Page 6 of The Monster and the Masochist

Age 31

The bell sounded, signaling another round, and I grinned.

The screams of the blood thirsty crowd sent adrenaline pulsing through my veins, and I stalked back into the ring.

“You’ve got this, kid! It’s in the bag!” my coach, Jerry, hollered at me from my corner. He was a squatty, gruff old man who’d been training me for years. I didn’t need him to tell me I had this. I knew.

I was the best this league had seen in ages, and my opponent was already bleeding and showing signs of exhaustion.

She hadn’t landed a hit on me, and it wouldn’t take much for me to end this and collect the substantial pot that had been placed on this fight.

“Fuck her up, Muscles!”

I glanced ringside to see Cal, my brother’s fiancé, grinning like a lunatic and waving a foam finger in the air as he cheered me on. He was wearing a black hoodie that said ‘dibs on the ginger,’ and I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that foam fingers were more of a football thing.

He was just so damn enthusiastic. He was the only person in my real life who ever showed up to watch me fight, and it was honestly nice to have someone in the audience cheering for me.

Ryan almost never came. He hated that I did this.

It wasn’t that he hated my love for the sport. He hated that I fought in this underground ring. It was illegal, and there were very few rules of conduct.

If you didn’t tap out, the fight kept going, which sometimes meant there were fatalities.

This is what made it so addictive for me.

Outside of the cash prizes, which were sometimes larger than I would ever admit, the knowledge that every time I stepped into this ring I was risking my life just did something for me.

I loved the rush.

I loved the way it made me feel like I was dangling my life in front of the reaper, only to snatch it away at the last minute.

Teasing him.

Taunting death himself.

It felt so good that it bordered on turning me on.

Andrea Balgetti, my current opponent, met me in the ring, and I sized her up. We were of similar weight and size, but she was a tough bitch, and had clearly been fighting for a long time.

It didn’t matter, though.

I was better than her.

I was better than most.

Her left eye was swollen shut from a jab I’d connected in the last round, and she was looking more than a little haggard.

Neither of us wore gloves. Just taped knuckles, and my tape was splattered red with her blood.

I smirked at her, and she scowled, rushing me.

Her fists whizzed by my head, and I went into autopilot.

Duck, swerve, swing.

My fist connected with her face again, and she cried out as her mouthguard went flying.

I laughed, bouncing on my feet.