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The Crusher barrels into me with a yell, throwing me down. What the fuck? The referee hasn’t announced the start of the match yet, the second whistle hasn’t sounded, the crowd hasn’t settled.
My back hits the floor with a thud, all the air leaving my lungs, and I look up, dazed, at his enraged face.
“You die tonight, Riot,” he snarls, and he’s so much like a bad caricature of a villain, with his crazed eyes and scarred cheek, that I’d laugh if I could draw breath. “I end you.”
I bend my knee, jam it into his crotch and twist, throwing him off. “Not if I end you,” I tell him, wheezing, clambering with some difficulty to my feet. The old injury in my thigh hurts like a bitch.
Fuck, the number they did on me in the locker room is slowing me down.
The referee is whistling now, and shouting something to the Crusher in Russian. His face darkens as he rolls to his feet, then he’s on me again, throwing a punch to my stomach that doubles me over.
Shit. I don’t remember him being so angry last time. He’d been controlled and lethal. Now he’s like a speeding train gone off the tracks.
The referee gets between us, blowing madly on his whistle, shoving the Crusher in the chest. The crowd boos—the referee for stopping us or the Crusher for attacking me before the official beginning of the match, that’s anyone’s guess.
“Stand back,” the referee is now shouting, a small, squirrely man in a bright yellow jacket. “No attacking before the whistle.”
The Crusher spreads his legs and lowers his head like a bull about to charge.
Jesus. Bad form, Crusher. Cold anger is welling inside me, too, remembering how he put me in hospital, how he killed Markus. Brutally. Unnecessarily.
But my anger is tempered with the warmth spreading in my chest from seeing Pax and Ellen. A calm spreads inside me.
I’m gonna do this.
I know Crusher’s moves. He’s strong, but predictable. A crusher, as
his nickname suggests. He likes to tackle his opponent to the floor, and goes for the windpipe.
Need to avoid that at any cost.
Need a counter-attack plan. It’s been on my mind all day—as I walked away from Pax like a thief, as I fed the boys, as I trained at the gym and as I watched the videos from the Crusher’s last couple of fights.
Last time I thought I could handle him like I did every other opponent. My strength is my speed and my punches. I have a great upper cut.
He knew it. He’s no fool. He studied me back then, more than I studied him.
But like I said: I’ve changed. He doesn’t know me anymore. I’m changing my strategy. Plus, he’s angry, vibrating with it like an over-tight chord.
So let’s play this tune, brother. Let’s dance this dance. You’re confused and angry, while I’m certain of what I want in my life.
I’m fucking ready.
***
My plan isn’t going so well. Fucking Crusher got me twice in the ribs and Jesus fuck, that hurt so bad I thought I’d cry like a baby. Breathing hurts. My leg burns. My head throbs.
Come on, Riot. Get your shit together.
He throws another punch. I block it, step back, and he keeps coming on. I limp to the side. Can’t let him get too close and tackle me.
He twists and delivers an upper cut to my jaw. I turn, catch a glancing blow to the side of my head that makes me see stars.
Thank fuck I remembered to take off my earrings, I think vaguely as I move out of his range.
Fuck. The plan. Stick to the plan.
Of course when I made the plan I didn’t think I’d be limping and that each breath would send fire through my ribs.
