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Doesn’t fucking matter. I deliver a flurry of blows to his face which he blocks with his raised fists, then kick at his shins, so he backpedals. A roundhouse kick from the other side catches him by surprise, but he recovers quickly, moving back into my space and kicking back.
I manage to avoid the hit, then return with a punch to the plexus before he straightens. It connects and he stumbles back, his brows rising to his hairline.
Yeah, didn’t expect that, did you? Bastard.
It’s my arms I’ve been strengthening for two years now, punching that bag at the gym, imagining it was you. Imagining this moment, never thinking it would come.
With a growl, he marches on me. He throws a punch to my chest, which I block and step back, then I’m stepping in again, delivering a punch to his face.
He blocks. “You’ve got nothing on me, boy.”
“Yeah? This is enough.” I show him my fist, but his gaze locks on the pale pink cloth tied to my arm and his face transforms into a mask of anger.
“Fuck you.” He hurls himself at me, and I sidestep him, easily delivering a kick to his shin and a punch to his side.
I continue pummeling him, turning as he turns until he’s forced to throw up his fists in defense and back away to regroup.
The plan, Riot.
He’s taller than me, but not by much. Bulkier, for sure, but how would his bulk serve him if he fell?
If I turned his strategy on himself?
I have to block his next attack, but I don’t dance away like I used to do, turning in circles, wearing my opponent out. Besides, I’m much too tired myself for that.
I don’t back down. Always forward. Eyes locked on the target. On my goal.
Pax. She’s my goal. My end destination.
She’s watching me. On a whim, I raise my fist and wave at her, the pink scarf tied on my arm fluttering.
The crowd goes wild.
The Crusher groans like an animal in pain. It hits me then. It’s attention he craves. All this bloody show is to get attention, and now I’m stealing it from him.
What’s Ellen Morris to him? I wonder briefly as I take a step back to avoid a kick, but that’s all the time I have before he’s throwing punch after punch at me, trying to force me back. To corner me, throw me down.
Instead I duck under his fists and elbow him in the ribs as I straighten up behind him, and follow up with a vicious series of punches to his kidneys and a kick to the back of his legs.
Like that, motherfucker?
The crowd cheers and claps as he stumbles forward, his knees starting to buckle. But of course they don’t. Would have been too easy.
He tries an uppercut, but I stop it, and then he grabs my arm.
What the fuck?
He pulls me toward him, and I punch him in the face. What is he doing? I’m so close, in his guard, that every punch I throw has no force behind it, but still it hits its target unerringly. Jabs to the ribs. To the jaw.
He finally staggers back two steps, shaking his head like a dog, his eyes a bit unfocused, as I shake out my cramped, aching fingers. Blood spatters my taped knuckles. Must have hit his teeth.
And then he’s coming at me again, again reaching for me—for my arm and the scarf wrapped around it.
That’s what he wants?
I punch him again, but he doesn’t retreat. He clamps his hand so tightly around my forearm I think the bone will break.
“She should have given it to me,” he hisses.
