We danced around the octagon shaped arena, circling each other like two wild animals. My eyes remained locked with his as I sized him up. He was a decent enough rival, even getting in a few blows, but I was more than prepared for this fight. Quite frankly, I felt certain he was outmatched. We inched closer and closer, and the roar of the enthusiastic crowd hit a new peak that was almost deafening. You could practically taste the energy the audience was giving off; I, for damn sure, could feel it pulsating though my body, charging me up for this bout.
The mat was already stained with the blood of the fighters who had taken to the ring before us, and both my opponent and I added a few more drops to it. My nose was bleeding, but not broken. His was broken and the cut over his eye was going to need at least several stitches. Both of our fists were up as we kept our legs ready for action. The referee moved around us but stayed out of harm’s way, which was wise on his part. My opponent’s punches lacked the precision I strived for. One more reason why he wasn’t ready to take me on.
I smirked as the bead of sweat dripped down his temple. He knew he was in over his head. Right about now, I bet Rocco was regretting stepping in the ring with me. If he didn’t already, I was going to make sure he regretted it by the end of the match. There was no way in hell I was about to give up my championship belt, especially since I’d just won the damn thing. He came at me, lunging with a sloppy punch, but I dodged it and put some more space between us. He was getting tired and would be making more mistakes like that one. My chest heaved with anticipation as I looked at Rocco, who was panting from exhaustion.
He charged me, which was exactly what I wanted him to do. My defensive and offensive game was tight and I knew how to capitalize on the slipups of my opponents. I used his momentum, locking him in a hold, then flipped him over until I was on top. He held up his arms, blocking his face from my blows, but I wasn’t letting up. I hit his side, and when he went to protect his flank, I gave him a right hook to his temple, then followed that up with a body blow to his ribs.
“Arg!” he grunted as one of his ribs broke from the impact of my fist striking its target.
Again, I aimed for his sore ribs, hitting them with another blow. He lowered his guard on his face in order to protect his ribs and that was when I switched it up, giving a short jab to his nose. He grabbed my left arm, twisting it in an attempt to put me in a hold and gain the advantage, but I turned in the same direction, keeping my place on top of him. I raised up, kneeing him in his injured ribs twice, really giving them a bruising.
He was weakening, tired and sore from the blows I had dealt out like candy on Halloween. I had plenty to share with Rocco and, by the pained look in his eyes, I knew he wasn’t about to last much longer. I used my free hand to jab at his ribs again and when he left himself open to protect them, I gave him another sharp jab to his face and that blow knocked him the hell out. I followed it up with two more blows before the referee pulled me off his ass.
I stood up, growling like a beast in my adrenaline-fueled state. I was so hyped! The referee checked my opponent over, then declared him KO’d. I raised my hands in victory as I jumped around the ring, soaking in the praises from a well-entertained crowd. Everyone loved a winner and I loved winning. I spit out my mouthpiece so I could roar to the crowd as I continued to thrust my arms in the air victoriously. Championship defended by sheer badassness. Mission accomplished.
My head coach entered the arena along with my sparring team, and they rushed me, wrapping their arms around me as I continued to celebrate. I hugged them as we cheered and gave my coach a kiss on his temple, because lord knew he was part of the reason why I was standing there victorious. The other part was my sheer will to want to be on top. The flashing lights of the cameras were almost blinding, but I knew better how not to focus on the lights, only the crowd as they stood up in their seats, cheering and applauding. Of course, there were some assholes booing, too. Dumb fucks shouldn’t have betted against me.
I made sure to absorb all the praise like a sponge before I finally took my ass to the locker room where some of the other guys shook my hand and gave me forced congratulations. Every last one of them in my division wanted to be where I was… on top with the belt around my waist. Fucking shark tank full of opportunistic jocks.
“Congrats, man, great fucking match,” Tony Maddock said as he patted me on my back.
“Thanks, man,” I replied with a smirk. Tony lost his chance to get the belt from then Champion, Richie “The Bulldog” Swartz, three months ago. No doubt, his eyes were still focused on obtaining the gold, so his praise was bullshit in my eyes. He probably watched it thinking he could take me the entire time. The sport of Mixed Martial Arts was a dog-eat-dog competition and everyone was fighting for the bone.
“Man, that shit was awesome! You annihilated his ass,” Colt Danners said, slapping me on the back.
“I did, didn’t I?” I smiled as I thought about the blow I had landed that knocked my opponent out. It was extra sweet because Rocco talked a lot of shit in the weeks leading up to our match, saying I was too young and inexperienced to take him on. Well, that motherfucker ain’t got shit to say now.
I took off my gloves and shorts, locking them up with my belt, then made my way into the showers. The water felt so good on my skin, washing away all the sweat and blood from my body, making me feel refreshed. I finished bathing and walked out with a towel around my waist. I knew the press was waiting like a pack of carnivorous dogs to talk to me. I fucking hated the press, damn vultures. I slipped on a pair of black jeans, my boots, and my white v-neck t-shirt.
No sooner had I laced up my boots when the dressing room doors opened and my head coach and manager, Barry Vincennes, walked over, slapping me on the back. “Damn good match, Macio.”
I smiled. “Thanks.” I hugged him again and saw my publicist walking into the room.
“Are you ready for the post-fight conference?” Rupert asked me.
I really hated those fucking things, but it was part of my job, so I nodded. “Yeah, let’s get this shit over with.”
“Good. Remember, if you feel yourself getting agitated, just give shorter answers. Be honest, that’s the best you can do,” Rupert said, giving me pointers.
“Sure,” I said.
We walked to the area where the conference was being held. As soon as I walked into the room, cameras flashed their lights, causing me to blink a little as the photogs captured their images of me looking sexy and grand with my championship belt tossed over my shoulder. I sat down and removed my belt, placing it on the table beside me. I rested my hands on the table, lacing my fingers together. The pose I gave meant I was ready for their insipid questions.
“Macio, how does it feel to win tonight’s match?” one of the reporters asked.
A stupid fucking question.How do you think I feel, dumbass?That was what I wanted to say. However, my publicist, Rupert, would have had a fucking fit. He’d been trying to clean up my image a bit so I could get more endorsements. So, I went the diplomatic route… well, as diplomatic as I could be.
“It feels great,” I replied, keeping my answers short and sweet, since I was already agitated. I’d rather be heading back to my hotel right then instead of sitting there fulfilling this obligation.
“Mr. De Niro, was there any point in your match tonight where you thought you might not win?” another asked.
I snorted. “No.”
I’d been told that my short answers infuriated the media, but I could care less. Fuck them. Of course, Rupert cringed whenever someone shoved a microphone in my face because he never knew what I was going to say at the spur of the moment. I once told a reporter who’d had the nerve to ask about my sex life to go fuck herself. Rupert and Barry both told me that was unwise. I hated having to watch what I said, but business was business.
“Mr. De Niro, what do you say to people who think you’re too young to hold the title?” one of them asked.
I smirked. “Remind me again, who’s the champion?” I shot back. To that remark, there were some chuckles and murmuring. People, especially the other fighters, tended to give me shit because I was twenty-four and cocky. As far as I was concerned, I’d earned the right to be.
