Page 20

Pause.

“For Micah Rivera.”

The Oath corner roars. Micah’s breath rushes out beside me.

“Judge Ellis scores the bout forty-eight forty-seven.”

Another pause. Dan’s fingers curl through the cage.

“For Zane Butler.”

Ironside erupts.

“And Judge Novak scores it forty-seven forty-seven.”

The arena holds its breath.

“The judges are split. Ladies and gentlemen, this bout is a draw! Zane Butler retains the world welterweight title!”

The place goes off like a bomb.

Boos. Cheers. Somebody hurls a cup that bounces off the fence. Victor Kaine has a hand over his mouth. Dan is shouting robbed, we got robbed, and across the cage, that lean coach with the whistle shakes his head like he can’t believe it either.

I don’t hear any of it.

Micah has turned to look at me. Blood streaks his cheek and his chest is still heaving, and he doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t look triumphant. He looks like a man who just watched the floor open.

I can’t look away.

My throat closes. My eyes burn, and I tell myself it’s the sweat.

The ref lets go of our wrists.

Ironside hands close around my shoulders, Dan on my left, Reyes on my right, tugging. Oath does the same to him. Victor steers Micah by the elbow, and the gap between us stretches, one step, then three, then ten. Micah looks back over his shoulder.

The gate opens on one side, then the other.

They walk me out through the tunnel, and I keep my head turned until the wall swallows him.

7

MICAH

The ringside doctor shines a penlight into my left eye, then my right, then my left again.

“Follow my finger.”

I follow it. Back and forth, up and down, while the cutman presses a butterfly closure over my eyebrow and pinches the skin together with a grip that makes my whole face throb. Blood has dried in a tight, itchy crust down my cheek. My lip is split. My right hand has swollen into something that belongs to a different, much larger man.

“Any nausea?” the doctor asks.

“No.”

“Ringing in your ears?”

“Just the crowd.”

“Headache?”