Fedorov stands at the front with his cane, his men flanking him. From the glint in his gaze, he looks pleased with himself, already thoroughly entertained by the spectacle.
He’ll be watching firsthand as Roman emperors once did when they watched gladiators tear each other apart.
“Let us begin,” he announces. “May the best man win.”
Sharapova steps onto the platform, rolling his boulder-like shoulders and cracking his neck from side to side. He’s a machine built for one purpose only. For destruction.
Good thing I’m not easy to destroy.
I pull my shirt over my head and cast is aside. My shoulder’s still bleeding from the bullet graze, but it goes ignored.
Pain almost ceases to exist when I’m in fight mode. It becomes a mental state of mind where you have to check out of it and focus on defeating your opponent.
I step onto the platform and face the man I’ve been training to beat for months.
“I am going to enjoy this,” Sharapova rumbles in heavily accented English. “Breaking the Irishman who thinks he can challenge me.”
“You’re confused,” I say. “The only one about to be broken is you.”
He comes at me fast.
For a man his size, Sharapova moves like a freight train—once he gets going, there’s no stopping him or his momentum.
His first punch is a haymaker aimed at my skull. I duck under it just in time, feeling the wind of it whistle past my ear.
I counter with a jab to his ribs, putting my full weight behind it. It’s like punching a brick wall. He doesn’t even flinch.
Shit.
He swings again, a brutal hook that catches me on the same shoulder with my graze wound. It sends me staggering sideways. Pain shoots through my already injured shoulder. I grit my teeth and keep bobbing and weaving.
The last thing I need is for him to corner me. For me to let him pin me down.
If he traps me, it might be over.
I dance around him, using my speed to stay out of reach, looking for openings. He’s strong, but he’s slow and heavy footed like most men the size of mountains.
I’m no small man myself, but compared to other heavyweights, I’ve got an advantage.
We miss each other a few times ’til I’m able to land a jab to his face. I follow up with a hook to his body, then another jab, snapping his head back.
The Russian bastard merely laughs.
“That tickles,” he grunts, and then he retaliates.
His fist collides with my head and damn near knocks me off my feet. I’m able to catch myself as I stumble several paces back, vision swimming for a couple seconds.
Jhene screams my name, obviously concerned by watching me take that kind of heavy hit.
I’ve got to ignore her. Ignore any outside noise if I’m going to find a groove and defeat Sharapova.
We go at it some more, trading and dodging blows. If this were a professional boxing match—or even most amateur fights—we’d have finished a round minutes ago.
But there’s no break to be had as we launch our fists at each other and see who falls first. We’re two titans pushing ourselves to the limit.
I’m able to stay half a second ahead of him. I’ve tapped into the strategies Malone’s taught me, the training paying off.
…’til I miscalculate the next fist Sharapova throws at me.
