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Coach punches his opposite palm and growls. “I didn’t hear you, pussy! Who’s strong?”
“I am!” Bobbing his head back and forth, Jace leaps off the bench and hops on the balls of his feet.
“Who’s a winner?”
“I am!”
“Who’s gonna smash Pretty Boy’s face into the mat?”
“I am!” He beats the air with his fists, blowing a strong breath through his mouth with each rigid punch.
My heart lurches into my throat. I stave off the tears building beneath my lashes. Jace isn’t the only one who needs to be strong. Jimbo stands in the center of the ring, the chain link cutting his stout frame into diamonds. I take my seat just as he begins revving up the spectators.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got a fight tonight like you’ve never seen! Lightweight versus middleweight in three rounds of good versus evil! The ultimate face-off, where one man walks away champion while the other just walks away.
“In the blue corner, mixed martial artist, twelve wins, two losses. He stands five feet, ten inches tall, weighing in at one hundred and forty-eight pounds, representing Red Drum Elite, the challenger, ‘Pretty Boy’ Troy McNamara!”
Half the room howls while the other half boos. Troy trots out like he’s the king of the world, his nose in the air as he raises his fists. He dances around the octagon, showing off spin kicks and playing to the crowd.
“And in the red corner, the man you all came to see. Mad Dog MMA’s all-time undefeated champion with ten first-round finishes, standing six feet and a hundred and seventy-two pounds, the wild stallion himself, Jace ‘The Wild One’ Wilder!”
I wince from the pitch of the screams that follow. Jace steps out, his head bowed but his eyes forward. No usual theatrics or bold-faced displays of masculinity. Just an evil stare aimed at Troy. His crew gets to work, slathering his face with vaseline and preparing him for battle before ushering him into the ring.
Jimbo moves out as the ref enters the middle. He stretches his arms out wide, peering from one side to the other. Jace lifts his gloves, poised in a fighting stance as Troy gets down low, shifting side to side.
“Ready? Fight!”
The ref backs to the fencing as the two men attack. Troy comes out swinging. Jace plays defense, letting him swing with all his might before landing a kick to his ribs. Troy stumbles but recovers quickly as Jace comes in with a roundhouse that narrowly misses his face. He responds with an uppercut to Jace’s gut.
They round the octagon, punches flying. It’s obvious Jace is holding back. He’s far too comfortable, toying with Troy as he bounces left to right.
Troy’s fist catches Jace in the mouth. His head snaps to the side, a dollop of blood landing on the mat. He lashes out and nails Troy dead in the face. Troy falls like a tree in the woods, but Jace doesn’t stop. He pummels him into the mat as Troy twists to protect his front.
As if tugged by unknown forces, Jace pulls back. Troy staggers to his feet as the first-round bell sounds. They scatter to their sides, their pit crew rushing to their aid.
A one-minute reprieve is not enough for me to catch my breath. I clutch my chest, praying they get it over with soon. I can’t bear to watch, but I can’t look away. Two more rounds, ten minutes, six hundred seconds of torture sharing the seat beside me.
For the second time, the ref counts down, and the boys move in. Troy starts with a jab to the face. Jace shakes it off like a gnat bite. He thrusts right, then left, then right again while springing backward on the balls of his feet.
Troy lands a swift kick to the leg. Jace recovers with a strike to the hip. This is a joke. Two children in a slap fight spinning in a circle. I’ve seen Jace take down tougher opponents in a matter of seconds. His last fight was over almost before it even started. Every hit Troy lands is an act of humiliation.
By the second round bell, I’m silently praying for Jace to fall to the mat and stay there. The coach is screaming to get his head in the game. They blot the blood from his mouth, and it’s time for round three.
Troy’s tired of dicking around. He swings his arm, then catches Jace in a hug and jams his knee into his face. The crowd erupts, a splattered mix of cheers and jeers reverberating around me.
My breath recedes to a shallow pant. I teeter on the edge of my seat, waiting for Jace to fall, but in a gasp-inducing move, he yanks Troy’s leg out from under him. Troy hit the mat hard. Jace wraps an arm around his middle and threads a leg between his. A swift punch to the ribs, the face, the kidneys …
Troy takes control. He hooks his leg behind Jace’s back and flips the script. Now on the bottom, he slides across the mat with Troy on his chest. He holds him down, jabbing into his chin while Jace grasps at his neck and head. The ref steps forward. This is it. The moment of truth. Jace’s first loss, Troy’s huge victory.
His name floats from my lungs, a plea, a promise. I clamp my hands to my mouth to shove it back in, but it’s too late. The weight of Jace’s one-second gaze locks me to my chair. He slips his legs around Troy’s middle and rolls backward. Once again, Troy’s on his back, but Jace is done playing games. Up on his knees, he whales his fists without mercy. A fountain of blood pumps from Troy’s nose as Jace slams with all his might.
The ref jumps between, prying them apart. He lifts Jace’s arm in the air. “Winner!”
Troy kneels in the center with his head hung low as Jace skips along the perimeter. He grabs the chain link. Howling like an animal, he climbs to the top, his arms raised in a V as he celebrates his victory.
Undefeated.
I run to meet him as he exits the ring. Fans and crew swoop in. They huddle around him, everyone wanting a few seconds with the champ, but he’s looking for me. “Ellie!” he cries.
