Pierce crossed to the back bench, said something low to the polar bear, and walked out of the holding room. The first bout finished fast, ending with the roar of the crowd.
The floor manager walked in. “Russo. You’re up.”
As Blaze stepped out into the light, the crowd noise rose higher. He slid the mouth guard between his teeth and scanned the room. He found Stella at the bar, drink in hand. Then pulled his eyes off her. The polar bear was already across the pit, barefoot and shirtless. He was built like a brick wall and had three old black scars down the right side of his torso. The PA’s voice cut through the crowd.
Jake Russo, twenty-three and four out of Reno. Against the reigning champion of this card. Mason Drake. Twenty-two and zero.
Drake lifted his head and looked at him across the pit. His eyes were calm, almost gentle. The eyes of a man who knew he was going to win. The floor manager raised his hand and brought it down.
Fight.
Drake didn’t circle. He walked at Blaze in a straight line. No feint. No testing. He wasn’t worried about Blaze’s reach, and he wasn’t looking for an opening. He was coming forward, and Blaze was going to have to deal with it. Drake had already decided how the next three minutes were going to go. Blaze pivoted. He tried to cut the angle and put the wall behind Drake.
Drake kept walking. Two steps in, he threw an overhand right. Heavy and slow on the way out, and Blaze dodged it. The wind of the punch passed his ear, and Drake wasn’t surprised. He had been setting it up.
His left hand came through the gap and caught Blaze on the side of the jaw. The world tilted. His knees went for a half beat. He got his hands up. Drake caught him again on the side of the head before he could clear it, and then a body shot to the right side that landed directly on the bruise from the last fight.
Blaze’s vision whited out at the edges, but he covered, ate two more on the forearms, and backed up. A fourth body shot landed on the bruise and dropped him to one knee. The pain ran through him in a hot bright wave, and the wolf inside him surged so hard he almost lost it.
He got up before the count started.
Blaze closed the distance and grabbed Drake, burying his face in Drake’s shoulder and working inside. Drake let him have the clinch for one full beat, then lifted him off his feet and drove himinto the cinderblock wall. The wall slammed into his back. His ribs screamed.
Drake worked Blaze’s body with short hard uppercuts. Blaze took three on the bruise before he could get an underhook and break the angle. He pushed Drake off. Drake threw a knee. Blaze caught it on his thigh, the thigh went dead, and he sagged for half a step.
The buzzer ended the round.
He walked to his side of the pit and sat on the cinderblock. Ryder leaned over with the water and the towel.
“Jesus, Blaze.”
“Don’t.”
“You can’t win this trading punches. You have to get him down.”
“I know.”
Blood ran into Blaze’s eye, and Ryder wiped it away.
“He’s not going to give me an opening. I have to bait him.”
Blaze spit blood onto the concrete. The buzzer sounded. Drake walked at him again in the same straight line, with the same calm. Blaze gave ground on purpose. He let Drake think he was hurt worse than he was. He was hurt. But he sold it harder, walked his hands a hair lower than he needed to. Drake read it. He came in faster.
Drake threw another overhand right. Blaze dodged it and shot for a single leg, but Drake was too strong. He stuffed the takedown by sprawling, dropped his full weight onto Blaze’s back, and turned the attempt into Blaze on his hands and knees with two hundred and fifty pounds of polar bear on top of him.
Blaze grabbed at Drake’s arm and tried to pull it off him. He jammed his chin down hard against his own shoulder to protect his throat. Drake’s forearm pressed against his windpipe anyway, and his airway closed.
Drake held it for ten seconds. Fifteen. Blaze’s vision started to gray at the edges. The wolf inside him surged again, and he held it down with the last of what he had.
Then the pressure released.
With Blaze’s chin locked down, the choke wasn’t going to finish him. Drake gave it up and stood. The win he wanted was on the feet. He walked back to the center of the pit and waited. Blaze got up. His lungs worked. His ribs screamed.
Drake came back at him.
Blaze covered and gave ground. He clinched again, worked for an underhook. Drake let him have it because he was going to slam him into the wall again.
He started to lift. Just before the lift completed, Blaze dropped his level and shot for Drake’s ankle. Drake had been winding up to slam. The redirection of weight to the ankle was a beat he didn’t have time to read. His foot came out from under him. His momentum, two fifty in motion toward the wall, dropped him onto his back on the concrete.
