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Chapter 25
Cash
Pain and I were starting to become best friends at this point. Not a day went by where my knee wasn’t actively trying to kill me. Every step was like walking on glass, sharp and scream-inducing. I held it all in, bit my tongue to keep it pent up inside. Tonight, pain was going to be the fuel I needed to keep going.
All or nothing, this is it.
Unfortunately, neither my head nor my heart was in it. As I stepped into the octagon, thousands of people either praised or condemned my name at the top of their lungs. It didn’t matter to me anymore. I didn’t care if they framed me as the underdog or the deserving villain. They could think what they wanted. There was only one person I cared about watching, and she wasn’t in her front row seat like she was supposed to be.
“I want a nice clean match,” the referee said. “Are you ready? Fight!”
My body was working on autopilot, shifting into an orthodox guard with my fists raised to protect my head. I didn’t feel connected, like my brain was lagging two seconds behind. The lights above my head were blinding. The roar of the audience was deafening. The air felt too thick to move through, like one of those nightmares where you tried running and running, only to find you hadn’t moved an inch.
McConnell came at me with an alternating jab-cross flurry. While I admired his gusto, his technique was sloppy. H e must have thrown ten separate punches, but none of them managed to hit me. I dodged out of the way, ducking and weaving with little effort. McConnell tried coming at me with a front kick followed up with a spinning backfist, but all I had to do was take one giant step back to get out of range.
I recognized his fight patterns. They were the same ones Bob trained into us, making us repeat them over and over again until they were beaten into our muscle memory. It was surprisingly on-brand for Bob. Even though he changed up the fighters he wanted to coach, he hadn’t bothered updating his fighting style. I watched with glee as McConnell’s confidence began to wane, anger causing his eyes to turn red and his nostrils to flare.
“Stay on him!” Dylan shouted at me. “Don’t let him catch his breath!”
Adrenaline coursed through my veins. The moment I saw an opening, I took it, wailing on McConnell with one head hook after the other. He managed to squirm away before earning himself a TKO, running away to the other side of the octagon to put a safe distance between us. His eye was already purple, swelling up like a balloon.
The bell rang, announcing the end of the first round. I hadn’t even broken a sweat yet.
Dylan jumped up into the cage and checked me over. He frowned. “How’s the shoulder holding up?”
“It’s fine,” I mumbled as I popped out my mouth guard to take a drink of water. I kept my eyes on McConnell across the way. Bob was whispering something in my opponent’s ear, throwing me all sorts of dirty looks over his shoulder.
“Get him with a grapple,” Dylan suggested. “McConnell has a shit track record when it comes to getting down on the mat.”
I nodded. “You got it.”
The moment the second round started, I made my move. I lunged at him, wrapping my arms around his waist as I shoved him back. McConnell lost his balance and went toppling over, landing on his ass with a patheticoof. He struggled against me, clawing his nails against my skin as he tried to get the upper hand. I kept him pinned, nailing him once or twice in the ribs with a heavy- fisted body hook.
Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw a brunette seated in the front row cheering.
Julia?
In the moment that I realized it wasn’t her, my opponent nailed me right on the nose with an unforgiving punch. The taste of iron coated my tongue as hot, sticky blood trickled down my face.
His eye. My nose.
Nowthings were getting interesting.
I managed to break free from his attempted hold, landing a front kick straight to his gut. I wanted to wail on him, but the referee threw himself between us as the second round ended. I had sixty seconds to recuperate before we were thrown into round three.
Dylan was quick to clean me up, wiping my face roughly with a damp cloth. “The hell were you doing?” he asked. “You had him right where you wanted him.”
“Got distracted,” I said, breathing hard.
“You can daydream later. Now’s not the time.” Dylan looked at McConnell and Bob on the other side of the cage. “You’re doing some serious damage to him. Just keep it up. Use your stamina to your advantage.” We bumped fists. “Now go fuck him up.”
Round three started more carefully than the first two. We circled around the cage; our eyes locked into a vi cious staring contest. McConnell was smart to be wary, the fear of failure clear in his eyes.
He grinned suddenly, something wicked washing over his face.
“His knee!” Bob shouted. “Go for his knee!”
I didn’t even have a chance to react. McConnell went straight for my bad knee and nailed it with a powerful kick.
