I glance at the discarded grill, then look back at his grin. “Hm. A bit redundant. A little longer than probably is necessary, too. Compensating for something, perhaps? Theydosay that steroid use can cause …” I let my gaze flicker to his crotch “… shrinkage.”
That comment pushes things too far. I’ve just effectively given a raging bull a stimulant and waved a red cape in front of it.
He snorts. He huffs and sputters.
Is he foaming at the mouth?
“Enoughfuckingplaying!” Grady snatches a phone from a nearby spectator who’s recording the fight and crushes the device with his bare hand, leaving shards of the screen embedded in his palm. “We start now, or you forfeit.”
He’s so busy with his theatrics, he doesn’t even block the roundhouse kick to his face.
Granted, it might not have been the smartest move of mine. His steel implants aren’t exactly comfortable to kick with my bare foot, and, despite how hard I hit him, he still barely reacts. All I succeed in doing is cutting his cheek on those stupid fangs of his. He spits out blood and growls like a wild animal.
“You did say to begin, didn’t you?” I ask as I bounce backwards, moving out of his reach.
This may end up being a battle of attrition. If a kick like that doesn’t even phase him, I’ll have to wear him out first before I try in earnest. Let him chase me around the ring, force him to expend his energy.
Cheers rise from the crowd, and chants of “Don Matt! Don Matt!” echo in the courtyard. I shouldn’t allow them to be so informal, but “Don Matteo” makes for an awkward chant.
Grady’s fist sails through the air and glances off my chin. I allow my head to whip around, though the hit barely touched me. Better to appear more injured than I really am. The weaker Grady thinks I am, the easier he’ll be to take down.
We go at it like this for twenty minutes, landing minor blows while we circle the edges of the ring, only darting to the middle for a moment at a time. I do my best to conserve energy with my strikes, purposefully holding back, but Grady seems to be going full-out.
At least, I hope he is. If he’s hitting this hard with restraint, I might be in trouble.
Ten more minutes pass, and Grady doesn’t seem the least bit tired. I’m still good to keep going, but if I want to end this, I need to start making my hits count.
Then I see him: Aron.
He’s back from the doctors, though I note that his hands aren’t bandaged. Was that his choice? He’s an idiot if it was. What does he hope to prove by walking around with his shredded hands on display?
My momentary distraction proves just the opening Grady needs. He lands a solid punch on my temple, one that’s devastatingly disorienting. I bounce away, barely keeping my balance as I try to shake off the stars in my vision. This might be a concussion in the making.
With each pass, we trade a few punches. With each pass, Aron moves closer in the crowd.
By the time Grady and I collide in the middle and batter each other, Aron’s now at the edge of the ring, right behind the sandbags. He’s within easy reach if Grady decides to switch targets. I don’t like that, but I can’t risk telling him to move back. That would create another distraction, another chance for Grady to land a stronger hit.
Just when I think I’ve fought off the worst of the effects of his headshot, Grady nails me in the back of the head with his elbow. I double over in pain, and a collective gasp rolls through the crowd.
Fuck.
Now, in addition to the stars, I see two of everything. Two Arons, two Gradys, two crowds.
This is getting me nowhere. I’m clearly not wearing Grady down in the slightest, and he’s only hitting harder. At this rate, I’ll lose for sure.
While I’m bent in half, Grady chuckles and rears back for another hit.
Leaving himself wide open.
Since Grady’s got a fucking twisted idea of what’s fair and what’s not, I figure he won’t object too much if I play a little dirty.
I reach out.
Grab his crotch.
Hook my finger on the ring I feel there.
Andyank.
