“You’re looking good.” Dallas says. He sets down the warmup pads and moves to check over my gear once more.?
“I feel good.”
“Probably because you finally made things official with your girlfriend?”
I shake my head as he raises his brow in response. “What? You can’t still be on your fake dating bullshit with her?”
“It’s never been fake to me, but she still thinks it is.”
He smacks me a little too firmly in the chest. "She still thinks that because you haven't told her any differently."
“I know. I’m telling her tonight that I want us to stop pretending. Shit, I haven’t been pretending but I want her to know how I feel. I need to just... get my thoughts all straightened out before I bare my soul, you know?”
“Why are you dragging this out? It’s July, you should have told her two months ago.”
I pound my fists together, warming them in the gloves, “She’s young. Leaving for school in Houston in just four more weeks. I don’t want to hold her back.”
“Ah, so you’re afraid she’ll tell you she doesn’t want to do long distance andfakedumpyour ass?”
“I’m not afraid of that.”
He laughs. “You keep telling yourself that, maybe you’ll believe it someday but I sure as hell don’t.”
I shake my head at him, swaying lightly to keep my hips loose. It’s the final qualifying fight, the one that sets the stage for the tournament in three weeks at the end of July, and I’m amped. A win tonight locks me in first place, meaning I’ll only have to fight in the semi and championship rounds. Fewer fights, better recovery, and a higher chance of taking the whole thing.
“Will she be here tonight?”
I nod. “Yea.”
He smirks and I swing a punch at his face lightly that he effortlessly deflects. “She’s been here to watch almost every one of your fights.”
“So?” I bounce back and forth on my feet, keeping my body warm and limber, “She likes watching me fight and supports me.”
He scoffs, “Nowoman likes watching underground fighting unless they’re a little bit crazy. That, or it’s because they're watching their man.”
I shrug. “She’s my girl.”
“I bet she’d like to hear those words.”
I huff, “I get it. I’m telling her tonight.”
He shoots me another exaggerated eye roll before we hear my name being called by tonight’s MC.
I sprint out of the locker room, bursting into the dimly lit bar and up through the ropes. It’s a packed house tonight—the final match to qualify for the tournament. While I’m already locked in and qualified, my opponent’s fate hangs in the balance, with everything to gain or lose. The stakes couldn’t be higher for him,but I’m not letting up. I’m coming for first place.
Blake “Ground N’ Pounder” Turner stands across from me in the underground cage, his lanky frame radiating tension. He’s six-foot-two and barely a hundred seventy pounds, all lean muscle and sharp, unforgiving angles. What he lacks in brute force, he makes up for with ruthless cunning—I’ve watched him fight before, always slinking out of holds and striking with a surprising ferocity for his build.
The announcer’s voice fades out, drowned by the pulsing crowd around us and all I can think about is how badly I want this. The bell rings signaling round one. I step forward, circling cautiously, trying to size him up in real-time. His footwork is fluid, deceptively smooth for someone with his long limbs. He throws the first strike—a quick jab, testing my reaction. I dodge, but just barely, feeling the air from his fist brush past my chin.
He’s fast, faster than I expected.
Before I can regroup, he’s already closing the distance, firing off a low kick aimed at my thigh. It connects with a sharpcrackthat sends a jolt through my leg. I grit my teeth but don’t show it.
I feint a punch to his left, then dive in for a takedown. Turner anticipates it, sprawling back just in time to avoid getting pinned. His long arms latch onto my neck, locking me into a guillotine choke. The pressure is immediate, my windpipe tightening as he squeezes. My vision tunnels slightly, but I stay calm, forcing myself to shift my weight and break free. I’m reminded of what Dallas taught me, ‘The fight is ninety-percent mental. Stay emotionally locked in and you’ll win every time during a take down.′
I pry his arm off with all my strength and shove him backward. We both stumble, resetting as the crowd roars with excitement.
Turner grins, wiping a trickle of sweat from his brow. He’s enjoying this. I know his game now—he’s trying to wear me down, keep me on edge, and strike when I least expect it. But I’mnot here to dance around.I’m here to win.And I’m not that easily tired.
