Heath felt the air whoosh out of his lungs when Clay caught him with a surprising, punishing body shot to the lung the instant before the bell rang, signaling the end of the third round. Two left. He stumbled backward, his back hitting the cage, and he felt Connor grab his ankle and shake.
"Wake up, little brother!" Connor bellowed. "Be smart! This guy is like you, like me—he is always two steps ahead of you. Now you gotta be three steps ahead of him. You can do this! Now, go!"
John had joined him and tended to the little cut that had erupted over his right eyebrow, and squirted some water in his mouth. The bell rang again for round four, and Heath sighed inwardly and moved into the ring.
This round went better for him; he wasn't sure, but he thought that Clay's energy was depleting a bit more quickly than his own, and he used it to his advantage. Though he still wasn't able to get a knockout or a tap-out, he was able to land a great number of his punches and kicks, and gradually more bruises blossomed over Clay's body, his nose bloodied, and Heath gave him a cut over his brow to match his own.
"That's it!" Connor shouted enthusiastically. "That's it! He's getting tired, Heath—pay attention to that. You notice how he's favoring that left side?"
Breathlessly, Heath nodded.
"Use that shit to your advantage," Connor went on. "That last punch you threw in his kidney—that one humbled him. He keeps grabbing at his side. But you need to concentrate on those feet of his—he's fast as shit. Can you do that? You need to get him off his feet and get that tap-out. You're not gonna knock him out, that's clear—it ain't gonna happen. You need to get him to the ground and make him tap-out. Get him off his feet. You hear me, little brother?"
Heath nodded again, and the bell rang.
"Round five!" Connor was shouting as Heath got to his feet. "Play time is over, Heath. Bring this shit home!"
Heath had been keeping a rough score in his head throughout the whole fight; he knew that in terms of points granted, it was probably a rough tie. The last round had worked well for him, but the first three rounds were mostly in Clay's favor. That was too close for comfort for Heath; he couldn't not win. He just couldn't. He had a dragon to slay, and so he re-entered the battle.
The round was playing out almost like the last one had. Clay was hurting, no doubt; his side, where he'd taken a brutal body shot, was giving him fits. His arm would unconsciously go to clutch at it when his fists weren't guarding his face. Heath hated to play dirty, but he knew a few more body shots would put Clay down for good.
He caught his last wind, and went on full attack-mode, launching a flurry of kicks and punches against his opponent. Clay caught him with a couple of surprises, including a sharp left hook to his ear which left him hearing ringing, and a hard roundhouse kick to his ribs which sent him reeling. If they weren't outright broken, they were cracked; Heath knew that much as he doubled over, assailed by white-hot sharp pain.
"Get up, Heath!" Connor yelled. "Get up and put him down! End this!"
Heath's last thought before launching himself back into the fight was how strange it was how clearly he could hear Connor's voice, but everyone else sounded like they were speaking gibberish.
He flew at Clay and registered the look of tired defeat and acceptance in his eyes before he nodded back apologetically, almost imperceptibly. He rained blows on Clay, punching his body in places he knew would hurt, throwing an elbow into the back of his head, kicking his knees out from under him. When Clay was on his knees, Heath lashed out with a stiff sharp jab, then doubled over in agony when Clay buried his fist in his gut. As Heath fell forward, Clay chopped down hard on his shoulder. Heath caught his weight on his hands and threw out a knee, managing to break Clay's nose, before they both toppled over.
The bell rang. It was done.
"Heath!" Connor shouted, moving around the ring to his side. "Heath, you okay?"
"Good," Heath gasped out. "Great."
"Just hang on," Connor said, then disappeared. A moment later, he and John were in the ring, hauling him to his feet as Clay's people did the same to him. John dragged him to a corner of the ring to minister to his injuries.
"Ribs," Heath croaked. "Broke or cracked."
"Tough little sonofabitch, that kid Clay," John said, pressing a Q-tip dipped in alcohol to the cut above his brow. "But you got this in the bag, Heath. I'm proud o' you, son."
"You are a fucking beast," Connor said admiringly. "A fucking beast." He ruffled his little brother's hair affectionately.
Several moments passed as the judges tallied up their points to score their fight. Heath knew better than to expect anything but he felt confident about his performance. He'd roughly scored both himself and Clay in each round and he felt that ultimately he was in the lead for points. Maybe not by a huge margin, but he led. It came down to simple mathematics where the scoring was concerned, and he waited for his name to be called. It wasn't out of cockiness, it wasn't arrogance—it was what it was.