“We’re short on fights tonight. Just the way it is, friend. You don’t wanna fight, you can always concede.” Carlos grins. He doesn’t give a shit about the fact that he’s making friends fight, and on top of that one friend who massively outranks the other.
Ben’s still scowling when he faces me. The crowd can tell something’s not right; they start chanting, pounding their feet against the floor, rattling the wire of the cage. “Fight, fight, fight, fight, fight!”
“You wanna back out, man?” Ben asks me.
“Hell no.” The fighter who backs out sacrifices the money he paid in order to fight in the first place. I couldn’t afford to lose the hundred I’d originally planned on spending, let alone the extra one fifty I now owe Ben. He nods.
“Okay. Well, I guess we’re fighting then.” He scratching his jaw, suddenly grinning like a mad man. “And I win either way, since I bought you in. Ironic, huh?”
“Yeah. Awesome.” He looks way too pleased with himself right now.
“Are you ladies done gossiping or can we get this show on the road?” Carlos snipes.
Ben lifts his right fist, already gloved, and holds it out to me. “I’ll go easy on you, I swear.”
“Don’t do me any favors, asshole.” I touch my glove to his, the bell rings and that’s it. No more time to talk. No more time to think. No more time to worry about what will happen if I lose this fight. My friend is circling me, a dark, predatory look in his eyes, and my head is not in the game. It gets there pretty quickly.
Ben comes for me, slamming his fist home straight between my guard, the same way Zeth did repeatedly the first time I fought him. My ears are ringing, my vision blurred when I step forward, trying to shake off the buzzing in my head. Ben’s grinning, shrugging his shoulders, the light over out heads swinging crazily, casting evil shadows all over his face. I can see in his eyes that he thinks this is going to be ridiculously easy. And maybe it is. But I’ve never fought or even spared with Ben before, and Zeth did manage to give me a few invaluable pointers that cost me a number of nasty bruises. He doesn’t know what I’ve got up my sleeve.
I let him land a hit on me again, this time to my side where Zee nearly broke some of my ribs. I wince, sucking oxygen into my lungs as best I can through the pain. Jesus fucking Christ.
I counter, landing a mean upper cut to Ben’s jaw. The smile has vanished from his face when he cracks his neck, loosening out his shoulders.
“Ahhh, like that is it?” he says, laughing. Ben’s a boxer. Has been for as long as I’ve known him. I’m willing to bet he hasn’t spent nearly enough time practicing any other martial arts forms since he started fighting down here, knocking people out left, right and center.
We parry back and forth for thirty seconds, each landing blows where we can. I keep my fucking guard up, and I don’t break eye contact with the guy. The crowd are baying for blood by the time I decide to test my theory. Ben comes in to land a left hook, but I’m ready for him. I duck, strike up, and then I slam into him, taking him down.
He makes a deep, surprised uffff sound as the air leaves his lungs. While he’s trying to recover, I’m already moving, already planning my next move. Spinning him over, I twist his arm around into a lock and pull upward, looking for that sweetspot between what will mean absolute agony for him or a broken bone. I find that point when his body goes tense beneath me, rigid as a board.
“Motherfucker,” he laughs. “Where the hell did that come from?”
Now’s not the time to be cocky. I concentrate on what I’m doing, locking him down, making it impossible for him to move without extreme pain firing through his whole body. Maybe I’m concentrating too hard.
I’m ready for him when he tries to jerk me off him, using his hips to push backward. When he realizes I’m not going to let him off that easy, he rips his body around, growling against the discomfort of his arm nearly popping out of joint.
The next three seconds happen quickly. I’m on top of Ben in mount position, legs either side of him one second, and the next I’m on my back and Ben’s hammering his fists into my face.
They call it ground and pound for a reason. I have to get out of this position. Right. Fucking. Now. Ben’s too busy pummeling my face to guard any other area of his body. As his fists rain down, I somehow have the common sense to react. To move. To jab him as hard as I can. I am for his ribs, and pure determination takes over. I know I’m spraying blood everywhere from my mouth and my nose every time I gasp for breath, and I know Ben’s doing his fair share of bleeding onto the canvas too, but neither one of us stop.