I feel my eyes widen.
He’s built like an eighteen-wheeler — at least 260 pounds of solid muscle. His head goes straight into his shoulders, foregoing a neck entirely, and his fists are each about the size of my face. Just before he climbs into the ring, he cuts a cold glance at Colt… and then his black eyes slide to meet mine.
I shiver when he stares at me, suddenly understanding his nickname. There’s not an ounce of warmth inside him.
Dropping my gaze, I refuse to watch as he does his victory lap around the inside of the ring, hyping the crowd to new levels. They chant like druids at the alter of their god.
ICE-MAN!
ICE-MAN!
ICE-MAN!
The announcer’s voice blares again. “And now, ladies and gents, your challenger this evening… your very own hometown hero… a man who’ll bring the heat and try to burn his way to an upset… BLAZE BUCHANAN!”
Luca’s entry music always makes me grin. What can I say? The Dropkick Murphy’s I’m Shipping Up to Boston is an unbeatable soundtrack choice for a redheaded Irishman from the city. The crowd eats it up, singing along as Luca emerges from the back room and jogs to the stage, two beefy security guards at his sides to keep the fans back. Just before he hops up the steps into the ring, he spots me. His lips curl into a devilish grin.
I smile back and mouth, Good luck.
He winks and steps into the arena, all humor fading from his expression as his focus narrows on his opponent. He looks much, much smaller than his 210 pounds, up there next to the human ice sculpture.
Colt’s shoulder bumps mine. “Breathe, babe.”
I bump him back. “I’ll breathe when it’s over.”
The announcer steps out. The referee steps in. The octagon door slams closed. The crowd screams. The fighters start to circle…
I hold my breath and force myself to watch as round one begins.
* * *
It’s brutal. Bloody.
Colt was right — they’re pretty evenly matched. Luca moves quickly, ducking punches and striking out strategically whenever Iceman drops his hands, like the sun unleashing a solar flare of pure heat. I cheer as he manages to land several sharp blows to Iceman’s head. Still, the sheer strength of his opponent can’t be dismissed, because no matter how many times Luca hits him, the bastard refuses to go down. By the final round, Luca’s bleeding from his bottom lip, and I’m relatively certain Iceman is actually made of stone.
The crowd is growing uneasy, the longer the match persists without a clear victor. They expected Iceman to take Luca out in one hit — now, with the clock ticking down to the finals seconds, they’re not so sure about the outcome… or the security of their bets.
Both competitors are breathing heavily as they move around the arena. My eyes never leave Luca as he moves sharply to the left, attempting a knock-out uppercut to the jaw. I feel the breath seize in my throat as Iceman anticipates his strike and lunges back, so Luca’s fist hits nothing but air. The forward momentum of the punch pulls Luca off balance, stumbling a few steps toward the closest cage wall. Iceman uses it to his advantage, effectively backing Luca into a corner in the tiny slice of time it takes the smaller man to find his footing.
Fuck.
Once you’re pinned, it’s almost impossible to escape — especially if your opponent is roughly the size of Mount Everest. The audience cheers as Iceman grapples for a solid hold. I watch his big hand flying out, preparing to deliver a fatal blow to the top of Luca’s spine…
And then, the unthinkable — Luca ducks, quicker than I’ve ever seen him, pivots behind the lumbering hunk of ice, and swipes Iceman’s legs out from under him with a perfectly placed roundhouse kick to the back of the thighs. The giant falls like a tree in the forest, face-first onto the canvas mats, and before he has time to find his feet, Luca’s there, delivering a series of sharp jabs to his ribs. His arm snakes around Iceman’s throat in a chokehold as he presses him into the mat, demanding submission.
It’s over quickly, after that.
The ache of worry inside my chest eases as soon as Iceman’s fist taps the mat, crying uncle. The crowd is stunned, their roars louder than ever — some are pissed to see their champion fall, but most are thrilled that the underdog dominated. It’s akin to David taking on Goliath — albeit a bit bloodier. (And I’m relatively certain there were no bikini-clad ring girls pressed up against David after he won that biblical bout.) Colt is whooping in celebration as he pulls me up the stairs into the octagon. We’re barely on the canvas when Luca appears. Dismissing his corner men and clingy cheerleaders without a word, he grabs me in a giant bear hug.
“You did it,” I yell into his ear, returning his tight embrace as he spins me in a circle. “Are you okay? You nose is bleeding.”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? Because—”
“Mom, I said I’m fine.”
I huff.