Hard Bastard(211)

After a moment of struggling, and taking another weak shot to the nose that didn’t do much more than sting, I got him onto his back. I sat down on his chest as our hands fought for dominance.

All through the fight, I had shown him again and again that I wanted to pound him. I wanted to punch him, make him bleed, win by knocking him out. I wanted to go for the big, showy blow to the face.

That was exactly what he must have been thinking. His hands and body were guarding his face from my fists, so busy that he left himself open for one of the simplest submission moves in all of fighting.

I slapped his one shoulder down and slipped my hand between his arms, grabbing his triceps. I made a fist and he instantly went to guard, which was what I wanted. I pushed his face to the side and swung my leg around his head, keeping my hips low.

And then I rotated my hips, rolling to the side and tearing his arm out along with me. I hooked my legs over his face, shoving him down to the mat, and I twisted his wrist and shifted my hips, putting a tremendous amount of pressure on his joint. His arm was spread out wide across the length of my body, and I had complete control of him, the arm bar locked and finished.

The room was silent. The ref was down in Trent’s face, but Trent refused to tap out. He was struggling, shifting his weight, moving his hips, screaming in pain.

I wasn’t going to let him up. I could feel the bones of his joints wrenching, and I knew they were about to break.

“Tap!” the ref screamed.

“Fuck,” Trent responded, in agony.

I was sick. I was sick of the fight, sick of Trent, sick of the stress. I wanted it all to be over, to be fucking over. I wanted it to end.

I shifted my hips farther and violently wrenched his wrist. It shattered with a satisfying crack.

He tapped the mat, and the ref pulled us apart.



It was all a blur. One second I was breaking Trent’s wrist and elbow, and the next I was standing in the back locker room, drinking a bottle of water. The cheers of the crowd, the interviews and congratulations, it all felt like it had happened to someone else.

The locker room was packed. There were media people, most of whom Ronnie was talking to, but there were also other fighters and promoters and industry people milling about. It felt more like a party than a locker room.

After a minute, Ronnie turned back toward me. “Man, I can’t believe you broke his elbow,” he said.

“Wrist too,” I grunted.

He grinned. “Good point. Can’t forget that.”

“I think my tooth is loose.” I wiggled one of my molars.

He laughed loudly. “You fucking kidding? Have you looked in a mirror yet?”

“Not yet.”

He reached into a locker and produced a hand mirror. I grabbed it from him and stared at my face. I was bloody and bruised and looked like a piece of meat someone had pounded on for an hour. I barely looked like myself. Hell, I barely looked human.

“Fuck,” I said. “I used to be so pretty.”

“You’ll get there again.”

I tossed the mirror away and sat down on a bench. “Tough match,” I said.

“You’re not kidding. You okay?”

“I don’t need a doctor, if that’s what you mean.”

“Nah, man. You just look . . . depressed.”

I shrugged. “I guess I wanted to hurt him more.”

Ronnie sat down next to me, shaking his head in disbelief. “Man, you fucking went toe to toe with one of the best standing strikers in the game. Then you break his fucking arm and you complain that you didn’t hurt him enough?”

How could I explain it to him? I always felt like this after a fight. The incredible rush of the violence was suddenly gone and I missed it, would do anything to get it back. Fighters were constantly chasing a high that they could never truly achieve, because in the ring they were too busy fighting for their life to appreciate it, and they could never get that same experience outside the ring.

And then suddenly there was someone standing in front of me.

“Uh, Cole?” Ronnie said. “You got a visitor.”

I looked up.

Everything suddenly seemed okay.

Alexa smiled back at me. I got to my feet. “Hey,” I said.

She threw her arms around me, hugging me tightly. It hurt in a thousand different places, and I grunted my pain, but I grabbed her and held her tighter.

There was the thrill I had been missing.

All of the emotions I had repressed for so long came flooding back. All of the anger and resentment and fear, but also the love, the fucking love. I felt her body crushed against my own bruised and broken torso and knew that I’d never stop fighting, because she was going to be with me.

She pulled back slightly. “You look like shit,” she said.