Bash shuts his eyes and takes both of my hands in his. I whisper a soft prayer between us, only loud enough for us to hear. I ask God to protect Bash and to give him enough faith to carry him through this fight. And when we break apart, Bash shoulders seem to loosen.
“Thank you.”
“You got this. Now, go.”
He swallows hard and kisses my forehead before he steps away.
I watch his broad shoulders cut through the crowd as he heads toward the locker rooms. My chest tightens as I lose sight of him, so I go find my seat. It’s right up front. I can see the ring perfectly, and the crowd around me is so lively. People are already chanting random names of fighters I don’t recognize, and I even hear Bash’s name thrown around a few times. I try not to let my nerves for him consume me as I settle into my seat.
I stare at the ring.
This is Bash’s world. It’s everything he’s been looking forward to and training for. It’s what he left his parents for and why he allowed himself to be cut off financially. It’s a part of him I’ve only glimpsed from the edges.
Tonight I’ll get to see it fully for the first time.
The fights before Bash’s pass in a blur. The crowd roars with every hit and every victory, but it’s hard for me to focus. One guy gets hit so hard, his eye swells shut. Another loses a tooth. Someone even gets knocked unconscious, and it makes my gut tighten. All I can think about is Bash going through all this when it’s his turn.
It’s a sport, Romilly. It’s no different than a football player getting tackled. He’ll be fine.
When it’s finally time for Bash’s fight, the noise level rises. He steps into the ring, and the sight of him makes my breath catch in my throat. I’ve seen him in scrubs, in thick jackets and jeans, and even in his pajamas. But there’s something about seeing him like this, in his tight, black fighting shorts, with his bare chest exposed along with every tattooed muscle, that unwinds me. My head fogs up as I take him in.
Gone is the gentle, charming Bash who makes me smile and laugh when we’re alone. The one who murmurs softly to me and plays with my hair.
Like this, he looks menacing. His jaw is tightly set in a massive scowl. His muscled arms are crossed in front of him, and his brows are turned downward in a frown. He adjusts his fingerless gloves and nods to his opponent. The fight begins, and for a moment, I forget to breathe.
Bash lands the first punch. The crowd goes wild as he takes Connor down, and the two of them grapple for what seems like forever before Connor breaks free. They’re both back on their feet, and Connor lands a kick on Bash that has me painfully twisting my own fingers.
But Bash moves with a precision and speed that’s almost impossible to look away from as he strikes back. It’s quick and sharp, and his footwork seems so instinctual to him. For a moment, I remember the way he defended me when that homeless man cornered me for money. But I can’t help but realize that was the reigned-in, controlled version of what he is right now.
Connor gets Bash into a headlock the announcer calls a Rear Naked Choke. Bash struggles against Connor’s arm around his neck and tucks his chin, but his face still gets alarmingly red.
The crowd chants Connor’s name. Everyone is on their feet, shouting words I hardly register. Until they do.
Bash is going to lose.
All I can do is watch, my heart pounding in time with every second that passes without him breathing.
Tap, Bash. Just tap. Stop letting him choke you,I think.
And then,Lord, please help him. Get him out of this.
I dig my nails into my palms while everyone else shouts. Bash looks like he’s about to faint.
I can’t watch. I need to leave.Rising from my chair, I make for the exit. I can’t watch this go on another minute.
When I’m almost at the exit, the crowd’s roar becomes deafening, so I turn around, peeking through one eye.
Bash isn’t unconscious. At least, not yet. He gets his hands between his neck and Connor’s arm, locked around his neck. Then he steps backward before throwing all his weight forward into a front headlock position and lands several groin strikes on Connor. He shifts his hits to the side of Connor’s calf, throwing him off balance, while pulling that arm free and escaping from the chokehold.
The crowd roars as Bash gets back on his feet, free of Connor’s grip. He twists Connor’s arm—the one that was around his neck—and takes him down, nailing Connor in the face so many times I have to close my eyes.
Bash knocks out Connor Stronghold. And Connor doesn’t get back up.
The referee raises Bash’s hand in victory, and the crowd erupts. My hands tremble as I clap right along with them. The relief that courses through me makes my knees feel weak.
He did it. He won.
And then a few rows in front of where I’m standing, a commotion breaks out. I tear my gaze away from the ring tosee two men arguing. Their voices are sharp and angry, and the people in the seats around them try to edge away.
