Soon enough, angry bald guy wins the fight to the boos of the local crowd and Logan pats me hard on my bare back, saying, “All right, do you know anything about this guy?”
“I was hoping you did,” I tell him.
“Well, they wouldn’t have put him in the match if he wasn’t tough,” Logan says uselessly.
“If you’re not going to offer any decent advice, would you mind leaving me alone so I can get my head in the game?” I ask.
He pats me on the back again, hard enough that the sting pulls me out of my thoughts a moment while I consider slapping Logan right here in front of everyone.
Mitch, the only guy here who actually wanted to announce the bouts, walks to the center of the group while they drag man bun out to wallow in his shame.
“Next up,” Mitch calls out above the volume of the crowd, “we’ve got two guys in the featherweight division.”
I don’t know if he says anything more than that or not. I don’t know if he says my name, but when he points to me, I raise my hand. When he points to the other guy, he raises his hand.
We’re touching gloves now, and I try to catch him off-guard with a quick right, but he dodges it.
He counters with a knee meant for my gut that I manage to block with my forearms, and I kick his stationary leg. His foot comes down and he quickly catches any balance he may have lost.
The guy’s not bad, but he’s leaving himself open.
I shin kick his right leg again, aiming for the same spot, but he moves and the blow is deflected up his leg.
He’s a striker. I like that.
I can do the Greco-Roman wrestling thing and jiu-jitsu, but I’m much more comfortable on my feet.
He tries giving me a straight punch to the sternum, but I turn and counter with a hard left to the side of his face. If he’s dazed, though, he’s not showing it.
I step back, keeping my feet moving. I can hit him, but he’s got good stamina and a strong jaw. If he can get me to wear myself out before I can knock him out, he might just win this thing.
He comes at me with a flying knee, but it’s mostly for show and I easily sidestep the strike.
I give him a hard knee to the gut and he doubles over just enough for me to land a solid right uppercut to his jaw, snapping his head back.
He’s unsteady now on his feet and I’ve got this if I just stay smart and don’t let him dictate the pace.
I throw a halfhearted left hook and he takes the bait, leaning in to strike me from the other side, but I duck the blow and hit him right in the mouth with a right.
He stumbles, landing on his knee at one point, but he’s back up and his face is a deep red, his eyes narrow, focused.
He throws a left and a quick right in succession, and then comes at me with a calf kick that I move right into, expecting him to go from the other side.
My leg comes a little off the ground, but I bring it back down just as quickly, using it as my pivot and my other leg comes up and around, cracking him against the side of the head and he’s down.
I’m on top of him, throwing blows, but the ref stops the fight.
It’s not cockiness that has me laughing as I get to my feet and the ref lifts my hand in the air. It’s the pure love of adrenaline that comes from knowing I just kicked the living crap out of this guy.
Three to go.
I’m almost expecting some beautiful scene like you’d see in a Hollywood sports movie where everyone comes in and lifts me onto their shoulders in a celebration of mirth, but if anything, they just want me to get the hell out of the ring so the next fight can get started.
I make my way back into the crowd and wave at Tom as he checks on the other guy.
I’m not going to need his services tonight. The guy barely touched me.
I take another look at the crowd, hoping to see Ash off standing in some corner away from everything, but she’s not here.