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“Sorry, Raven,” said Flynn quietly. “He still needs to learnstyle.”
“Whatever,” said Mitch dismissively. “It’s not like he ever tries to get a phone number or anything, though I guess it’d be just as easy as doing twenty pull-ups for him.”
Raven loved their double-act and couldn’t help smiling throughout. They were fiercely protective of their friend, while simultaneously happy to laud his ability to destroy almost any other fighter. Something told Raven that their insistence of Ridge’s chasteness in the face of rabid temptation wasn’t simply for her benefit; she knew already that he was, to put it mildly, a most unusual young man.Wonderfully unusual, she thought. A warrior and a martial artist, but sensitive all the same, a good grill chef, and who knew what else?
Mitch and Flynn excused themselves and headed to the locker rooms to help Ridge warm up. Raven returned to her seat, where Wes filled her in on the rest of the rules. “They fight five rounds, each five minutes.”
“The GIs do,” Maggie interjected. “The others fight only three rounds.”
“True that. Anyway, Mitch told me that Ridge has only fought a couple of times since he was injured, and that he takes it easy if his body isn’t feeling perfect.”
Raven made a face. “How can he take it easy if he’s supposed to beat the crap out of some guy?”
“You’ll see,” he promised.
Wes got them beers and hotdogs during the initial rounds, in which teenagers competed while wearing protective headgear and gloves thicker than the standard sets. Raven saw at once how different it was from regular boxing. The ring, for one thing, was not the traditional square, but an eight-sided arena. There seemed to be little in the way of rules, with opponents permitted to hit with their hands, elbows, knees, and feet, sometimes seemingly all at once. She watched a seventeen-year-old blond kid with a Marines haircut aggressively demolish a slightly younger competitor, who seemed stunned by the ferocity. The same fighter then ass-whipped a more experienced kid in the next round, despite being a year younger and three inches shorter. He won the final in a way Raven hadn’t expected; his opponent, having taken a rain of blows to the head from the blond fighter’s elbows and fists, seemed to teeter unsteadily and then tapped the mat three times in submission, immediately ending the fight.
“Don’t they get shit from their friends for giving up like that?” Raven wanted to know.
Wes finished his beer, tipping it back almost triumphantly. “Not really,” he said. “Everyone in this business knows that it’s better to know your limits than to stay in the fight and wind up in an ambulance.”
The rounds seemed to whizz past as the three waited patiently for Ridge’s turn to fight. Mitch and Flynn were absolutely right about the crowd; it had increased tenfold since they’d arrived, and was predominately women in their twenties and thirties, shaking loose men folk who gathered at the bar while their partners crowded as close to the ringside as they could.
Ridge was not the only object of their affection, Raven noted. A sculpted Adonis of a fighter had clearly built a substantial following, many of whom had brought banners and air-horns; it made for the noisiest fight yet by far, a short and almost shockingly brutal dismissal of a dark-haired fighter who gave away six inches and a lot of reach. One round plus a minute were enough for the referee to bring the fight to a close.
“Jesus. They don’t take any prisoners, do they?” marveled Raven.
“Honey, you very literally ain’t seennothingyet,” Wes assured her. “These are the non-GIs, still. Once Ridge steps up, you’ll think this were just kids’ play.”
The tall Adonis battered his way to the final, where he faced an even taller and — Raven noted with wide-eyed appreciation — even more muscular opponent. Bare-chested, as they all were, he seemed to be a mass of pure muscle, but highly coordinated and fast. They were evenly matched, producing a final worthy of the name, a tense, three-round slugfest of precision hitting, dancing footwork, and the cold, controlled brutality known only to highly trained practitioners of martial arts.
Adonis man was bloodied and had been pinned down several times, but in the third round’s dying seconds, with the crowd roaring for it to happen, he twisted to dodge a flying fist and replied with a hard, sickening connection between his right elbow and his dizzied opponent’s left temple. Seemingly in slow motion, the huge man took two steps back, then lost his footing and crumpled to the floor. It was like watching a granite statue collapse, its supports chopped from underneath. The arena erupted; seldom had Raven heard such astounding noise from a mere few hundred spectators.
“You ready for this?” It was Mitch, beer in hand, face plastered with an excited grin. “Oh, man, I swear to you, girl, it’s like watching David to Ridge’s goddamnedGoliath. Except in this story, Goliath wins. I don’t care who they put up there.”
