“There are no rules, gentleman. The man left standing wins,” the announcer says, addressing the two men, and they each nod in confirmation. “Good luck,” he offers, backing out of the ring as the bell sounds.
This is when I notice that they aren’t wearing gloves. This is bareknuckle boxing with no rules. Jesus Christ.
The brute starts to bounce from foot to foot as he circles around the dark-haired man I can’t seem to take my eyes off of. The man they call Cinderella is just standing there, wearing that same shit-eating grin as he was when he entered the ring. The larger man circling him looks like a lion stalking its prey, although he lacks the grace of the large cat as he swings out a choppy jab.
Cinderella easily evades the attack, swaying backwards but unmoving from his position in the ring. He’s taunting his opponent, allowing him to get close enough to swing but never land a hit. Mack looks pissed. I imagine he doesn’t much enjoy being toyed with like this in front of the hungry crowd.
Mack steps closer, and in a split second, it’s evident that he knows he’s made a fatal mistake—the lion instantly becoming the prey. When he swings a cross punch towards his opponent’s face, a dark chuckle fills the concrete space as Cinderella bobs down, the hit clearing just above his hair. He moves quickly after that, weaving before stepping in towards his opponent. Poised for attack.
The cracking sound is brutal as his fist connects with side of Mack’s head in a punishing right hook. The brute stumbles backwards, his hands coming up to guard his now bleeding face. He tosses a wild elbow out in the direction of his attacker, but it only swings through air. Cinderella hits him hard in the stomach, a combination of one-two hits landing at a rapid-fire pace. Coming in on his next hook to the side, Mack grabs Cinderella by the forearm, dragging the lean fighter into a tight hold. I see Mack’s knee come up, but his opponent is too close now and the feeble hit barely connects.
Cinderella’s head rears back before slamming into the brute’s face. The head butt is so hard that the entire room hears Mack’s nose break, and if they didn’t, the blood pouring from it is a dead giveaway. In panic, he flails, dropping his hold on Cinderella as he stumbles backwards.
I’ve never seen anything like this fight in person, and nothing could have prepared me for it.
“It’s almost midnight!” the crowd roars.
Cinderella’s eyes shine as his right uppercut connects with Mack’s chin, teeth slamming together in brutal force. He grins again and a shudder courses through my body. He’s enjoying it.
“Finish him!” they scream just as his left hook destroys the side of the brutes face. It’s a powerful hit, sending the hulking man’s body hurtling towards the ground.
Cinderella stands over the heap that used to be his opponent, his body glistening with sweat and heaving with exertion, the white wraps on his knuckles now spattered with blood. The crowd counts to ten as the announcer steps into the ring, grabbing the victor’s tattoo-covered wrist and thrusting it into the air.
“Remaining undefeated in The Underground. Ladies and gentleman”—the music blasts through the speakers, Eminem flooding the room again—“your winner of the final fight this evening, Cinderella Man!”
It’s an uproar as the beautiful man spins again, letting them see his untouched body, not marred by any blows from his opponent. He looks as though he’s riding an invisible high brought on by sheer blood lust.
Cinderella stalls for a second longer, a wild, grey stare running dangerously over the length of my body. I visibly shiver as his eyes feast on me, a blush creeping across my chest under the heat of his gaze. He winks at me again before descending from the ring back to the hallway from which he came.
I turn to Kyle. “Is it supposed to be over that quickly?” He’s not paying attention to me, still talking with his friends, so I ask again, louder this time over the music. “Is the fight supposed to be over that quickly?” I borderline shout into his ear.
“Jesus Christ, Betty!” he scolds, pulling his head away from mine. “You don’t need to fucking scream.” The whiskey on his breath is so strong that my nose scrunches up at the smell of it.
I hate the stupid nickname he gave me. Betty was always the weak one in the comic books, never going after what she wanted and letting everyone walk all over her—Archie included. Kyle knows, but he uses it just to spite me anyway.
“I was just asking,” I huff, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning back into my crappy folding chair.
“Why do you care anyway?” he says snidely. “You don’t know shit about fighting.”