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Jake’s tactics had changed. He now sought to pin Ridge down, avoiding the ruinous head punches that had almost certainly lost him the opening round. Pulled in close by an ill-advised uppercut that left him off balance, Jake recovered and reached back to pull Ridge’s legs forward. He may as well have tried to uproot a tree. Ridge stepped neatly out of the clumsy embrace and delivered a heavy kick to Jake’s stomach, ruining the balance his opponent had regained, and followed with a sequence of aggressive punches to the face, a quick, carefully orchestrated ballet of violence, which Jake simply could not block. Toppling backward helplessly, Jake was instantly grappled once more, Ridge’s knee in his belly, forearm across his throat, their positions shifting constantly in a battle to apply, and relieve, pressure.
Jake’s arm was turned suddenly to one side, forcing the fighter onto his front, whereupon Ridge sat atop his opponent and threatened to catch him in a headlock so strong that Raven feared for Jake’s life. Invisible to the crowd, but promptly announced by the referee, Jake tapped Ridge’s knee three times in the accepted signal of submission. The victor leapt up and helped his friend to his feet, lauded by the crowd in another giant swell of noise.
Only now, as they stood still, flanking the referee, could Raven see the cost of these eight minutes of warfare. Jake had a cut above his right eye, which had wetly reddened the whole side of his face, while Ridge’s torso showed the bright, painful abrasions caused by the urgent grappling and shifting hand-holds that had marked their second round. The referee was handed his microphone and made an announcement.
“Ladies and gentlemen, due to the submission of his opponent, Ridge Dawson is the winner of this fight.” Whistles and cheers filled the hall. “However, owing to medical conditions stemming from his recent combat tour to Afghanistan, Mr. Dawson is not physically able to commit to the second round of fighting, a bout that could, as you know, last up to twenty-five minutes. Therefore, by default and by post-fight withdrawal, I announce that Jake Hillman will proceed to the second round.”
A new tone of applause greeted this news, a polite and respectful clapping like none Raven had heard that evening. This was neither the herd mentality of adoring women nor the baying for blood that had marked the crowd’s reactions to his arrival. This was unabridgedrespect.
Applauding with the others, Raven found herself very confused. “What’s going on, guys?”
“He fights onlyonce,” said Maggie. “Win or lose, his opponent goes on to the next round.”
“That’s allowed?” Raven asked, surprised. “The others go along with it?”
“Well, let’s just say they make some special allowances for him around here.”
The referee was not quite finished, it seemed, and now read from a prepared card. “I’d like to announce that Mr. Dawson would like to dedicate his victory this evening to the memory of Senior Chief Petty Officer Nicholas Vines, who, like so many of our brave men and women, lost his life in the service of our country. We will forever honor their memories.” Sustained applause accompanied Ridge’s withdrawal from the ring and his whole journey back to the relatively secluded locker rooms. He was calm, focused on his own decorum and posture, almost marching. A single wave to the crowd was as much formal acknowledgment as he gave. Within moments, the next fight was being prepared, and Ridge’s crowd returned to murmured discussion.
The GI rounds were ferocious and not a little bloody. Amid loud applause and encouragement, Jake went on to compete in the final, but found himself up against a huge, highly experienced Marine who delivered a swift knockout with the bout only forty seconds old. Gradually able to pick himself up, he congratulated his opponent and emerged from the locker rooms a little while later, side by side with Ridge. Mitch and Flynn hugged their friend, and the group walked together to the parking lot.
“You ain’t never danced like that before, Ridge. Way to go, buddy.” This was Mitch’s interpretation of the fight, which found the agreement of all. “Next time you’ll go all the way, I know it.”
Ridge placed his bag on the roof of Mitch’s car and ushered Mitch, Flynn, and Jake inside. “I’ll go all the way when the doctors tell me I can,” he cautioned, more than a hint of frustration in his voice.
“Very impressive,” said Maggie. “Thanks for inviting us.”
“Yeah, I had a great time, man,” agreed Wes. “We’ll have to do this again.”
“Well, why don’t you follow us back to my place? The boys tell me there’s plenty of booze, and I asked Cheryl to make her special Pendale Salsa to go with chips.” Maggie and Wes exchanged a look and then asked Raven for her opinion.
“I’d love to come,” she said.
“Great. See you over there.” Ridge smiled slightly and then jumped into the passenger’s seat and yanked the door closed just before Mitch took the aging Mercedes at warp speed out of the parking lot.
“Raven, do you mind driving?” Maggie asked. Raven shook her head and took the wheel of her Pontiac and followed the distant, speeding Mercedes through the traffic and along quieter residential streets to Ridge’s house, parking neatly outside.
“Nice place!” Maggie commented brightly as they arrived.
Even in the dark of 9:30 p.m., they could see the two-bedroom, single-story house had been very thoroughly renovated. It may actually have been, Raven remarked to herself, the tidiest home owned by a single man she’d ever seen. The garden was freshly weeded and tilled, while inside, the living room was a neat, cozy horseshoe of couches and beanbag chairs.
“As good for exercise as for just sitting on, watching TV,” Ridge explained as he waved them in. “Grab one while I get you guys a drink.” The house was pretty well filled with people, a mix of Ridge’s friends and some other fighters from the gym, as well as a bevy of twenty-something women whose purpose here was not difficult to figure.
The hero of the hour was relieved to get away from the noise and people for a while, take a five-minute shower, and apply soothing lotion to some of the scrapes he’d endured. No repair work was required, he noted with satisfaction; he had kept his guard up, moved his feet well. Perhaps, he thought cautiously, with a few more months’ practice and continued work in the gym, he’d be back to his best.
Well,almosthis best. That peak may permanently have passed, he knew. His injuries would have at least that much of a lifelong effect. But he could practice his art, gain strength and experience, and, inadvertently at least, attract the adulation he had heard and felt tonight. The roar of the crowd when it became obvious Jake had submitted had been staggering and — quite literally — worth fighting for. The attention of the young ladies, though, was a different matter. He shook it off and returned to the party, feeling pretty good in a fresh henley and jeans, his short hair once more clean and neat.
The living room had a fun vibe, everyone with beers in hand and the music turned up. Jake had introduced himself to Raven, Maggie, and Wes as they hovered slightly awkwardly at the edge of things. “Is that your car out front, the red Pontiac LeMans?” Jake asked, receiving a nod from Raven. “I had the exact same model, back in high school. Called it Trixie. Loved that thing. It just wouldn’t quit!”
“They don’t make them like they used to,” Wes commented while Raven stifled a giggle at the name.
“Well, I should say, it didn’t quit until I drove it to Dallas one weekend to visit a buddy of mine.”
There was a pause. “What happened in Dallas?” asked Maggie.
“Got stolen,” Jake recalled.
“Oh, man, that’s theworst,” Wes commiserated.
