The music stops and my ears say a silent prayer as the announcer steps into the ring. “Ladies and gentleman”—he pauses for dramatic effect—“welcome to The Underground!” he shouts, and the crowd surrounding me roars to life. “We have a special treat for you this evening,” he brags, drawing out what I assume is going to be his punch line. “The brawl you’ve all been dying to see.”
I’m irritated by the short, bald man who continues to taunt the crowd. I’d yell at him to get on with it already, but Kyle doesn’t like outbursts of any kind, especially not in public.
“Coming to us from our neighbors down south, from the home of the brave, from Seattle, I give you”—the lights dim and a spotlight appears on the hallway farthest from me to my left—“Mack Truck!” he roars into the microphone as Tupac’s “Ghost” pumps out of the speakers.
The crowd is a mixture of cheering and booing as the first competitor makes his entrance into the ring. He’s a brute in every description of the word. Mack Truck—What a ridiculous name—is over six feet tall, and every inch is bulky muscle. He has a phoenix tattoo that wraps around his neck, and as he grins at the audience, I notice that he’s missing a few teeth. Mr. Truck is not an attractive man, and I would not want to be caught in a dark room alone with him. The competitor parades around the ring, soaking in his own glory.
The music cuts off again and the spotlight appears on the hallway to my right. The announcer speaks again. “Here he is. Our hometown hero. Our rags-to-riches story. Ladies, hold on to your panties!”
As if on cue, the women in the crowd shriek and begin to literally toss their panties towards the ring.
“You’re a bunch of naughty girls. You never listen,” the little, bald announcer croons at them. “But I’ll give you what you’ve been waiting for anyway”—he winks at them—“the undefeated champion of our underground. I give you Cinderella Man!” He barely has the last words out before the crowd erupts into a frenzy.
The stomping of feet beneath me literally shakes my chair, and I’m caught off guard as rather large D cup bra slaps me in the face. Everyone in this shithole is standing, desperate to get a look at the next fighter. “Cinderella Man” by Eminem is playing at a deafening volume, the words of the song tangling together with the screaming voices of the crowd.
I give up trying to remain in my seat and stand to get a better look. Curiosity getting the better of me, I crane my neck, and after a few seconds, he comes into view. I may have been more eagerly looking around for Russell Crowe if the sight of the man coming through the crowd didn’t completely captivate me.
His head is bent down, the hood of his grey sweatshirt shadowing his face as he prowls towards the ring. What he does couldn’t be called walking. It’s far more seductive than that. He’s wearing black shorts that hit just below the knee, and tattoos snake around the base of his left leg. His tall body bends at the waist, spreading the ropes as he steps inside the ring. His back is to me as his hands reach up to remove the grey hood, displaying jet-black hair that I imagine is slightly too long for a fighter to have. He spins slowly, as if he’s an item on the menu for the blood-thirsty crowd, and they love every second of it as they scream at him.
I quickly look to my left to make sure Kyle isn’t paying attention to my blatant ogling of this man. Not that it’s entirely unreasonable for someone to watch this closely at a spectator sport, but nonetheless, I’m certain that he wouldn’t approve of it. I take note that he’s deeply engrossed in a conversation with one of the trust-fund babies before returning my gaze to the ring.
I catch Cinderella in the final part of his spin as he slides the sweatshirt the rest of the way off his broad shoulders, tossing it on the floor. I can’t settle on which emotion I feel more strongly: fear or lust. He’s absolutely beautiful. Lean, hard muscle under tan skin that shows between the array of brilliant tattoos covering his body.
I cross my legs to relieve the pressure building between my thighs as I move up his body. His strong jaw is made of the kind of steel that gives women weak knees, and his plump lips curve into a cocky grin that has the women tossing their panties into the ring. I’ve never felt this attracted to a man in my entire life, which is certainly a mistake because the man before me is equally as terrifying as he is handsome. There’s no fear behind his dark-grey eyes, and the panty-dropping smile has a menacing undertone that’s impossible to miss.
As Eminem’s rapping begins to fade out and give way to the voices of the crowd, Cinderella’s eyes land on me. I shiver under the heat of them. Something passes behind the storm that’s brewing in his beautiful, grey depths. But no sooner than it came, it’s gone again, his face schooled back into the hauntingly gorgeous mask once again. He winks at me before turning back around.