He began throwing a series of brutal head-high kicks. If you watch a lot of kung-fu movies, you're probably under the impression that fancy kicks win fights, and it's true, if they connect, they can end things on the spot. But they're also slow and they leave you vulnerable, which means you need to be pretty sure you're landing a winner if you want to use them without getting punished. Brock had no such certainty. I let the first few swing through open air, content to learn his rhythm. On the fourth one, I struck. Rather than darting backward like he expected, I ducked forward, taking the blow on my shoulder and kicking his other leg out from under him. He dropped to the canvas, and I was on top of him before he had time to blink. He tried to protect his face, but it was useless. My position was too strong. Four solid blows later, and the referee ended it.
The crowd exploded.
Charlie stepped back up into the ring and shot me a quick smile before taking my hand and raising it above my head. "The winner by knockout...Logan Anderson!"
The medic was already on stage tending to Brock. I didn't think I'd done any serious damage. Sure, there was blood running down his face, but he was already conscious and sitting up.
I took a moment to soak it in, reveling in the last seconds of that glorious high as it gradually bled away, and then Grace was there next to the ring.
"That was freaking awesome!" she said, pulling me in for a kiss. She looked like I felt — skin flushed, eyes blazing with excitement. I loved seeing her so animated.
"I'm glad you enjoyed it," I replied.
"I did. A lot. Although for a minute there, I thought maybe he had you."
I nodded. "I underestimated him a little, and he took advantage."
Her smile grew sultry and she leaned in close. "That's a coincidence. I was hoping to give you the opportunity to take advantage later. You know, assuming you have a little left in the tank for me."
With enough testosterone circling my system to kill an elephant, I had to resist the urge to throw her over my shoulder and drag her into the back office at that very moment.
"I always have something left for you," I replied.
"Excellent." She glanced back at the bar where a crowd was now forming. "Well, I should probably get back to it, but I'll see you in an hour or so."
"Definitely."
I waved to the crowd as I made my way back to the locker room. I wasn't exactly the most fan friendly fighter on the Final Blow roster, but they all knew that by now and they didn't seem to begrudge me a little eccentricity. If they really wanted autographs, they knew where I worked.
Once inside, I began my cool down procedure. Much like before a fight, I enjoyed being alone afterward too, but a few minutes into my routine, there was a knock at the door.
I turned, expecting Charlie or maybe a bold fan, but the man in the doorway was clearly neither of those. He was impeccably dressed — suit, tie, boardroom-winning smile. He looked to be about fifty, still fit, and tall enough that he could almost look me eye to eye without craning his neck. Also, he was vaguely familiar, although maybe that was just because I'd noticed him in the crowd.
"That was an impressive performance," he said.
"Thanks." Something about him made me wary. He didn't belong in a place like Charlie's. We were a casual bar that attracted a casual crowd. The Madison Avenue getup made him stand out as much as if he were wearing an Elmo outfit.
"I was hoping to have a few minutes of your time."
I shrugged. "You've got one. What can I do for you?" No good was going to come of this conversation, I could feel it. Men in suits wearing predatory smiles don't visit places they don't belong unless they want something, and I couldn't see those goals aligning with mine in any way, shape or form. But part of me was morbidly curious.
If my rudeness insulted him, he showed no sign. "My name is Alex Task." He paused, apparently looking for some sign of recognition. He got it, but it wasn't what he expected.
"You were at my last fight too. The one with Caesar." I remembered him now, an out of place suit in a sea of tee shirts and faded jeans. At the time I'd registered then ignored him — the seven foot Italian meathead in front of me had been a slightly more pressing concern — but my brain had a habit of storing anything out of place, just in case. He'd been eerily calm, watching proceedings with a clinical eye while the room screamed around him.
He nodded slowly, like his respect for me had just gone up a notch. Bully for me. "Where possible, I always make an effort to watch my fighters. I'm the owner of TPW."
"Ah." That stood for The Perfect Warrior, AKA, the league Caesar came from. Things had just gotten more interesting. They were a fairly big deal in the fight world. UFC still had the industry by the balls, but there were a couple of leagues in the second tier, and TPW was at the top of that list. They'd been struggling for years to break through, but it's hard when your competition has the money and prestige to poach your best guys out from under you.