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I wasn’t bitter. Not one bit.
“You ready, boss?”
I looked over the side of the rope at Timmins and guzzled more water rather than answer. I could lie to Slater, mainly because he let me. He understood I had my pride.
Lying to my coach wasn’t nearly so easy. My pride meant less than nothing to Timmins, and he’d call me on my bullshit right quick.
“Knox. I asked you a question. You ready?”
The typical anthems from back in the day blasted over the speaker as the announcer took the podium on the makeshift stage. Time for some asskissing with the crowd before my ass kissed the floor.
I rubbed the cherry blossoms on my side, feeling uncharacteristically sentimental. I wasn’t going to war. This was my choice, and I could back away at any time.
Then I glanced up and saw Costas smiling at me, insolence carved into every line of his face, and my shoulders stiffened. He was an old school fighter in a lot of ways, usually going for the straight ground and pound while mixing it up just enough to keep his opponent off-guard. I didn’t have a set style, relying more on my mood and what I’d had the most success with in training that week. If I fell back on the same combinations more often than not, so what? My method of selecting my moves based on what I was feeling had always worked before.
Right now I wasn’t feeling anything. Not fucking good.
“Yeah.” I gulped the rest of my water and clenched the bottle in my good fist. Slater appeared at my side, ready to wrap my hands. He had my gloves under his arm. I hated wearing them, preferring to fight without, but I also wasn’t in the mood to take shit from Timmins. “I’m ready, Coach.”
If only that had been true.
The first round went quickly. I circled Costas, taking his measure, and he did the same, taking mine. I landed the first strike, a swift, high roundhouse to his right side. I had no choice but to start hard, because my tank was running dangerously low. If I got into a position where he had a clear shot at my hand or face, I’d be in trouble.
A couple more kicks battled him back. I had strong legs and I was fast. My speed hadn’t deserted me at least. But Costas had a couple of years on me and he looked fresh and well-rested. Every move I made he countered easily, making me think he was biding his time. I tried to up the stakes and he pretended to let me lead. He could afford to wait me out.
I wasn’t stupid. I could tell I was outgunned. Getting in the ring tonight with this guy had been a huge, potentially deadly mistake.
I had nothing to lose…literally. He had everything to prove.
Near the end of the first round he began demonstrating that fact on my jaw, precisely where Mia had given me her little love tap earlier in the week. Then he started kicking my ribs, alternating that with a couple of jabs near my right eye. I had a hard head, but I couldn’t block enough of his hits. He seemed to be everywhere at once. My back kept spasming, and I was having trouble compensating for the ridiculously athletic combinations he kept pulling off. The guy kicked higher than a fucking cheerleader. E
very time his foot collided with my ribs I swore they’d shatter.
Even so, I gave back almost as good as I got, avoiding the illegal strikes that Costas had no problem dishing out. I was moving through mud. My kicks and punches weren’t having any effect. Either he was a fucking ninja or I was losing ground, quickly.
He knocked me back and I stumbled, going down hard. I could hear the crowd screaming, aghast that I was on my knees so soon. I rarely even fell. Now here I was, sweat stinging my eyes and my sore hand, my jaw contracting with pain so severe that I almost wished he’d knock me out to end it.
Almost done. Let it fucking be done.
My spine hit the canvas. I tried to scissor my legs to get leverage to pull him down with me long enough to switch our positions, but I couldn’t move.
Game over.
My eyelids fluttered, railing against the oblivion trying to claim me. I struggled for clarity, latching on to the only thing that could sustain me through the punishing blows.
Mia had wanted to fight me because Fox Knox was the guy to beat. What a joke. But if I went out like this, even that small use she had for me would be gone. And that thought was the fuel I used to drag my shoulder off the mat.
Mia. Always fucking Mia. But I knew I wouldn’t manage the feat twice.
Somehow I made it to my corner. A strong arm banded around my back, propping me up. And I needed the help, since my spine had apparently turned to liquid when I wasn’t looking.
“Goddammit, Fox, you can’t do this. You’re hurt. You can’t go out there again.” Slater sounded almost frantic against my ear, though I could barely hear him through my wheezy pants. Was that really me? I sounded like an aging diesel engine about to cough out a few miles from the station.
My head lolled to the side and a montage of images scrolled through my mind. My dad hitting my mom with an open hand, the slaps ringing through the floorboards of my bedroom. Me lying in my bed with the pillow crammed over my head so I wouldn’t hear. Hearing anyway.
The first time I’d walked into a MMA gym, strolling around like I owned the place. The first fight I’d won. The blowjob some anonymous ring girl had given me in the hallway after.
Mia in my tub, her thighs closed around my hand, her mouth soft on mine. “Tray.”