As it turned out, Ridge’s bout was the first of the GI category’s initial rounds. The crowd settled for a moment before the announcer accompanied Ridge’s entrance from the preparatory rooms. “Ladies and gentlemen, I want to introduce a young man who is known personally to many of you,” he said, the crowd responding wildly at each pause, “and is respected by everyone he ever meets.”
He’s a friggin’ local legend, Raven thought, butterflies enlivening her stomach. “Wow, is he famous or something?”
“I can only go on what Mitch told me. The crowd noise might clue you in,” said Wes with a friendly smile. He was as taken aback as his two female companions.I mean, the guy just grilled in my front yard, and now look at all of this!
“Four times deployed to play his vital role in the War on Terror, and four times a returning hero,” the announcer continued, whipping up the crowd with practiced ease. “It is my pleasure to welcome back to the ring afiercecompetitor,” he boomed, carrying the crowd to new heights, “an accomplishedfighter,” he emphasized, giving the noise time to approach its peak, “the winner ofthreePurple Hearts, the Distinguished Service Cross, and theSilver Staras a Navy SEAL,” he raged, almost drowned out now by the full-throated yelling that seemed ready to lift the arena’s roof straight off, “Ridge... Dawson!”
It was a noise orgy like nothing Raven thought a modest crowd could create. They were stomping and yelling, competing with a thunderous rock and roll tune blaring through the PA speakers, willing their hero to the ring. His competitor, introduced with less gusto but with respectful approbation from both the crowd and announcer, was Jake Hillman, another ex-Navy man who was now part of the town’s fire department. Ridge shrugged off his scarlet robe and revealed his musculature, a model of taut perfection. His sternum was the only unadorned area; every other part of his torso — his pectorals, his incredibly sculpted abdomen, the muscles that pointed attractively down in a strong V-shape and ended somewhere in his navy-blue shorts — was a rippling accomplishment.
Jake wasn’t bad-looking, either, Raven saw. Amid the incredible noise, the two came together with the referee at the center of the ring and bumped gloves in the traditional manner. Then, however, came something very much not of the MMA tradition: they placed their foreheads together and seemed, for all the world, to pray out loud, whispering the same invocation. It was as expected to the crowd as it was unexpected to Raven, Maggie, and Wes, who glanced at each other, unsure what to make of this unusual and touching moment. The two fighters then hugged briefly, bumped gloves again, and stepped back to let the referee deliver the rules.
“Wes, what’s going on? None of the other rounds started this way.” Raven’s interest couldn’t have been more piqued.
“I have no idea,” he said, entirely mystified. “Like I said, he’s a legend around here. You heard the announcer... and this crazy-ass crowd.”
“Didn’t it seem like he and Jake know each other?” Maggie suggested, but before anyone could speculate, the round began.
With a swift hand motion, the diminutive referee bade the two menfight. Raven’s heart pumped as Ridge began a dodging, dancing, fleet-footed style of combat. He was impressively quick and precise, responding to Jake’s every jab with a well-timed duck, fading away as though able to predict his every move. Jake himself eluded many of Ridge’s early punches, catching a few to the side of the head, but not allowing himself to become rattled. Coming in close, Jake tried a swift knee contact with Ridge’s belly, but found himself hurled back and twisted onto his side. In a blink, Ridge had pounced, pinning Jake down in a writhing flurry of limbs and gloves.
Just what is this man?Raven found herself wondering.A lamb, or a lion?She watched as Jake managed, somehow, to wriggle free and right himself, backing toward the far ropes to give himself time to regroup. Ridge flexed his shoulders and advanced confidently but received two quick blows to the head, a hard elbow and a meaty punch, which stopped his progress and saw him buying his own time. There was a period of measured exchanges, careful and reactive, neither fighter prepared to commit. Long before she expected it, the round was over, five minutes of combat brought to a close.
Jake was receiving ice to his face and was inhaling an energy drink as though his life depended on it, but in the other corner, Raven saw, the scene was very different. Mitch knelt by his friend as Ridge sat quietly, eyes closed, breathing very deeply in a regular, practiced pattern. Gloved hands on his thighs, posture upright, Ridge simply breathed for the whole of the break. Called back into action, his eyes flew open and he advanced once more with renewed confidence.
