“Good. We’re on the same page.”
It took every bit of his self-restraint for Lance not to punch the smug smile off the other man’s face.
“Now get ready,” Mitch said as he started to walk off. “You’re going to need it. This isn’t the kind of fighting you’re used to.”
Lance glanced at the cage. The grounded fighter had somehow made it back to his feet. Blood saturated one side of his face from a wound on his forehead, and he was unsteady on his feet, swaying alarmingly. The other fighter didn’t even have to do anything. The guy collapsed to his knees and tapped the canvas with his opponent a foot away from him. The ref ended the fight.
This isn’t the fighting you’re used to.
Mitch was right on that. Though they’d made the fighters wear gloves, which Lance had been glad to see because it showed that Gabe and Mitch weren’t being completely stupid, nothing was considered an illegal move. Of the four fights he’d watched, he’d seen eye gouging, head-butting, and groin shots. In regulated fighting, each one of those moves would’ve resulted in a point deduction. Not here. The more violent it was, the more it was encouraged. It made him sick. MMA had worked so hard to distance itself from the human cockfighting stigma, and here he was, participating in one.
His training would put him at a disadvantage, because he refused to degrade the sport he loved by resorting to cheap moves to win. He couldn’t say his opponent would feel the same, though.
Might as well get it over with. His opponent was Kelvin Johnston. That was the extent of what he knew about the man. Cards had been passed around so the patrons could place an educated bet. He’d refused to touch one. He’d spent too many years distancing himself from the thrill he’d received from placing a bet to add to that temptation now.
Lance tugged off his shirt then headed toward the cage. Once there, a guy helped him tape his hands then slipped the fingerless padded gloves onto each hand. He flexed his fingers, stretching out the black leather. Popping his mouth guard in, he started to warm up his muscles by hopping from foot to foot.
“On to the final fight of the night,” the announcer yelled into the mic. “With a record of twenty wins and four losses, Lance Black!”
Blocking out the screams from the crowd, Lance ran into the cage then side-jumped around the perimeter to his corner, eyes locked on the massive African-American man waiting outside to be introduced. Something wasn’t right about this, and again dread knotted his stomach.
“And with a record of fifteen wins and one loss, Kelvin Johnston!”
As the man stepped into the cage, Lance lowered his arms. What the fuck?
Kelvin was the epitome of a brick house. There was no way in hell the man was in the light-heavyweight division. There had to be a seventy-pound weight difference here.
When they met in the middle of the ring, Lance had to crane back to look Kelvin in the face. The motherfucker had to be a good six inches taller, which said a lot, considering Lance was six feet tall.
You only get credit if you win.
So this was the unforeseen event. Though he highly doubted that it had been “unforeseen” at all. All the other fights had been evenly matched. This had been deliberately set up so Lance would lose. He guessed the McNealys hadn’t heard the phrase “the bigger they are, the harder they fall.” Losing wasn’t an option.
After the referee backed away, giving the all clear for them to fight, Lance circled around Kelvin. The size difference was hard to ignore. Not that he hadn’t gone against bigger men before—he had, but they still fell within his weight class.
This dude was fucking huge.
The man swung out a massive arm. Lance ducked then countered with a right hook into his side. The man lumbered around.
Lack of speed was one disadvantage guys this big had—though a punch from this fucker would knock Lance straight the hell out—because their strength was brutal. The best thing he could do was keep moving. He danced around Kelvin, making sure to stay outside the man’s reach and going in for punches and leg shots only when the fighter left an opening.
Aggressiveness wouldn’t help him. This was a defensive fight. They couldn’t just go at it the way all the other fighters had. He had to be smart about it, use his opponent’s size against him.
At the lack of action, the crowd began to boo. Every damn one of them could kiss his fucking ass. Real fighting wasn’t just about swinging blindly at each other. It was knowing your opponent, knowing yourself, and not getting caught up in the chaos.
“Fight me, asshole,” Kelvin said around his mouth guard and lowered his arms.