Duking it out was the only option.
He was ready for the fight to end—for this night to end. But not without collecting the winnings. Using that incentive, he popped the guy hard in the face. The punch forced Brent to lower his guard and Lance responded with a jab in the same place. That was all it took. The guy crumbled.
As he watched the man struggle to his feet, he kept his guard up, waiting for him rise, refusing to do what so many others had done tonight and take advantage of a grounded opponent. He wanted that damn money so bad he could taste it, but he would never compromise his ethics as a fighter to get it. No matter how fucking exhausted he was.
None of the fights tonight had been easy. Each fighter had been as determined as he was to win the payout. And Brent was no different. He forced himself up, then wobbled violently to the left a few feet before lowering to one knee, shaking his head.
Call the fucking fight. The guy had had enough.
But the referee stood back. Had he been in a regulated match, this would be over. Lance was either going to have to knock the motherfucker out, or he had to tap. There was no fucking way the man would tap without being forced to. Not being this close to the prize.
Lance hated every second of this. MMA was regulated for a goddamn reason. It kept fighters safer, the injuries less severe. This crap right here was bullshit. He prayed the guy passed out so this insanity would end. When the man pushed back to his feet and faced Lance with his fists raised, he silently cursed.
Damn idiot. Know when you’ve had enough.
Brent swayed horribly with a dazed look in his eyes, not really focused on Lance. Hell, not focused on anything. One more punch would do the man in.
Lance didn’t have it in him to throw it. The man couldn’t handle another hit to the head. Considering he was now worse off than Lance, a submission would be possible and much safer. Swiping his leg out, he knocked his opponent off his feet. As he went down, Lance quickly covered him, locking in a knee bar that had Brent instantly slapping the ground. After he released the man, he clambered to his feet, trying to ignore the agony in his body.
When the referee grabbed his wrist and lifted it high in the air, causing Lance to grimace at the slice of pain that radiated from his side, the reality set in. He’d fucking won.
“And the winner of Last Man Standing: Lance ‘Total Annihilation’ Black!”
The name startled him. Total Annihilation? He guessed that was exactly what he’d done. Pride momentarily relieved the agony. After twenty years, he’d finally earned his fighter’s name.
He glanced to the back of the warehouse, hoping Kelsey had witnessed his naming. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest, but there wasn’t a lick of happiness for him in her expression. As she met his gaze, she shook her head, straightened, backed into the room, then closed the door.
Why was he disappointed by her lack of support? He’d known going into the first bout this evening that Kelsey disapproved of his involvement. While he could appreciate that it was over his wellbeing, it didn’t make her obvious judgment hurt any less.
As he stepped out of the ring, Mitch and Gabe approached him.
“Congratulations, Black,” Mitch said, holding out his hand, which Lance took albeit reluctantly. “You earned every dime of that thirty thousand. That was one hell of a gamble you took.”
He wasn’t stupid. He didn’t have a lot more unregulated fights in him. The thirty thousand dollar credit had knocked his debt down by half.
“Yeah. It worked out well. Look, I’d like to get cleaned up and get home.”
“Of course. Go. Relax.”
From the jovial vibe coming from both men, Lance assumed they’d brought in a killing tonight. Whatever. All he cared about was that he’d won.
He left the cousins and made his way back to the bathroom the McNealys had converted to a useless locker room. There wasn’t a shower, but he could use the sink to get the worst of the funk off, and change clothes. He needed to talk to Kelsey, but after what had transpired tonight, he refused to do it fresh from the fight.
After using a wet towel to clean up the sweat and blood, he changed into a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved cotton shirt. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and grimaced.
Bruises shadowed both of his puffy eyes and crossed the bridge of his nose. One of the punches he’d taken had opened a cut high on his cheekbone. It wasn’t a deep one, but the red line stood out ugly and proud. Cleaning up had been pointless. Just looking at his face would be a reminder of why she was so mad at him.