I push my way through the crowd, my don’t-fuck-with-me expression firmly in place. It makes little difference — no one pays me a bit of attention. Everyone’s eyes are on the center ring as the crowd slowly moves inward, jostling for better positions. This isn’t an official fight, so there are no seats or press boxes; the UFC doesn’t sanction underground bouts. But, for a twenty-five-dollar cover charge at the door, anyone can get in… so long as they know where to go, of course.
The gym is well over the fire marshal’s designated capacity, but no one seems to care. Money flows freely as bets are exchanged last minute. Fans trash-talk about the competitors, discuss the odds. I overhear someone saying Luca is expected to take a heavy beating against Dean “Iceman” Bailey, a massive lunkhead from New Jersey with a killer right hook and a twelve-match winning streak under his belt.
Go ahead and underestimate Luca, I think, pushing past them. You’ll be eating your words by the end of the night.
From what I hear, there’s a shitload of money on the line. I’ve never been one to place bets, but if I did I’d bet on Luca every time.
Times like this, being petite comes in handy. I duck under arms and between groups like a shadow, finding space to maneuver where there is none. By the time I make it to the ring — a raised, fenced-in octagonal platform surrounded by metal barriers to keep the fans back — the roar of the crowd has reached a crescendo.
Groupies push up against the metal fencing, their boobs straining inside see-through white t-shits. Bouncers make a half-hearted attempt at holding them back from the narrow ringside area where corner men, octagon girls, and coaches gather before the fight. The male fans in the crowd are a little more subdued, but not much — they eye the empty octagon with an anticipatory look, taking stock of the bets they made upon arrival.
They crave blood, tonight.
There’s an uncomfortable flutter of nerves in my stomach; the same one I get every time Luca fights. No matter how often he goes up against impossible odds and makes it out alive, it never gets easier. Tonight, when he’s battling one of the best fighters in the underground circuit, my heart is lodged firmly in my throat.
He’s still backstage, likely getting psyched up and going over his strategy for the match. He likes to be alone, before all his fights. He’s not the biggest fighter, not the strongest or the most muscular in the heavyweight division, but he fights fast, he fights smart, and he never goes into a fight blind. He says dominating in the ring is as much mental as it is physical.
His sparring partner, Colton, somehow spots me from where he’s standing in the blockaded area by the ring. In a flash, he’s there in front of me, nodding to the nearest bouncer before extending one huge hand and hoisting me over the barrier with a single flex of his bicep.
“Thanks, Colt,” I say breathlessly, when he sets me down. I hear whines of complaint from the groupies along the fence.
“Hey, why does she get ringside access?” a busty brunette squeals.
“Take me, too!” a hopeful blonde suggests.
“What’s so special about her?” a redhead sneers.
Colt shoots them all a withering glare. Despite his blond, surfer-boy good looks, he can bring the heat when necessary.
“She is with Blaze.”
Without another word to them, he hooks one arm around my neck and walks me to the cluster of metal folding chairs reserved for the fighters’ teams.
“He’ll be happy you’re here,” Colt yells into my ear. I can barely hear him, over the din behind us. “He’s been a total nutcase all week.”
I shrug. “He’s always a nutcase, Colt.”
“Yeah, well, nuttier than usual. You two fighting or something?”
“Or something,” I mutter.
His blue eyes crinkle. “Well, don’t take it out on him too long. He needs to focus.”
“What are his odds?”
Colt shakes his head and his eyes dart across the ring to where Iceman’s coach is standing. “They’re pretty evenly matched, if I’m being honest. Hard to say who will take it. Iceman is brawn and brute force… Blaze is speed and strategy. Totally different approaches. It’s anyone’s game.”
I suck in a breath. It’s one thing to hear shitheads in the crowd talking about Luca losing — it’s another to hear one of his best friends discuss the possibility.
“Don’t worry, Zoe.” Colt smirks. “Fire always melts ice.”
I hope he’s right.
A few minutes later, the crowd has swelled to bursting. I keep my eyes on the ring as the announcer runs up the short set of stairs and hoists his mic into the air. His voice booms like a clap of thunder.
“ARE YOU READY, BOSTON?”
The crowd roars in response.
“I SAID ARE YOU FUCKING READY?”
Five hundred people scream at the top of their lungs.
“Then make some noise for our first fighter…. a man built like a glacier… a powerhouse with fists like icebergs… your undefeated champ…. ICEMAN!”
A rap song blares from the speakers overhead, barely audible over the cheers. From the left side of the gym, a bare-chested man in shiny black shorts cuts a swathe through the crowd, flanked by bouncers on all sides. Fans reach out to touch him as he passes by, but he brushes them off — he’s watching the ring, hyper-focused and frigid as he makes his way up into the octagon.