I didn’t turn to watch him walk in. I couldn’t. I was frozen there, like a block of ice, as the music blared through the speakers.
Our music. The same fight music we’d picked together four years ago after spending an entire snowy day shut in my room listening to song after song and compiling a “short” list of thirty potential options for when he finally went pro.
We’d finally settled on an Eminem track. And now, four years later, here it was. Actually playing in the first professional bout of Robbie’s that I’d ever attended. I kept my tear-blurred eyes locked on the ring as the procession moved forward to cheers and jeers from the crowd.
It wasn’t until he climbed between the ropes that I lifted my gaze, unable to stop myself.
He looked amazing. A light sheen of sweat coating his muscular body. The set of his lean jaw, eyes narrowed with the intense focus that made him as good of a lover as he was a fighter. He bounced easily from one foot to the other, rolling his shoulders as he settled in his corner of the ring.
His music faded out and the announcer introduced Robbie’s opponent. Death metal filled the air and he bounded into the ring like a ball of unleashed fury. He and Robbie were built similarly, but for some reason, this guy’s shock of red hair and the glint in his wild, blue eyes was enough to send a shaft of terror through me. He looked like he was out for blood.
The next few minutes went by in a blur. One second I was sitting there, trying to get my head together, the next, the bell was ringing and the guys were stalking across the ring toward one another.
I scooted to the edge of my seat, breathless as they circled one another. Robbie looked so much the same as he ever had. Tentative. Thoughtful. Keen eyes taking in every move, every feint, as he looked for a weak spot. A hand just a hair lower than it should be. A break in concentration, or a move that left him with an opening.
O'Malley was the exact opposite. He was like a raging bull in a china shop. All power and brawn, ready and waiting to let those twitchy hands fly. It was like he'd harnessed the pain of every second of his life to use in these moments between bells. And it scared the shit out of me.
I whispered a prayer under my breath and wrung my hands together.
It would be okay. It had to.
"Come on Robbie, you can do this."
Just as the words left my lips, O'Malley let fly a screeching blow that came so fast and so hard it was a blur to me.
It had clearly been one to Robbie as well, because he took it straight to the face, absorbing every pound of pressure behind it with his cheekbone.
The crowd cheered even as some of them let out muffled "Oofs" of empathy.
Me? I sat there with my eyes squeezed shut trying not to throw up.
This was a terrible idea. How had I not remembered this part? In all my fantasies, I kept thinking about how much I'd enjoyed it all. Watching him do what he loved. Witnessing him grow from fight to fight. The roar and energy of the crowd. It was both addictive and all-consuming.
But the memory of this part came back in one, giant wave. Watching the person you love getting hurt, over and over again. Lying next to them in bed, trying not to squash his sore ribs or bruised shoulder. And worst of all, sitting on the side of an ice bath as he tried to get the swelling down. It was bad back then when he'd been fighting other guys his size and weight. Now, though, he was still fighting guys his size, but his size had gotten exponentially larger.
I let myself peek in time to watch Robbie crick his head one way and then the other, before settling onto the balls of his feet again. If O'Malley had hoped he'd unseated Sledgehammer with that one shot, he was sorely mistaken. One thing I remember Robbie's trainer telling him at every sparring match and every fight.
"You've got the best chin and the best legs in boxing. Use 'em."
It was a blessing and a curse. It meant it was really hard to knock Robbie down. In fact, I'd only seen it happen one time, and he'd popped up like a jack in the box not even a second later. But with that super power came increased risk because his opponents dealt with that issue one of two ways.
They either tried to outbox him, and score points with jabs and non-knockout punches or? They rolled the dice and swung with every single ounce of will and strength they had, every single time, in hopes of hitting him hard enough that he went down and stayed down.
I knew from just the one punch and the way O'Malley was circling like a lion with murder in his eyes which tact he and his camp had decided to take.