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Vale’s music starts, and he steps out, the pyro going up on either side of him, great columns of orange flame. I had the same a few minutes ago, but when it’s you, your hood’s up, and your head’s on the job, you don’t really get the effect. From here, it’s quite the show.

Vale takes an age over his walkout. A halt at the top of the ramp, arms spread wide. Then he slowly turns to face each section of the arena, soaking up the attention. He’s got his own lot—a few hundred Australians who’ve come a hell of a lot further than mine have—and the rest of the crowd gives him a mixture of cheers and boos. He plays to all of it.

He points at the cameras. Mouths something at the front row. Stops halfway down the ramp to beat his chest at the Australians.

I keep pacing. Fence, turn, fence, turn. Let him have his show. All the noise in the world won’t help him once that door shuts.

My eyes find Briony again. Every other face in that section is turned to Vale. Hers isn’t. She’s watching me.

I love you, she mouths.

I tap my glove to my chest.

Vale goes through the same checks that I did, then he ducks in through the door. The referee follows him in, along with the announcer and an official carrying the championship belt.

For a title fight, the introductions go on forever. The official holds the belt up in the middle of the cage, gold under the lights, while the announcer goes through records, heights, weights, hometowns. I’m announced first, as the challenger, and my lot go off like a bomb when Glasgow, Scotland is said.

Finally, the announcer and the official leave, taking the belt with them. The door is shut, and the referee brings us into the middle.

“Gentlemen, you’ve had your instructions in the changing room. Obey my commands at all times. Protect yourselves at all times.”

Vale holds my eye, a sneer on his face.

I stare right back.

The referee looks from one of us to the other, waiting.

Neither of us offers a glove. I’ve touched gloves with every man I’ve ever fought, but I’m not touching his.

Back to my corner. After all that ceremony, the last few seconds go by in a blur. Davie’s on the other side of the fence, shouting something about checking the low kicks. I only half hear it.

The referee points at Vale. “Ready?”

Vale nods.

He points at me. “Ready?”

I nod.

He brings his hand down between us. “Fight!”

And we’re on.

Vale’s fast. I knew he would be. I’ve watched hours of him. But watching him on a screen is one thing. Trying to catch him is another. His hands come from nowhere, and there’s real weight behind them. Within twenty seconds, he’s snapped a jab into my guard hard enough to knock my gloves back, and he’s out of range before I can fire back.

He’s good. A prick, aye, but a good fighter.

He goes for my lead leg with a low kick, just like he did with Cruz. I’ve spent eight weeks waiting for it. I lift my knee and turn my leg out, catching his kick on my shin instead of my thigh.

It stings, but Vale’s the one who grimaces.

He tries it again a minute later. I check that one too.

We trade jabs. I catch him once on the nose. He catches me twice, once on the cheekbone and once on the mouth. The second splits my lip, leaving a coppery taste in my mouth, but that’s all. I’ve taken worse from Imran on a Tuesday night.

I walk him down. A jab to make him cover up, a right hand to the body, and when his elbow drops to protect his ribs, I put a hook over the top that snaps his head round. He backs off. I follow, cutting off his escape routes one step at a time, steering him towards the fence.

Half a foot from it, Vale paws at me with his lead hand, fingers pointed straight at my face, and a fingertip rakes the corner of my right eye.