And I can’t even feel the pain in my head, nor do I even notice the worried or even disappointed looks of the people who came here to see me win.
All I can think about is whether or not Penny will turn up.
God fucking damn it, she’s shaken me.
“You’re not doing too well tonight, Pierce.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Then why am I looking at a cut that will need eight stitches, a half-dozen bad bruises, and a busted lip?”
“Just off my game.”
“Off your game? I’ve watched you fight two dozen times, mate. Off is an understatement.”
“Great,” I say. “A fucking fan.”
“Never seen you like this. Talk to me, son. What’s up?”
I glare into the forty-something man’s eyes. Son. That’s when I notice his body; wiry-thin. That’s when I notice his hair; all-white. That’s when I notice his nose; he looks like a fucking toucan.
“What are you?” I spit. “My fucking therapist?”
“You’re getting your arse kicked out there, buddy, and you don’t even realize it.”
“I realize it.”
“So if you don’t want to talk to me about it, then you better damn well sort it the fuck out. If you agreed to this fight, then you better belt up and fucking fight!”
“Save your shitty speech,” I tell him. “And do your fucking job.”
He sighs, lifts up the surgical suture needle, and presses it against my skin. “This will hurt. Are you sure you don’t want a shot? Listen, I can’t stick this closed. I have to sew it.”
“Just hurry the fuck up,” I growl at him.
He pushes it through my skin. It’s like I feel it, but I don’t. The skin tightens, each prick pulls. But it’s not painful. It’s the adrenaline… it’s… my distraction.
The pain is delayed, comes when he’s nearly finished. But my body kick-starts its own internal process to numb the pain. Soon it no longer stings. Soon, it’s just a dull ache that throbs to my heartbeat.
“All done.”
“Good,” I say, getting up off the stool. “Don’t fucking call me ‘son’.”
I step into the cage. The crowd grows tense, electric. They’re not used to seeing me struggle. They are not used to seeing blood on my face.
But I’m going to win this fucking fight. Sure, I took a punch, a knee, and a kick, but I’m still standing, still ready to fight, still ready to dance until this motherfucking Russian beast goes down.
Anton Vasilev has been walking around the steel cage while I got stitched up. The fucking beefcake of a man trod in my blood, smeared it all over the mat. Now he watches with a grin as two men run in quickly and wipe the floor down. Red turns to pink, and then all my blood is gone, staining white, fluffy towels instead.
A bell dings, we tap taped fists, and then I’m dancing around him, bouncing forward and backward. The fucker’s got thighs like thunder, he wants to leg lock me, get me down onto the mat. He’s going to kick, try to get me retreating, off-balance. He knows I’ll dodge it; the kick is a feint. I anticipate he’ll spin into me, try to lock my arm, get on my back.
The kick comes, aimed at my ribs. I side-step out of its path, slapping his leg away. I see his spin before he starts. He spins on his heel, brings his arms out to catch my still-outstretched hand. For such a huge man, he’s deceptively fast.
But I know what he’s going to do, maybe even before he does. I grab his leading arm, and punch his elbow. It doesn’t dislocate, but his body jolts, and he retreats a little, shaking his hand. I’ve probably numbed it.
The noise-level rises. Girls begin chanting my name. Everybody who has money on me suddenly looks a little less worried. They start seeing dollar signs.
I grin at Anton, sucking on my mouth guard. “Come on,” I say, beckoning him with my fingers. “Use your fucking fists.”
He doesn’t take the bait; but I don’t expect him to, either. I want him to think I’m a talker. I’ve been nattering at him all night. People usually talk when they’re scared. I want him to think I’m scared, to think that I don’t believe I can win this fight.
The worst thing that can happen to a fighter – to any athlete – is to lose confidence. The second worst thing? To get overconfident.
“Come on,” I say, spreading my arms, taunting him as he misses another kick. “You afraid to get a little closer?”
Sweat-diluted blood drips down into my eyes. The bright white lights turn pink for a moment. I blink it out, feel the sting of salt.
“Let’s go, motherfucker,” I say. He bends down, sweeps a leg toward me, but I hop over it easily enough.