Page 215 of Fighting the Forbidden

The arena’s quiet. Too quiet. I’m used to a crowd cheering or talking shit as background noise. Hammer Fists’ heavy breathing and slow steps trigger something at the back of my mind.

Gas this big fucker.

I cut in close and pop him once, twice. He moves to defend. I weave away. I hit him again. He moves to kick again, and I switch and come in with a kick to his back leg. He grunts and grabs me in a clinch.

Fuck.

I posture up and move in tight so he can’t knee me.

Keep him busy. Don’t let him apply force.

I distract him with my hands and angle my feet for better leverage and dump him on the floor.

Breathing hard, I back away.

“Cut!” someone yells.

Huh? Even though he’s still on his back, I don’t want to take my eyes off Hammer Fists.

“Hold on!” one of the producers yells.

Bright light sweeps through the cage. Hammer Fists groans and rolls to his side.

“Stonewall! Move in closer!”

To what?

Is the fight over? Hammer Fists didn’t really tap out.

Confused, I move closer to the center of the ring. The ref steps inside and squats next to Hammer Fists, talking too low to hear him.

The ref stands and raises my hand in the air, turning me toward the brightest lights.

To make the outcome even more muddled, the ref has Hammer Fists stand and do the same raised hand, turn-toward-the-camera thing.

Did we tie?

“You’re a fast fucker,” Hammer Fists says to me with a respectful chin lift.

“Knew I couldn’t let you grab me.”

A sinister grin spreads across his face.

“Is that it?” I ask the ref.

“We got what we needed.”

I glance at Hammer Fists and he shrugs.

* * *

The next day, we all have to sit through a ceremony where Matt and some other “expert judges” criticize our moves and performances. None of it is constructive or helpful critique.

Then we’re forced to watch Bear Trap get the axe.

“Shit.” I drop my head and sigh. I was hoping none of my guys were leaving yet.

I haven’t known him long, but it sucks.

---