I followed immediately with a head kick that caught him clean on the temple, the shin bone connecting with a sound that cut through even the crowd noise.
He staggered. Dropped to one knee, but he didn't go down completely. The ref stepped in, checking him. Carter waved him off, got back to his feet, eyes sharp despite the damage. The crowd roared their approval.
I'd thought that would finish it, but he was tougher than his tape showed.
We reset. Carter came at me again, but smarter this time. More cautious. That liver shot had hurt him but also made him dangerous in the way wounded fighters got when they realized they had nothing left to lose.
He feinted high, then drove a low kick into my lead leg that buckled my knee. I recovered but he was already pressing forward, throwing a combination that forced me to cover up and move back toward the cage.
One of his punches slipped through my guard. Caught me on the cheekbone hard enough that my head snapped to the side, stars exploding in my vision.
My mind kept snagging on Troy. His bruised ribs. His skin under my fingertips. The way he'd looked at me in the kitchen like he was daring me to close the distance between us.
Carter caught me with another combination. Jab-cross-hook that I blocked the first two but took the third on my temple, the impact rattling my skull. The crowd noise swelled.
I needed to focus. Needed to stop thinking about anything except the man in front of me trying to knock me out.
I threw a low kick that buckled his already damaged leg, putting my hips into it, feeling the impact reverberate up through my shin. He grimaced but came right back at me with a flying knee that I barely slipped, the bony point of it passing close enough to my face that I felt the air displacement.
We were in a phone booth now. Trading shots at close range, no room for distance or strategy. His elbow caught me above the eye and I felt skin split, felt blood start flowing hot and immediate, running down into my eyebrow.
I drove my shoulder into his chest, clinched up, and worked knees into his midsection. Once. Twice. Three times, each one landing with the full force of my hips and thighs before the ref separated us.
We came back together. Carter was hurt. I could see it in the way he moved, protecting that liver shot, breathing shallow and controlled. But he was still fast. Still dangerous.
The round ended.
I went back to my corner. Mara was on me immediately with water and ice, her hands already working on the cut.
“You're bleeding bad,” she said, pressing an ice-cold compress against the cut above my eye.
“I know.”
“What the fuck happened? You had him in the first thirty seconds.”
“He's tougher than his tape showed.”
She grabbed my face with both hands and forced me to look at her. “Get your head in this fight or he's going to knock you out. You hear me?”
“Yeah.”
The bell rang for round two.
Carter came out aggressive again, but I could see the exhaustion creeping in. The body shots were accumulating, making his breathing labored. His footwork was getting sloppy, feet dragging slightly instead of bouncing.
But so was mine. My vision was compromised from the cut. Blood kept dripping into my eye no matter how many times I wiped it away with my glove.
We traded shots for two minutes. Neither of us giving ground. Both of us too stubborn to back down, too deep in the fight to think about anything except landing the next shot.
Then I saw it again. That same opening. His left hand dropping when he threw the right hook, a split-second tell that was all I needed.
This time I didn't hesitate. Slipped the hook with minimal head movement, stepped inside his guard, and drove a knee into his floating rib with everything I had left. The sound it made was wet and sharp. I heard it crack. Felt it give way beneath the impact.
Carter's face went white. His guard dropped completely, arms falling to his sides as his brain tried to process the damage.
I threw an overhand right that caught him flush on the jaw. His mouthguard went flying, spinning through the air in a spray of saliva. He stumbled backward into the cage, legs wobbling, eyes unfocused.
I pressed forward. Threw a combination that he tried to block but couldn't, his arms heavy and unresponsive. His legs were going. His eyes were glazed with pain and exhaustion.
