “Thanks,” I said, opening my mouth for more water.
“The other side looks pissed. Word is they got a lot riding on this fight. They thought it was going to be cake. You’re making it harder.”
I grunted. “I’m going to win.”
“My money’s on you.”
The announcer called out and I turned back.
“Keep an eye out, kid,” the man behind me whispered. “Some people like to win dirty.”
I didn’t really hear his words because the bell rang and we moved out of our corners. My eyes went to my opponent’s. There was a glint in them that hadn’t been there before. A sort of clarity that could only come from confidence.
I shot my fist out to wipe the look off his face. He dodged me.
We locked arms, our upper bodies colliding as we tried to muscle the other toward the ground. “Give it up, kid,” the guy whispered. “I’m not giving up this title.”
I shoved my fist into his ribs and the crowd roared.
He collapsed a little farther against me, my body taking on more of his weight. “Give up now, or else.”
I wanted to laugh, would have if I wasn’t busy punching him again.
This time he fell over onto the floor. I bounced from foot to foot, waiting for him to pick himself up.
He lifted onto his hands and knees, his back heaving with heavy breaths.
Everything seemed to slow down then—like in a car accident when you know you’re about to die and every last second is painfully drawn out so you know exactly what is about to happen.
My opponent glanced to his corner. His handler nodded once and then slid his cold eyes to me. The boxer got up and turned, looking at me with a hard expression. I saw his glove coming, but I didn’t move fast enough. It hit me square in the face and I fell back, down onto my butt.
