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I dumped off my hoodie and stepped into the ring. My opponent was already there, waiting for me. Tattooed dude with a shaved head and biblical scripture all over his chest and arms.
I’d never fought him before. Buddy Black had scraped him up out of some gym down in Surrey.
As people shouted around us, my guys and his, egging each other on, talking smack, people joking and shoving, adrenalin thumped through me. I felt calm and controlled, but my body was warmed up and I was ready to go.
“Ten seconds,” one of Buddy’s guys, our “referee” for the night, announced.
My opponent crossed himself, pacing on the other side of the small ring, which was nothing but tape stuck to the concrete floor. I sized him up. He wore loose shorts. Stupid.
I wore black grappling spats, compression leggings, thick ones, because fighting on a concrete floor with bare legs was a bad idea and how you got ripped the fuck open. No shirt, though, because I didn’t want to give my opponent anything more than necessary to grab onto.
Officially, we followed the Unified Rules of Mixed Martial Arts, same as the UFC. Unofficially, there wasn’t much to ensure those rules were upheld. Some guys fought dirty, but at least it got harder for those guys to get fights, once their reputation got around.
The guy I was facing down tonight had a decent record. He was bigger than me, but not much. Had a slightly longer reach. Younger than me by three years. Had less fights under his belt. He had decent kickboxing, better than mine.
I’d beat him, for sure.
I just had to establish who was controlling the fight right away. Take him to the ground as fast as I could. His ground game would be no match for mine.
I just had to watch out for his legs. His kicks would be dangerous if they caught me.
As the crowd noise built around us, I stared him down. You had to be comfortable in this space; he was already sweating, way more than he should be. I could see it from here.
Some guys got nervous or angry when you got in their face. But you had to keep control. Where others were uncomfortable, I was comfortable. This was my secret weapon. The more they unravelled, the more I enjoyed. Being angry or nervous or too anxious would just affect your ability to perform.
My opponent was nervous right now.
I could see it.
I could feel it.
When the horn blew and the fight started, we felt each other out for a good half minute before I landed the first blow. I hit him in the face, then once in the temple, maybe a dozen times to the body, before he landed a direct hit to my jaw that snapped my head to the side.
I went back in with a flurry of punches. I wanted to get in tight, take him right off his feet, as fast as I could. I’d take him down, submit him, probably choke him out. Make him tap.
I’d pictured it in my mind, so many times.
But there was always a chance that he’d kick me in the head, and it would suddenly be over.
Or, maybe I’d knock him out first.
Hard to do when you weren’t wearing gloves. Hard, because the risk of breaking your hand was more likely than doing enough damage to his head.
I landed a couple of kicks, took a nasty one to the left leg myself that had me limping just a bit. I landed a few more blows, including one that made a satisfying squish, a nasty crack of bone against cartilage. I barely noticed the blood pouring down his face, except that it was making everything slippery as it coated us both and dripped to the floor beneath our feet.
I hit him again, a couple of quick shots to the body that had him grunting. I tried to catch him in the liver, the kidney, drop him on his ass, but I couldn’t quite hit the spot.
So I hit him high again—uppercut to the jaw. He reeled back, caught himself before I could kick him right off his feet. And suddenly, I met her eye.
Jolie, standing in the crowd, watching me as men shouted at us, all around her.
She looked stunned. Horrified, actually.
Sick.
I was on the floor before I knew what happened. He’d caught me off-guard, sweeping my legs right out from under me and taking me down. The full force of his body landed on top of me, his shoulder to my sternum.
The wind coughed out of me.
