I watch the two exchange punches again. The men are evenly matched in bulk and stature, both with broad shoulders, bulging biceps, and thighs as thick as tree trunks. I can’t help noting that I prefer Dorian’s musculature, but that’s a thought better left unacknowledged.
Emmet aims a punch at Hastings’ midsection, but the other man hops away, dodging the hit with ease. “Hastings is fast, isn’t he?” I say to Dorian.
“He is. He could run circles around Emmet, but he doesn’t. He knows to conserve his energy.”
“You’re rooting for Hastings, then?”
“Damn right I am. I saw him fight one weekend back in Bretton. He’s the next big name in boxing.” He looks over at me with a wide grin. I can tell he’s really enjoying himself and no longer trying to act unimpressed. “Who are you rooting for?”
I meet his eyes for a moment, feeling my pulse quicken at the sight of his easy smile. The transformation in his demeanor is almost breathtaking. I turn my attention back to the ring. “I haven’t decided yet.”
The match continues and Dorian tells me which punches are jabs, crosses, uppercuts, and straight rights. It’s only a matter of time before I must confess I too am rooting for Hastings. His speed is impressive, matched only by the power behind his punches. Emmet is quite the fighter too, striking back just as hard whenever Hastings gets the upper hand. We watch Hastings go down after a brutal punch to the side of his head, but he’s only down for a count of three. As each round passes, my heart beats faster, and soon Dorian and I are both on the edges of our seats, shouting with the crowd.
The eighth round passes. Then the ninth. Hastings goes down again. Then Emmet. Emmet again. The match continues and the fighters grow more bruised, show more fatigue during the rest intervals between rounds. As the tenth round begins, Hastings seems to come back with a vengeance. Suddenly, he uses his speed in both the offensive and defensive, his punches faster, more persistent. Emmet, on the other hand, has slowed substantially and his reaction time isn’t fast enough to keep up with Hasting’s burst of energy.
“It’s a gamble,” Dorian says. “If Hastings wears himself out this round without beating Emmet, he could be at a severe disadvantage next round.”
Hastings comes at Emmet, pummeling the other fighter with jab after jab. Or maybe it’s a cross. I can’t even tell anymore because I’m too wrapped up in the fight. I don’t even remember standing, but I am and so is the entire crowd. Cheers and boos roar through the arena as Emmet starts to sag beneath Hastings’ offense, his guard too slow to combat Hastings’ relentless punches.
I bounce on the balls of my feet as I watch Emmet slam his gloves into Hasting’s ribs to very little effect. “Rip his bloody head off, Hastings!”
Dorian barks a laugh. “That’s a little much don’t you think?”
I turn toward him and see his eyes crinkled with mirth and find myself laughing too. “Maybe, but—” Emmet stumbles backward and I whirl back to the ring. “Destroy him!”
Dorian joins me in shouting for Emmet’s demise.
Hastings comes at him with one punch. Two. The next sends spittle flying from Emmet’s mouth and he falls to the ground. The referee begins the count.
One.
Two.
Three.
The sound of the count is drowned by cheers and shouts as Emmet lies unconscious. He comes to around the count of four, but no matter how he tries to rise to his feet, by the time the count of ten comes around, he’s still down.
Hastings wins the match.
A deafening cheer erupts all around and I scream right along with them, probably louder than I ever have before. Dorian and I turn toward each other, our wide-open mouths mirrored as we collide into a celebratory hug. It feels like the most natural thing in the world to embrace after such a shared victory until I become painfully aware of Dorian’s hands on my bare back.
He seems to notice too and goes suddenly still in my arms. It’s then I also realize how close we stand, our fronts pressed tight together, my breasts against his chest with nothing but the thin silk of my dress and the linen of his shirt to separate us.
Far slower than we came together, we untangle inch by inch. His hands slide stiffly down my back, then to my sides, while my hands unravel from behind his neck and down his chest. There I pause. Or did he pause? I swallow thickly and hazard a glance at his face. His expression flickers between that stoic mask he so often wears…and something softer. Vulnerable. A flash of the heat I glimpsed in his eyes when he first saw me in the dress returns.
His face inches forward.
Pauses again.
My breath catches in my lungs but I don’t move. Don’t flinch.
Then his cold mask shatters entirely and his smiling eyes return, full lips arcing into a grin.
His mouth comes down toward mine—
At the last moment, I angle my head and his lips meet my cheek. I can’t think of anything else to do but slide my hands the rest of the way from his chest and join the audience’s applause. I turn back to the ring where Hastings holds up a gloved hand in celebration, and Dorian belatedly removes his hands from my sides. Even as I keep a placid smile on my face and try to seem swept up by the excitement of the win, I can feel Dorian’s gaze burning into me. My flesh tingles where his lips landed, and it takes all my restraint not to bring my fingertips to brush my too-warm cheek.
* * *
