“I’m making no promises,” I say, ripping my shirt off my back and handing it to him.
The MC ushers me into the ring a few minutes later, and I assess my opponent with my mask firmly in place. Fighting is as much about mental intimidation as it is brute force or skill with my fists.
The guy I’m fighting has at least thirty pounds and fifteen years on me. His hard life is etched in every coarse line on his face. His full beard is in direct contrast to his bald head, and ink covers his entire upper body. He’s solid, bulky, and he has some muscle definition, but there’s no way he spends hours in the gym daily like me. Still, he’s a formidable opponent, and judging by his conceited stare, he thinks victory is a sure thing.
Normal dudes would be afraid.
But I’ve never claimed to be normal.
This arrogant asshole is the perfect vessel for me to unleash my aggression.
The introductions are made, and I ignore the chorus of boos and hisses leveled my direction. They’ll be singing a different tune when the fight is over.
The bell chimes, and we’re off.
I dance around the ring, letting him lunge at me, easily evading contact because I’m light on my feet. I gather necessary intel. Watching his tells and learning his moves. Once the crowd boos, vocally demanding bloodshed, I swing my fist, landing a strong uppercut to his left cheek.
We go at one another, and he’s a worthy competitor. Every thrust of my fist to his face and his torso fuels the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I hardly feel his hits as I release the monster locked up inside me, pouring all my frustration and rage into the fight. Sweat drips down my back and over my brow into my eyes, but it doesn’t stop me. I throw punches, over and over, barely drawing a breath.
His face fades out, and I’m attacking Michael Hearst, laying into him with every ounce of pain and loathing in my body.
The dude tires before me, and when I spot the weakness in his eyes, I pounce. I charge at him, pummeling his body and his face repeatedly as he struggles to push me away. His breathing is labored, his will to end this alive more powerful than his arrogant need to win.
When he falls to the ground, I jump on him, relinquishing my anger with every punch.
My fists pound into him.
Bone crunches.
Blood splatters.
Sweat flies.
And still I don’t stop. Fueled by naked fear and raw rage, the like I’ve never felt before.
When I’m eventually dragged off him, and announced as the winner, it feels good. My knuckles ache and my body radiates pain, but I’ve released some of my inner demons.
“Better?” Hunt asks, handing me my shirt.
I use it to wipe the blood and sweat off my chest and face as I climb out of the ring.
“Yeah.” We hustle through the room, with hostile vibes openly directed at us.
Most bettors bet on their local legend, and they’ve just lost their shirts, so I’m public enemy number one.
As much as the thought of a group fight excites me, I’d prefer to walk out of here than leave on a stretcher or in a body bag, so I keep my head down and ignore the taunts thrown at me.
We push out into the alleyway, and the frigid air is like a balm to my hot skin.
“I want to bury that bastard Hearst,” I say, when we’re back in the car and Hunt is driving us home. I grind my teeth to the molars and flex my damaged knuckles, feeling the truth of those words resonate in every nook and cranny of my being. “I’ll enjoy taking him down.” I crick my head from side to side. “He’ll regret the day he stole from me.”
“Did you know?” I bark down the phone the minute he answers.
He sighs. “Yes.”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” I snap.
“It wasn’t my place to tell you. You know that.”
