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The knowledge that Tess is out there in the crowd makes me uneasy. Lights flash, camera crews jostle for a good position and the raucous audience bays for blood.
Tess could have comfortably watched the live stream at home but she was hurt when I tried to push this idea. At least I can breathe a little easier knowing Conner and Gage are both sitting with her. Even Tess’s uncle is here in some unofficial police role. She’s safe.
So why does an inexplicable icy sensation keep inching up the back of my neck each time I scan the audience?
Over the last week it’s occurred to me that I should have turned this fight down. I’ve been spending far too much time at the gym, rolling through the front door long after dark, obsessed with the next chance to beat another man until he falls.
Tess hasn’t breathed a word of complaint. Yet she’s been unusually quiet.
I’ve been neglecting her and I’m sincerely fucking pissed at myself for that. I chose a selfish option when I should have stayed a hundred percent focused on her at a time when she needed me.
I’ll do better, Tessie.
Today I told Elijah I’m not accepting anymore fight invitations for the time being. He lifted both eyebrows in surprise but has known me long enough to understand I don’t share details unless I feel like it.
After the fight I’ll tell Tess. She needs to hear that I’m completely dedicated to her. Nothing in the world is more important.
“Gentlemen,” says the ref, motioning to us from opposite corners, “bring it in.”
I know all about my opponent. Teal Lazor is on the edge of retirement. But anyone who assumes he’ll be easy to beat is mistaken. A man with something to prove on his way out is a man not to be taken lightly.
“War Lion!” Two drunk girls scream for me in the front row. One flashes her tits and the cheers become deafening.
All I do is look away.
The nickname is one I gave to myself years ago, back when I was fresh out of lockup, compelled by fury and outrage. Clever, I thought at the time. A play on my last name. Lions don’t apologize when they crush bones and draw blood. No one expects them to.
Yeah, I was ready for a war in those days. It’s a drive that clings stubbornly, even now.
But I have the ability to mute it when I want to.
And I do want to. For the sake of the girl I love.
“Touch gloves, if you wish,” says the ref and backs away.
Lazor shows his back rather than make the sportsmanship gesture. Doesn’t bother me a bit.
My eyes scan the audience one final time.
I hope she sees this and understands it’s her I’m searching for.
The buzzer sounds. It’ll be three rounds at five minutes apiece.
I’m ready.
Lazor charges and he’s got skills. I knew that already thanks to the hours spent watching footage from past fights.
I never keep an eye on the clock. Minutes are irrelevant. There’s only the next kick, the next pivot, the next punch.
When I’m clocked on the chin it’s a solid hit and I stumble back, momentarily stunned. Lazor seizes the chance to rain down blows on my ribs.
However, he has his weaknesses and I know what they are. Once he starts hitting he’s got tunnel vision, paying no mind to peripheral threats. He’s totally stunned when my foot smacks into the side of his head.
He bleeds first, somewhere in the middle of the second round. It drips down the side of his face like gruesome paint.
Yet blood never tells the whole story. It’s possible to make the other guy turn the mat red with a dozen cuts and still lose.
I don’t plan to lose. Not with Tess watching.
