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He’s only metres away. I can see the blood running down his face and smearing the canvas under his cheek. I can see the ones that get through. And there’s absolutely nothing I can do.

I’m shaking. I’m cold and sweating at the same time, and the floor under my feet doesn’t feel solid anymore. I’ve got the cuff of Ryan’s hoodie pressed against my mouth. It smells of him.

I know this feeling. A ski slope in Switzerland. Someone I love lying helpless and injured.

Please. Not again.

Then Ryan’s other arm comes up too, and this time the movement isn’t clumsy. Both arms lock round his head.

He twists onto his back, and his legs wrap round Vale’s waist. His arms leave his head and hook round Vale’s neck instead, and he drags him down, tight against his chest, so close that the punches have nowhere to go.

“There he is,” Imran says beside me.

And just like that, the rest of the arena comes back, and with it the noise, slamming into me like a wave. Liam on one side of me, Imran on the other. Everyone around us on their feet, me included. Liam is bellowing instructions at Ryan as if Ryan could possibly hear him. Down at the cage, Davie is roaring, but I can’t make out a word of it.

I risk the quickest glance at the clock above the cage, then my eyes go straight back to Ryan. Thirty seconds left in the round.

Although he’s defending himself now, he’s still on his back, and Vale is still on top of him.

But then something incredible happens. Ryan’s legs unlock. He plants his feet on Vale’s hips and shoves him off. Vale rocks back, and in that gap, Ryan shuffles his hips away across the canvas until his shoulders hit the fence. Vale lunges after him, but Ryan is already using the fence to climb, back pressed against it, until he’s upright.

The arena erupts.

The horn sounds, and I let out a breath so hard my head spins.

The crowd sits back down, and I sit with them. My legs are shaking so badly I’m glad of the chance.

Imran leans in. “You doing okay?”

I’m nowhere near okay, but I nod and say I’m fine because tonight isn’t about me. It’s about Ryan.

He’s on his stool. Blood runs from his nose and from a cut above his left eyebrow. It looks like the scar from Braehead has split open again. Sweat pours off him. There’s blood smeared down his chest.

His corner works on him like a pit crew. The cutman pressing and wiping. Davie crouched in front of him, talking straight into his face. Niamh holding a water bottle to his mouth, then ice to the back of his neck. Grease. Swabs. Ice.

There’s a red smear on the canvas where he was lying, stark against all that white. My eyes keep going from it back to Ryan. All in all, there’s way too much blood for my liking.

“That was Vale’s round,” Liam says. No sugar-coating it. “Nae question.”

“Aye, but Ryan took the first two,” Imran says. “And see how he got out from under Vale? In that state?” He shakes his head slowly. “No many boys could do that.”

“He was away wi’ it,” Liam agrees. “Then he’s wrapping him up like a fuckin’ python. And that wall walk? Pure class.”

I know Ryan is tough. I’ve seen what he can take. But it wasn’t toughness that got him off that canvas. It was skill. Years and years of it, there when he needed it.

Round four starts.

One minute in, it happens.

They come up out of a scramble on the mat, and Ryan is still rising, one knee on the canvas, when Vale drives a knee straight into his head.

Ryan recoils, and the referee leaps between them.

The arena explodes. A Frenchman behind me bellows, “Faute!”

Vale’s arms go out wide, all innocence. He’s already arguing, pointing at Ryan, shaking his head.

I realise I’m on my feet. So are Imran and Liam. My whole body is one hot wire.