I don't care.
Names don't matter in the ring. Size matters. Skill matters. How much pain you can take and keep moving that matters. Everything else is just noise.
We face each other across the tape line that marks the ring's boundary. The crowd is loud tonight, already worked up from the earlier fights, already anticipating blood. Travis is bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, trying to stay loose, trying to look confident.
He should be scared.
The bell rings.
He comes at me fast, just like I expected. Leading with a jab, testing my defense, trying to establish range. I slip it easily and counter with a body shot that makes him grunt. He backs off, resets, comes at me again.
He's fast. I'll give him that. Faster than the last guy, faster than most of the fighters who come through here. But fast only matters if you can land something significant, and I'm not giving him that opportunity.
I control the center of the ring. Make him come to me. Let him waste energy trying to find an opening that doesn't exist. He throws combinations. Some of them clean, well-practiced, and I block or slip every single one, and I can see the frustration starting to build in his face.
Three minutes in, I catch him with a right hook that snaps his head to the side.
The crowd roars.
He stumbles back but doesn't go down. Tough kid. Stupid, but tough. He shakes it off and comes at me again, and this time there's something desperate in his movement, something that says he knows he's outmatched but doesn't want to admit it.
I respect that, actually. The refusal to quit even when you should. I hit him again. Left to the body, right to the jaw. He goes down this time, hard, and the crowd loses their minds, but Travis gets up.
He shouldn't. Any smart fighter would stay down after a hit like that, would recognize that getting back up is just asking for more damage. But he's stumbling to his feet anyway, swaying, one hand pressed to his jaw, and I can see in his eyes that he's not thinking clearly anymore. He's running on pride and adrenaline and nothing else.
The crowd is screaming. Calling for more blood. Calling for me to finish it.
But I'm not looking at Travis anymore.
I'm looking at Chloe.
There's a man standing too close to her. Too fucking close. He's leaning in, saying something, and even from here I can see the way she's pressed back against the wall, the way her shoulders have come up defensive, the way she's shaking her head no.
Where the fuck is Tank?
I scan the crowd and find him near the ring, talking to Bruiser and Reckless. The three of them are standing together, laughing about something, completely fucking oblivious to what's happening ten feet behind them. Bruiser and Reckless are two of the best fighters who come through the Pit regularly, both undefeated except against me, and Tank's probably discussing their upcoming matches. Any other time, I wouldn't blame him for being distracted by fighters of that caliber.
But not tonight.
Not when she's here.
Travis is moving toward me again, but I don't have time for this. I step forward and throw everything I have into one punch. My right fist connects with his jaw with enough force that I feel the impact all the way up my arm. His head snaps back violently and he drops like someone cut his strings, hitting the concrete floor hard and not moving.
The crowd erupts.
I don't wait for Tank to check him. Don't wait for the official end of the fight. I step over the tape line and move through the crowd, and people scatter out of my way because I'm still in fight mode, still running hot, and anyone with half a brain can see it in my face.
The guy is still talking to her.
Still leaning in.
Still not taking the fucking hint.
As I get closer, I hear her voice. Shy but firm.
"—we broke up, Daniel. Three months ago. You need to leave me alone."
Daniel. The ex. The one who won't leave her alone. The one who shows up everywhere she goes. The reason she came to my gym in the first place.
