"I guess it's a case of do as I say and not as I do then, isn't it?" I managed to choke out.
"That's not good enough. You need to forgive yourself, Logan. You're a good man. Maybe the best I've ever met. You put your life on the line to try and make a difference. You went above and beyond the call of duty to help me, and you didn't know me at all. Those aren't the actions of a monster. They're the actions of a hero."
"A hero would have done something more."
We didn't speak again for the rest of the night. In spite of how raw the conversation left me, I was glad we'd had it. She had all of me now, all of the chaos and the anger and the guilt, and she hadn't flinched. I didn't know what I'd done to deserve her — in fact I was damn near positive I didn't — but now that she was mine, I was going to make sure she stayed that way. Nothing was going to take her away from me.
Chapter Sixteen
Logan
Two days later, I was due back in the ring. My opponent was a local guy named Brock, an amateur who was a plumber by day. We'd fought once before, and I had won. From what I'd seen he was improving and would probably put up a good contest, but after the daunting prospect of taking on Caesar, it was a bit of a letdown. Still, I threw everything I had into my preparation. I wasn't one for half-assing things.
The morning of the fight, I woke with the familiar tingle of anticipation in my stomach. I love that sensation, like there's a potent electrical charge raging beneath my skin. It would be there for the entire day, heightening everything. Booze and drugs have nothing on that high. I went through my usual preparation, two light training sessions followed by some alone time in the gym as night fell. A lot of fighters like to psych themselves up with aggressive music before stepping into the ring, but I've always preferred silence. I already carry around all the aggression I need inside me. Calmness and focus is what I'm lacking.
At just before eight o'clock, I headed out behind the bar and into the fighters' room. It wasn't much, some dented lockers and a couple of hard wooden benches, but it did the job. Brock was already inside, preparing, when I arrived. We nodded to one another, but didn't exchange any words. That was normal. Ordinarily, most of the Final Blow guys were friendly enough, but on fight nights, everyone turned into the strong silent type. It's kind of hard to hold a conversation with someone who you'll be attempting to knock unconscious in a few minutes.
I began my warm-up, which mostly consisted of a series of rapid body weight movements — think television aerobics on steroids. A lot of people are still under the impression that the best way to warm up for exercise is with static stretching, but that couldn't be further from the truth. Stretch an elastic band too much, and it loses some of its spring. Muscles are the same way. If you're going to be doing anything where power is a factor — punching, throwing, swinging a bat, running, basically any form of sport — then you want your body to have all the elasticity it can. That's how you generate force. My goal when warming up is to get my blood flowing, my heart pumping and my muscles warm.
I did that for fifteen minutes, and then my name was called. A surge of excitement hit me. It was time.
The lights in the arena were almost blinding. I walked out across the floor and up into the cage, the roar of the crowd swelling like a jet engine in my ears. That noise tweaked something deep in the back of my head, but I forced it away. There was nothing to be scared of here but the man across from me. I knew what I was here to do.
My eyes went instinctively to the bar, to Grace. Just seeing her was like a fresh shot of adrenaline. She flashed me a nervous smile and then gave a little nod of encouragement. It was strange having her here. Fighting had always been so personal for me but, for the first time, I actually felt the urge to prove myself to someone else. This was me in my purest form. This was what I did best, and I was going to put on a show for her. I found a smile of my own and winked at her, and some of the tension visibly bled from her muscles.
The crowd cheered again as Brock stepped up to join me. He was always an entertainer and was well liked around these parts. As we went through the pre-fight ritual, I took the time to study him, running through what I remembered from our previous fight. He was a few years older than me and a few inches shorter, with hulking shoulders and the kind of stocky frame that is much more powerful than it looks. His fists weren't all that dangerous, but if he could get me on the ground it might spell trouble. He also had a penchant for flashy kicks, which was something I planned to use against him.
Charlie finished his speech. Brock and I touched gloves, and then the bell sounded and the world faded to a dull blur around me. There was just him, me, and thirty feet of canvas. He came in fast, launching himself at me with a rapid series of punches which I easily blocked and evaded. That sort of vicious opening told me he was really feeling the adrenaline tonight. I countered with my own attack, a string of lightning fast jabs designed to probe more than damage. He raised his guard, taking them on the forearm, and then darted backward. He didn't look rattled at all, which was impressive. If anything, he was quicker than I remembered.