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The last time we properly spoke, I stood in my doorway pretending I hadn’t thought about kissing her since it happened.
Christ. Where did that thought come from?
Still, for some reason, seeing her settles something in me. Davie’s right. I can’t let this go another two rounds. I need to finish this.
A hand pushes my gumshield back in. I bite down and get to my feet.
Right, Kovac. Time to end this.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
BRIONY
Ryan’s face fills the big screen, and it is not a pretty sight.
Blood runs from a cut above his left eyebrow, down over the lid, and into the corner of his eye. A man in latex gloves wipes it away, and for a second there’s just a neat red line, then it wells up and runs again. The man presses something white against it, and Ryan flinches. In front of him, his coach crouches and talks, jabbing a finger at him for emphasis. Whatever he’s saying, he doesn’t appear to be mincing his words.
The last fifteen minutes have been a roller coaster. I’m hardly qualified to analyse a fight, but for the first two rounds, even I could tell Ryan was getting the better of Kovac. He was quicker. Kovac would swing, Ryan would dodge, then somehow Kovac was the one getting hit. I started to think Kovac simply couldn’t catch Ryan.
Then came the third round, and suddenly Ryan was stumbling, blood streaming down his face and dripping onto the white floor of the cage. I was sure the ref would stop it. Surely they couldn’t let him carry on bleeding that much? But the fight went on until the horn.
On the screen, Ryan takes water from a bottle then spits it out again.
“They’re really going to let him do another round?” I ask Innes.
“Yeah. Cuts up there can bleed like mad. It doesn’t tell you how bad the hit was. You can get knocked out with barely a mark on you.”
That isn’t particularly reassuring. I just want this to be over. I don’t want him getting hurt any more than he already is. Not because I care-care, but because he’s my neighbour. Someone I know. It’s only natural I don’t want to see him get battered.
The man in the gloves dabs something greasy over Ryan’s cut then steps away. Ryan looks up, seeking out our section. Seeking out me.
Our eyes meet. At least, I’m pretty sure he’s looking at me. But why is he looking at me? I caught him doing that after the first round too.
Then someone pushes his gumshield back in, and he stands. His gaze shifts to Kovac.
The fourth round starts, and Kovac comes straight for Ryan, clearly looking to finish what he started in the third. He throws big, heavy punches, one after the other. Ryan backs away, then keeps backing away.
Oh God. He’s tired, he’s hurt, and Kovac knows it. At least, that’s my assessment. But Innes says, “Look, he’s setting him up.”
Ryan twitches a shoulder as if he’s about to attack, and Kovac reacts, bracing behind his gloves for a punch that never comes. Instead, Ryan’s leg comes up. Straight up, higher than a man his size has any business lifting a leg. For a fraction of a second his heel hangs above Kovac’s head—then it drops.
There’s a sound I feel in my stomach, and Kovac folds onto the floor like someone’s cut his strings. The referee lunges between Ryan and Kovac, arms waving.
The arena detonates. Suddenly everyone around us is on their feet. People scream and punch the air. Beer flies. Innes shouts himself hoarse, his face lit up.
“Did you see that, Briony? Oh my God! The Axe King finished it with an axe kick. That was incredible!”
But Kovac is still down. He hasn’t moved.
Ryan doesn’t even look at him. He scales the side of the cage, perches on top, and raises both arms to the crowd, blood streaked across his face and down his chest. He roars right back at the thousands roaring at him.
I’ve seen a scene like this before, the night I went through Ryan’s social media. Ryan walking away while another man lies on the floor, hurt. But this time I’m actually here. I can’t just lock my phone and cast it aside.
And everyone is celebrating—my brother is celebrating—while Kovac just lies there.
Two men run into the cage and kneel by him. Soon Kovac is sitting up, and some of the tightness in my chest eases. One of the men holds his face, looking into his eyes as he talks to him. Kovac nods. After a minute, they help him to his feet.
Ryan climbs down and crosses the cage to Kovac. He says something to him, and then—to my astonishment—they put their arms around each other and thump each other on the back. Just minutes ago, Ryan knocked this man out cold, and now these two sweaty, bloody, bare-chested men are hugging?
