He swings first, a punch that I easily dodge. I counter with a knee to his thigh, only to feel his elbow slam into my ribs. It’s a dance I’d rehearsed countless times With Dallas over the past five years of relentless training and fighting. I know it so well, I even dream about it—waking up in the dead of night, fists raised, instinctively jabbing at invisible opponents in the dark.
Fighting has become as natural as breathing for me, the place where I channel all my pain and anger. It’s the only time that I truly feel alive, but it’s also brought out a side of me few know exists.
In the ring, I’m no longer Clay Cameron, the easygoing guy everyone in Lonestar Junction knows. The pacifist and the last one to jump into a bar brawl. I become something else—someone far more dangerous, driven, and relentless. And I like this version of myself best.
I lunge for one of Billy’s legs, aiming for a takedown, but he barely stumbles before regaining his footing. A solid blow to histhigh followed by a sharp elbow to my chest forces me to pause, gasping for air.
Pain.
The familiar sting spreads from my ribs to my lungs, and I welcome it. His next hit skims my cheek, making me bite my tongue just enough to taste that metallic hint of blood. The warmth of it and copper flavor on my lips sends a rush through me, a reminder of why I do this each week.
Round one ends without much more fanfare, and I move to the side, Dallas handing me water and offering a silent nod of approval.
He isn’t a man of many words, but he doesn’t need to be. He’s the only one in my corner, and honestly, that’s always been enough. This is supposed to be for fun, after all, right?
I look across the ring at Billy. He’s probably ten years younger than me with a much meaner face. A scar stretches from his chin across his left eye and his lip curls upwards in a mean snarl.
I embrace it.
I jump to my feet, matching his stance again at the cowbell rings signaling the beginning of round two.
And we’re off again, but this time he charges at me, more aggressively, leaving a weak spot wide open. I seize the moment, sweeping his leg out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground. I lock in on his leg, trying to secure a submission. But he’s fast. Too fast.
He breaks free and retaliates with a crushing kick to my ribs. The crack is immediate, slicing through me like fire. A hot, unforgiving pain shoots through my body and I’m reminded of the time I was kicked by one of our new foals that I was trying to train.
It’s physical, yes, but it stirs something deeper—a reminder of the first time my heart broke and how it felt like a rib hadpierced it. The day I thought I’d lost Savannah to that car crash, followed by the gut-wrenching realization a few months later that everything I loved about her—her loyalty, the way she loved me—had been one ridiculous, naive lie.
Poor, little, oblivious Clay Cameron. Thought the girl he knew would love him for forever, but she broke his heart.
I roll to my side, instinctively tucking in, ribs screaming in protest though I’m silent.
Get up.
I push through, forcing myself to stand but Dallas is already waving his hands at the ref, his face tight with concern. I try to brush him off, I’m not ready to quit.
Not yet.
“Call it!” he shouts angrily at the ref who looks to me for confirmation that I can’t continue.
I stand at my full height, six-foot-three, and shrug as nonchalantly as I can.
The old Clay Cameron would have curled up in a ball to lick his wounds and savor the last of his pride since I know I’m going to lose this one, but I want to feel a little more. I’ve been waiting all week for this and I’m not ready to go home to an empty apartment just yet.
“Oh, hell no,” Dallas says, hopping over the flimsy fence that separates the mat from the spectators and jumping into the ring to get into my face. “Do you ever want to fight again, Clay? Do you want me to keep training you? Then you step outta this motherfucking ring right now, boy. Know when to quit.”
His words finally cut through the fog in my mind, the first thing I’ve truly registered since stepping into the ring fifteen minutes ago. Until now, I’ve been laser-focused on one thing: winning. Fighting. But deep down, I know he’s right.
“Call it.”
The referee shouts out over the raucous group crowded in the small compound loudly, “Winner by Submission, Billy the GOAT!”
The cowbell rings out with an eager clatter, and the crowd’s roar fills the small, grimy room as I step out of the ring, frustrated. My body is buzzing with adrenaline, but I can already feel the weight of Dallas’ stare from across the floor. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, his eyes narrowed. If I wasn’t riding this high, I’d know better than to mouth off.
“I could’ve kept going,” I snap, wiping the sweat from my face and yanking off my gloves.
“No, you couldn’t. You don’t have the experience yet,” he growls, his voice low and furious. “You pull that shit again, and we’re done. For good.”
I shove him away, stomping toward the locker room like some petulant kid. I know I’m pushing my luck. Dallas isn’t the kind of guy to tolerate this behavior, even with the soft spot he’s shown me. I’d already taken advantage of his patience one too many times when it came to getting in the ring. One more push, and I’d lose the only real support I have here, but it’s been a long day, and I needed this fight to work out the things barreling through my mind.
