Long: A Secret Baby Sports Romance(145)

I had something to prove. I needed to show the world what kind of fighter I was. There weren’t many men that could stand up to Trent the way I was, fighting him in his preferred style. There were even fewer that could step in and take him down at any moment.

The fifth round began. I could feel one of my teeth was loose, and Trent’s left eye was almost swollen shut. We looked insane, and I was almost surprised that the ref even let the round begin. But we were out there, face to face, going at it again.

Trent was getting sloppy and loose. I could see the anger etched on his face, pure and unbridled rage. I felt calm, though anger simmered below the surface, propelling me forward. Still, he was throwing wild haymakers, trying desperately to knock me out.

I got stupid. I didn’t know what I was thinking. I was probably more dehydrated and exhausted and in more pain than I had realized. But as we were fighting, one of those desperate haymakers landed directly on my jaw.

I heard the crack of my teeth smashing together and the collective scream of the crowd.

I staggered back, shocked. I took a sharp breath, but my whole head was foggy and swimming. I took another step back as Trent came at me. I barely had time to get my hands up to defend myself as he began to rain blows on me.

I was falling. I knew I was falling. My eyes were wide with terror as I lost my balance, spilling backward.

Alexa. I had failed her. I’d never fight again. But worst of all, I was letting her down.

And then something caught me, held me up. I thought it might be my guardian angel, pushing my body back into fighting position. It took me half a second to realize that I was leaning against the wire fence that circled the ring.

Trent’s fists rained down on me, and I could vaguely hear Ronnie screaming. I knew the ref would stop the fight any second if I didn’t get myself together.

Leaning back and using the fence to give me some momentum, I launched myself at Trent in an almost suicidal move. I ate another punch to the jaw that sent my head reeling and made my thoughts fuzzy, but my body toppled into Trent’s.

We crashed down onto the mat together.

The crowd had become a low, sluggish noise happening somewhere far away. I could feel Trent’s slick skin and hear the grunts coming from his face as he struggled to get away from me.

I forgot who I was and what I was doing. The whole place seemed spooky, eerie, like a nightmare. Something seemed to be crawling from the ceiling, something made from lights. People were saying my name, or something like my name, chanting it over and over and over, distorted and vaguely real, something that meant me but wasn’t really what I was called. My body was lightness and my skull was darkness, and they were at war.

And then I snapped back into reality.

Before Trent could struggle away, I grabbed his shoulder. Everything came back to me in that moment, and although my head was still light and I was still barely holding on, I knew I had him. He was on his back, helpless, and I grabbed his body and yanked him toward me.

He fought back, but he didn’t have good technique. Frankly, he was sloppy, still trying to get in punches as we grappled on the ground. His blows were weak and had no force because he had no leverage. Meanwhile, I was winning the battle for positioning, and ultimately that was going to win me the war.

After a moment of struggling, and taking another weak shot to the nose that didn’t do much more than sting, I got him onto his back. I sat down on his chest as our hands fought for dominance.

All through the fight, I had shown him again and again that I wanted to pound him. I wanted to punch him, make him bleed, win by knocking him out. I wanted to go for the big, showy blow to the face.

That was exactly what he must have been thinking. His hands and body were guarding his face from my fists, so busy that he left himself open for one of the simplest submission moves in all of fighting.

I slapped his one shoulder down and slipped my hand between his arms, grabbing his triceps. I made a fist and he instantly went to guard, which was what I wanted. I pushed his face to the side and swung my leg around his head, keeping my hips low.

And then I rotated my hips, rolling to the side and tearing his arm out along with me. I hooked my legs over his face, shoving him down to the mat, and I twisted his wrist and shifted my hips, putting a tremendous amount of pressure on his joint. His arm was spread out wide across the length of my body, and I had complete control of him, the arm bar locked and finished.

The room was silent. The ref was down in Trent’s face, but Trent refused to tap out. He was struggling, shifting his weight, moving his hips, screaming in pain.

I wasn’t going to let him up. I could feel the bones of his joints wrenching, and I knew they were about to break.