"What's Deacon's walk-in arena song?"
Molly drew a blank. "I have no idea."
Everyone was on their feet when the lights went out. Molly stood on tiptoe, straining to get that first glimpse of Deacon.
The music started and blasted through the speakers.
Presley started laughing.
"What is it?" Molly yelled over the music. "I don't recognize the song."
"'Bleed It Out' by Linkin Park." She laughed again. "I swear I thought he'd have 'Sweet Emotion' by Aerosmith-you know, since he doesn't show any emotion ever. Ironic, right?"
Molly smirked because Presley was dead wrong.
"Ooh, here he comes."
Maddox, Ronin, Knox, and Beck followed behind Deacon. When he shed the robe, revealing his gorgeous back tattoo, Presley sucked in a sharp breath.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
"Yeah. And the tat ain't bad either."
Molly slugged her.
The ref patted Deacon down, checking his gloves, his fingernails and his mouth guard. He smeared Vaseline on Deacon's face and then signaled Deacon was good to go.
Deacon didn't hug any of his instructors. He turned and scanned the crowd until his gaze landed on Molly.
The only change in his don't-fuck-with-me demeanor was a long breath he exhaled. He turned, took the two steps up to the cage, bowed, and entered the ring.
The lights cut out again.
Molly dropped back into her seat. She wasn't standing to be a good sport for the man who'd trash-talked her man.
Needham walked in to "SexyBack" by Justin Timberlake.
What a fucktard. Deacon oughta whale on him for that alone.
Presley didn't sit until Needham dropped his robe. She shrugged. "He needs to lay off the Muscle Milk."
Needham walked into the ring.
The crowd quieted down only when the announcer started talking.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to your main event of the evening! This MMA middleweight division features the challenger, in the blue corner, wearing black trunks, with a professional record of twenty-eight wins, two losses, and an amateur record of thirty-four wins and zero losses. Weighing in at one hundred and eighty-five pounds, he stands six feet, two inches and trains out of the Black Arts dojo, Denver, Colorado . . . Deacon 'Con Man' McConnell."
More boos than cheers rang out.
"In the red corner, wearing white trunks, with a professional record of seventeen wins, four losses, weighing in at one hundred and eighty-eight pounds, he stands an even six feet and trains out of Baker's Gym in Kansas City, Kansas . . . Jeremy 'Don't' Needham!"
"That is a stupid fucking ring name," Presley said. "Why doesn't Needs-His-Ass-Kicked have an amateur and a pro win-loss record?"
Molly relayed Deacon's explanation about a professional amateur status.
The ref called both fighters in and explained the rules. The guys touched gloves and returned to their corners.
Okay. Here we go.
• • •
OKAY. Here we go.
Deacon moved his head side to side. He stretched his arms up and out. Then he faced Maddox.
"D. You got this. You've trained your ass off. You know his weak spots. But better yet, you know your own strengths. He doesn't stand a chance."
When Deacon looked across the cage at Needham, sneering at him, Dante's voice jumped into his head, shouting, Release the hounds!
Such a fucking smart-ass, bro.
Hey, that motherfucker is blocking you from reaching that next rung on the ladder. It's your time. Take it.
The referee signaled the start of the fight.
Needham practically pranced into the middle of the ring first, taunting him.
Deacon purposely lumbered forward, taking left-side fighting stance. That allowed him to cue up his right fist and leg.
Needham swung and missed.
Deacon's kick landed on the outside of Needham's quad. Twice in rapid succession.
A couple of Needham's blows came close to landing, but none connected. In a moment of bravado, he used a left uppercut.
That knocked Deacon back a step.
Shake it off.
Deacon utilized a jab to the gut to get Needham to lower his hands. In the split second he did that, he saw his opening and took it. He threw a right cross at Needham's jaw.
Needham's head snapped back. He opened his box stance just far enough for Deacon to use a powerful straight punch, right to Needham's solar plexus.
The man crumpled to the mat.
Deacon didn't waste a single opportunity. He landed a couple of kicks before the ref called the match. He squinted at the clock. Official time: 1:43
Fuck yeah.
The ref officially raised Deacon's hand as the winner.
If there was positive crowd noise? He didn't hear it. He stormed over to the side where Molly would be, but Riggins intercepted him.