Smash_ A Stepbrother MMA Romance(71)

“Remember,” he yelled, “kick him in the face.”

I grinned and nodded. “The fucking face,” I yelled back.

Ronnie gave me the thumbs up, and I looked back across the ring at Trent.

He was shaking his muscles out. I felt no jitters and had no reason to warm up any more. I’d already spent the last two hours slowly going through my prefight routine. I was as ready as I was ever going to be. The only thing I needed was the sound of the bell.

My hands were wrapped and covered, and I could feel the slight stale breeze from the venue’s air conditioning. The lights were bright and made the ring hot as fuck, but that didn’t matter. It was the same venue that I had won my last match in, which was good. I felt comfortable, even though the crowd was twice as big and three times as loud and everything was being broadcast on TV. None of that stuff bothered me.

I stood there, breathing in and out. In and out. Deep and loose.

And then the bell rang.

I moved forward, my hands held up, moving loosely on my toes. Trent came at me right away, throwing furious blows.

We exchanged punches like that. He wanted to go for a fast knockout, but that was a mistake on his part. I held my own, using my hands as much as my feet, but he was clearly prepared for my kicks. Trent was a good stand-up fighter, maybe one of the best, and in the past I had always had to take him down to the mat to win.

But I didn’t want to do that. I felt the rage twist inside me as I fought back, throwing a furious punch that landed, followed by another kick. He stumbled, and I could have pressed, but I didn’t. Instead, I took a half second to prepare my next attack. I could have taken him down right then and there, maybe even won the match through a submission hold, but I couldn’t.

He came back at me, throwing heavy blows. I took as good as I gave, one punch after the other, and I could feel my body was battered. We were circling each other, diving in to attack like hungry sharks, pulling back bloodied and bruised.

It was one of the most brutal rounds of my life. When the bell rang, ending the action, I pulled back to my corner. Both of us were bleeding from cuts on our faces, and I spit a bright red clotted ball of blood, probably from a tooth.

“What are you doing?” Ronnie yelled over the noise. “That shit was brutal.”

I nodded, not able to speak.

“You got to get him down, man. You can take him there. On your feet, you’re even. Any shit can happen. But down there, man, you can take him.”

I nodded again, drinking water.

“Fuck him up, Cole. Fucking murder him.” He backed off as the next round was about to start.

I stood, feeling the rage, embracing the crowd. I couldn’t look at Alexa, because I knew her concern would change my mind. I wanted to get back in there and punish Trent with my fists until he knew who the real fighter was.

So that was exactly what I did. For another round, I stood my ground and fought him, trading blows like boxers. It was the slowest and most painful round of my life. Our injuries were piling up, but neither one of us was willing to give an inch. I could sense Trent’s frustration, because he probably thought he should be able to win the match on his feet.

But he was incredibly wrong. He had no clue how evenly matched we were standing, how much stronger I’d gotten over the last year. Trent was a good fighter, but he was nothing compared to what I had become.

I landed some strong kicks to his body. I could tell he was hurting by the way he moved, could tell that he was frustrated and wanted to lash out. He was going to get sloppy. I just had to make sure that I was ready to capitalize when he finally stumbled again.

The second round ended like the first one had, both of us bloodied and bruised. We were scheduled for eight, but at the pace we were fighting at, we’d never make it. One of us was going to collapse from exhaustion.

The next round happened and the next. Both times Ronnie screamed at me to go for the takedown, to wrestle him on the ground, to try to get the submission hold. But both times I ignored him, deciding to stay on my feet instead and slug it out with Trent, toe to toe. I never backed down, never gave ground, and although I was bleeding and hurt in a thousand different places, I could tell that I was winning. Not on the scorecard, maybe, but Trent was getting sloppy, frustrated.

I had something to prove. I needed to show the world what kind of fighter I was. There weren’t many men that could stand up to Trent the way I was, fighting him in his preferred style. There were even fewer that could step in and take him down at any moment.

The fifth round began. I could feel one of my teeth was loose, and Trent’s left eye was almost swollen shut. We looked insane, and I was almost surprised that the ref even let the round begin. But we were out there, face to face, going at it again.