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The next few minutes are a blur.
Ryan climbs down and his team mob him again. Niamh looks uncharacteristically emotional. Davie takes him by the back of the neck, presses his forehead to Ryan’s, and says something only Ryan can hear. Then the cutman gets to work on Ryan’s face.
“He did it,” I say. I think I’ve been saying it over and over since it happened.
“Course he did.” Liam is grinning like a maniac. “What a killer left hook!”
“Took Vale by surprise, so it did.” Imran wipes his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Fuck, I’m that proud of him, I could cry.”
“You are crying,” Liam says.
Imran doesn’t deny it.
The referee brings both fighters to the centre of the cage. Vale is back on his feet, glaring at Ryan. The referee takes each of them by the wrist, and the announcer’s voice booms across the arena.
“And the new NMFC light heavyweight champion of the world…Ryan ‘Axe King’ Sloan!”
The referee raises Ryan’s hand, and I cheer until my throat hurts. I can hardly see him through my tears. The NMFC president steps forward and fastens the belt round Ryan’s waist.
Ryan turns to Niamh and says something in her ear. She nods, slips out of the cage, and comes through the crowd towards our row.
“Go,” Liam says, practically shoving me towards her. “Go on.”
And then everything takes on a strange, dreamlike quality.
Niamh guides me through the crowd. The noise is still deafening, but I barely notice it.
And then I’m climbing the steps. I’m actually going into the cage. Niamh holds the door open for me, and I step inside.
Up close, the canvas is worse than it looked from my seat. It’s smeared and spotted with blood, and I know a lot of it is Ryan’s. But it’s over. He’s safe. He’s won.
And then his arms are wrapping round me, the championship belt pressing against me as he pulls me close.
“I’m so proud of you,” I tell him, into his chest. “So proud.”
When I finally lean back, I can see just how badly he’s been hurt. His right eye is a puffy purple slit. There’s blood in his left eyebrow, and his bottom lip is fat and torn. There’s a nick near his hairline I never even noticed from my seat, and a thin trickle of red runs from his nose. And everywhere I look, there are nasty-looking marks—across his stomach and ribs, his thighs, even his shoulders.
“Ryan,” I say. “You’re a mess.”
“Aye.” He grins, wonky and swollen. “But I’m a champion mess.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. Even though I’m still crying and my hands are trembling.
“I want to kiss you, flower girl,” he says. “But I’ll get blood all over you.”
“I don’t care about that. Won’t it hurt you, though?”
“Probably.” He cups my face in his gloves. “Worth it.”
Fifteen thousand people are watching. Goodness knows how many more at home.
He kisses me.
CHAPTER FORTY
BRIONY
Ryan sits on the edge of the massage table in his changing room, his legs dangling over the side. The championship belt lies across his thighs, one hand resting on it, as if somebody might try to make off with it. His face is a sorry sight, but he’s still grinning.
