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Drake walks around the cage again. I’m sure he’s trying to run the giant ragged. He’s a big man. He’s not as quick, but he has heavy, solid blows.
The bell rings minutes later and the first round is over. Drake guzzles down some water from a blue bottle Oscar hands him.
As I sip my drink, I watch his throat work to swallow. That strong, square jaw and perfect pink mouth. It glistens with water from the screen above.
Kylie nudges me in the elbow.
I sigh. I don’t have to look at her to know what she’s thinking. I’m staring. I have to stop staring.
The bell rings again and the second round begins. Drake doesn’t hesitate to kick The Slayer so hard on the thigh that the noise sounds like splashing water.
The Slayer stumbles and Drake throws his hands in the air, smirking behind his fists. The Slayer runs in his direction, slamming him down to the mats. The crowd gasps and awes, and I flinch inside, unable to blink.
I want to look away, but I can’t do that either. Otto and Oscar are shouting at Drake, demanding him to get up. To “fuck him up”, in their words.
So much hostility fills the air, but I get what Drake likes about this. Why he loves fighting so much. When someone is telling you to handle a situation, why not handle it?
That’s the Doomsday mindset apparently, because the roles immediately reverse.
He slides his elbow out, planting an arm on the mat and ending up on top of The Slayer. He punches him repeatedly, and The Slayer’s head bobs, hitting the mat back-to-back.
I hear Oscar shouting something like “Let up!” and Drake’s eyes flicker up before he lets his opponent go. He shoots up to a stand.
Drake rounds the cage, stopping in a spot that is directly across from where I sit.
He looks over The Slayer’s shoulder when he finally rises, but it’s when he sees Shane sitting beside me, about to whisper something in my ear, he freezes for a split second.
We lock eyes again.
My lips part.
His jaw pulses, eyebrows fusing together.
I don’t blink. Not once, while we’re like this.
Shane says, “I don’t know why this Doomsday guy has his face plastered all over the fucking city. He isn’t even all that. He isn’t doing jack shit!”
I ignore his remark because, frankly, he has no idea. There is a reason Drake’s face is all over this city of sin. Because he is sin. He is a death wish waiting to happen if you push him the wrong way.
He is hardcore and dangerous and from what I remember, if you tempt him in the slightest, he could quite possibly shatter every single bone in your body.
Drake watches me with furious green eyes, and then he looks away, over at Oscar. Oscar is already looking at me, giving me the same look he did when he first saw me.
As if he knew I would be a distraction, he drops his head and shakes it with disapproval. And then I see him disappointedly mouth the word, “Fuck.”
A bell rings moments later and the second match is over.
“What in the hell was that?” Kylie hisses at me.
I pick my drink up and guzzle down every last sip. I relax in my seat, keeping my eyes away from where Drake sits.
I can feel eyes on me. Lots of eyes, and I’m not sure who they belong to.
The bell rings and the third match begins. It’s as soon as that bell rings when Drake hops up like his ass has been set on fire and rushes for The Slayer. He throws jabs, hooks, and heavy blows without much time for anyone to process what the hell is happening.
Blood flies all over the mats, grunts fill the stadium.
He kicks Slayer once, knocking his massive body against the cage and causing a loud rattling noise.
That’s it right there.
He is going for the kill. He didn’t even give The Slayer time to move during this third round. It all happens so damn fast. It’s like a complete blur.
Blow after blow. Kick after kick. Jab after jab. It all happens before my very own eyes.
Drake growls and roars like some raging animal. The Slayer can’t do a damn thing. He’s pinned to the cage.
And then it comes.
Drake grips the back of The Slayer’s head and with one swift knee to the center of his face, he knocks that monster out cold.
The opponent sluggishly crumbles to his knees. And just as I expected, the crowd goes mad. Women scream to the top of their lungs as men who were rooting for The Slayer shout raging obscenities.
My pulse pounds slowly in my ears, my hands clammy, as I place my empty glass in the cup holder beside me.
“Oh my goodness,” Kylie laughs. “Did he just—did he just get jealous and take it out in the cage?”
