He tried to clinch. Smart move. Get inside, tie me up, buy time. I let him grab hold, then drove a knee up into his midsection. Once. Twice. Three times before the ref separated us.
“Break! Break it up!”
We stepped back. The kid's breathing was ragged now, his guard lower than it had been. Sweat poured down his face, mixing with blood from his nose where my jab had opened him up in the first round. He was hurt, tired, running on fumes and pride.
I'd been there before. Years ago, when I was the young fighter getting schooled by someone older and meaner who knew how to make pain accumulate. This kid would either learn from it or he wouldn't. Either way, I had a job to finish.
He came forward again, desperation making him reckless. Threw a wild overhand right that missed by a mile. I stepped inside, drove a hook into his liver with everything I had. Felt the impact travel up my arm, clean and brutal.
His whole body seized. The pain was instant and total, the kind that shut down systems and made grown men crumble. Hetried to stay upright, knees shaking, guard dropping completely as his body tried to process what had just happened to it.
I didn't wait. Followed with a head kick that caught him clean on the temple. His mouthguard went flying. His legs gave out. He hit the canvas hard, rolling onto his side, arms wrapped around his midsection.
The ref was already moving, waving me off, dropping down to check on the kid.
I stepped back to the neutral corner, breathing hard but steady. My ribs screamed. My knuckles throbbed inside the gloves. The familiar ache of impact settling into bones that had absorbed too much of it over the years.
The ref waved his arms. Fight over.
The kid was sitting up now, the ref talking to him quietly while the cutman worked on his nose. He'd be fine. Bruised and sore and probably pissing blood for a day or two from that liver shot, but fine. He caught my eye across the ring and nodded once. Respect. I returned it.
My corner was loud, hands slapping my back, voices congratulating me on shit I'd done a hundred times before. I let them pull the gloves off, accepted the water someone shoved at me, rinsed and spat into the bucket.
Mara was there, leaning against the ring apron with her arms crossed and a grin that said she'd enjoyed watching me hurt someone. She was dressed for the gym, tank top and joggers, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail that showed off the undercut she'd gotten last month.
“Clean,” she called up to me. “Almost felt bad for the kid.”
“Almost?”
“He signed up for it.” She climbed through the ropes, ignoring the people trying to clear the ring, and handed me a towel. “You good?”
“Yeah.” I wiped sweat and blood off my face. Most of the blood wasn't mine. “Ribs are gonna be ugly tomorrow.”
“Ice them tonight. Doctor in the morning if it's bad.”
“It's not bad.”
“Declan.”
“It's not,” I repeated, and I meant it. I knew the difference between hurt and injured. This was just hurt. The kind that lived with you for a few days then faded into memory alongside all the others.
“You're distracted,” she said finally.
“I just won.”
“I know. You're still distracted.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “What's going on?”
I grabbed my water bottle, took a long drink to buy time. The ring was clearing out around us, people moving toward the next fight on the card. “Nothing. Just tired.”
“Bullshit.”
“Mara.”
“Don't 'Mara' me. I've known you too long.” She stepped closer, voice dropping so the stragglers still milling around couldn't hear. “You were off tonight. Not bad, just off. That liver shot was clean, but you took more hits than you should have.”
“Kid was fast.”
“Kid was sloppy. You let him tag you because your head wasn't fully in it.” She crossed her arms. “What's eating at you?”
