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Charles writes my name down on one side of his sheet. Hank was telling the truth. Three others are above mine, all crossed out with the times of the matches written next to them.
“You’re up.” Charles puts his pen into the notebook and flips it closed. “Maybe say a prayer or something.”
I roll my eyes at both of them and head to the girl with the tape.White Collar.I wore jeans, for fuck’s sake. I wore a T-shirt.
A few familiar faces press closer to the ring as I climb up and in, flexing my hands, getting a feel for the tape. They’re other regulars. I’ve trained with a couple of them before.
“Will,” one of them calls. “You sure about this?”
I give him a big, cocky grin. “Can’t back out now.”
“Yes, you can, asshole.”
The look in his eyes says I probably should back out, but I’m not going to.
I don’t deserve a fancy-ass office and an overflowing bank account. I don’t deserve a superyacht. I deservethis.
I heard that, you little bastard.
My opponent looks even bigger from inside the ring.
The ref glances at me, glances at the other guy, and frowns.
I’m known as a fairly decent boxer. I regularly win rounds on nights like these.
The mountain pushes himself away from the ropes and cracks his knuckles. Every vein in my body is strung through with adrenaline and supersaturated oxygen.
This isn’t a boxing match. This is a suicide mission.
I’ll make you wish you were dead.
Everybody else is happy, anyway. Crowd noise drowns out my heartbeat. The ref rushes in.
The bell rings.
Mountain Man is huge, and he’s not particularly fast. He comes in easy and swipes at me with one giant hand.
I see it coming from a mile away. Plenty of time to duck, which I do. A laugh rolls over the crowd. I give them a smile, keeping my eyes on the danger.
The laugh is good for me. It gets them on my side.
It also fucks me over a little bit, because Mountain Man doesn’t like it. He hops back a step, face going red.
They were cheering for him before. Waiting to see how many people he’d knock out. Now that he’s refused to leave the ring, the crowd wants an underdog.
He charges me again, faster. More seriously. Hecanmove his hands at a decent speed when he wants to. A blow grazes my cheek. I use the moment to drive my fist into his gut.
The impact sends pain through my knuckles, all the way up to my shoulders.
He feints a kick, and I’m ready for the punch afterward.
Ready, but it doesn’t do much of anything. Even a blocked hit rattles my teeth. He’s just that big.
If you’re going down anyway, you might as well go down swinging.
So I do.
I catch him across the jaw. Another time under his ribs. My hands go numb first, which means there’ll be hell to pay in the morning.
