And he’s down.
I start beating them all, a third one, a fourth one, a fifth. My body’s producing heat like nobody’s business. I’m on fire and so are my fists. I’ve got long arms, a far reach. My opponents think they’re in the safe zone away from me, but they’re not. Over and over, I hit. Flesh. Bone. Flesh. Bone. But I’m wearing down. I know it’s because I haven’t been training as I should.
I was at the park, with a kid and a girl who’s driving my head in all kinds of directions, all of them leading to the same end: her.
Her in a bed with me.
Her lips under mine.
Her sweet, round little butt under my hands.
Every second spent with them reminds me of the family that I don’t have and desperately crave.
I take the stool at my corner and let my body recharge when the announcer’s voice flares through the speakers, introducing my next opponent. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen . . .” He trails off mysteriously and lowers his voice. “I know you all have been waiting for this,” he begins.
The crowd shifts restlessly, and as a chorus of gasps and titters sweeps across the crowd, I tiredly roll my shoulders. I twist my sore neck to one side, then the other. Motherfuck me, I need gas right now.
“That’s right, ladies and gentlemen!” the announcer starts to yell. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, our record-holding champion, Remington ‘Riiiiiiiiptide’ Tate!”
I can’t even relish this moment; I’m catching my breath.
Worn out. I’ve taken a few hits, my eye has swelled up, and my cut is about to bust open and bleed again.
My jaw aches like a bitch. I open my jaw and flex it, rubbing my arm across the sting as Tate takes the ring.
The crowd goes wild. I glance at Oz while I wait. Oz looks as fucked-up as I am, snoozing in my corner. He really needs to back off the booze.
“Hey. At least pretend you give a shit.” I nudge him. “Put some Vaseline on my face or something.”
He lifts his head and does as I tell him, then he looks at Tate as he climbs into the ring and his eyes widen.
“WHAT THE LIVING FUCK?! How many have you knocked out?”
I shrug, eyeing Tate’s size from up close. He’s an inch taller, two or three wider. And he looks fresh as spring compared to my sweaty, bloodied, beat-up self. I’m not as big as him, but I bet I’ll look pretty big from the ground.
We go to center. Touch gloves. The bell rings.
The screams take over the arena. “REMY . . . REMY . . . REMY . . .”
I take a hit: a blow straight to my ribs.
I ease back, shake my head.
He comes in with a hook that knocks me off-balance.
I hit the ground.
The counting begins. “Stay down,” Oz says.
But I can’t stay down, I’m leaping to my feet. I’m fighting this guy. I’m beating this guy.
Dizzy.
I should’ve stayed down.
I take another hit, then three. This guy comes at me like a bulldozer, from all directions. My brain is already swimming in my skull.
We get a break.
I take my stool.
“Dude, you’re getting creamed out there,” Oz says.
“Really? That you’re awake for? Got something for my jaw?”
“Think not. Maybe.” He checks his materials and slaps something on. “There.”
This time, I block better. I’m braced for his force and catch a few hits, then start swinging. I open up my side when I hook, and he takes it.
I fall splat on the floor, winded.
The girls out in the arena scream his name. They quiet down when I stand. Sweat dripping down my forehead along with blood and a whole shit-ton of frustration.
Tate leans to me. “Your hook’s off.” Then he jabs and hooks and knocks me to the ground.
The announcer’s voice cuts through the speakers as the ringmaster raises his arm. “Ladies and gentlemen. Once again . . . Riptide! Riiiiiptiiiiiide! UNDEFEATED FOR THREE CONSECUTIVE YEARS. The most unstoppable beast this ring has ever seen. RIPTIDE!”
The crowd’s sudden, wild roar pulses in my eardrums. I plant my glove on the ground and come to my feet. The crowd quiets. Riptide lowers his arm, his grin fading.
Neither of us looks away from the other as we climb the ropes to get off the ring.
We head down the walkway, side by side, silent.
Oz is wide awake now—and he’s pissed. “Why the fuck are you giving my fighter pointers? You want him to beat you?” he demands.
Tate shoots me a look when he speaks. “I want him to try.”
“You can fucking count on it!” Oz replies.
Tate stops by his door and turns to face me, waiting for me to say something.
I don’t.
I just look him directly in the eye while our teams try to shuffle us into our rooms.
“You have something to say to me?” Tate asks.
“Not yet,” I say.
His team piles up on him to usher him inside. It takes Oz a lot more effort to move me.