The ref stepped in. Waved it off with both arms.
Fight over.
The crowd erupted. I raised my arms, played the part for the cameras and the sponsors, but I could barely feel the victory through the exhaustion and blood and the knowledge that I'd nearly lost because I couldn't stop thinking about Troy.
Carter nodded at me from across the ring. Respect between fighters. He'd given me hell and we both knew it.
I touched gloves with him, then headed back to my corner.
“Fuck,” Mara said, already working on the cut with fresh gauze. “That was closer than it should've been.”
“I won.”
“Barely. You took way too much damage.” She pressed gauze against my eyebrow, her grip firm and irritated. “This needs stitches.”
“Later.”
“Now, Declan.”
“I said later.”
She glared at me but didn't push. Just worked on stopping the bleeding while I sat there trying to get my breathing under control.
The second fight on my contract was three weeks out. A replacement bout because the original opponent had pulled out with an injury. I'd taken it anyway because I needed the money and the distraction.
This one was different.
The opponent was older. More experienced. Moved like someone who'd learned patience the hard way, who'd been hurt enough times to know when to wait. He didn't rush. Didn'tgive me easy openings. Just worked methodically, testing my defense, looking for patterns in the way I moved and countered.
We went the full three rounds.
By the end I was bleeding from a cut above my eye, my ribs were screaming from body shots that had landed with surgical precision, and my hands felt like I'd been punching concrete for fifteen straight minutes.
But I won. Unanimous decision. The judges saw what mattered: I'd landed more, controlled the pace, never let him take over completely.
I just hadn't done it clean.
In the locker room after, Mara worked on the cut with focused irritation, her movements sharp and efficient.
“You won ugly,” she said. “That's not like you.”
“Sometimes ugly is all you get.”
“Go home,” Mara said, pressing the last butterfly bandage into place. “Get some rest. And for fuck's sake, figure out whatever's eating at you before it gets you hurt worse than this.”
I showered. Got dressed. Grabbed my bag and headed out into the Chicago night.
The diner was nearly empty at eleven on a weeknight. Just me, a couple of truckers at the counter, and a waitress who looked like she'd been on her feet for twelve hours and had another four to go.
I ordered coffee and a burger. Sat in a booth near the back where I could see the door and most of the room. Old habits from years of being careful.
The food came fast. I ate mechanically, tasting nothing, just fueling up because my body needed it after the fight.
I was halfway through the burger when the bell above the door chimed and Rafael walked in.
He spotted me immediately, that easy grin spreading across his face as he made his way over. He slid into the booth across from me without asking, flagging down the waitress for coffee.
“Hell of a fight,” he said, leaning back against the cracked vinyl. “Thought Carter had you in the second round.”
