Page 41 of Repairing the Wreckage

The opening riff of the song I chose for tonight pierces the air.

“That’s my cue.” I point to the ceiling and start moving along the path, following Coach Underhill and the camera guys in front of me.

“Excellent choice.” Venom nods in time to Rage Against the Machine’s Fistful of Steel.

“I would’ve pegged you as a Calm Like a Bomb kinda dude, but this works,” Bear Trap adds.

I tap my fists together, then pop them against my cheeks a few times.

Why do I do this again?

I duck my head to avoid the glare of the lights and stare at the black slides on my feet.

One foot after the other.

Music continues to blare from the speakers. It’s not doing anything to pump me up for the fight, though.

“Stare the camera down,” Venom says against my ear.

I lift my gaze and stare into the black lens a few feet ahead of us.

Sparklers go off at the end of the hall. Heat from the arena prickles my exposed skin. We enter the main floor and the stands explode into a frenzy of movement. People lean forward waving their arms and shouting my name. I reach out and brush my fingers against a few outstretched hands.

What are the chances Naptime forfeits the fight and we can all go home?

Probably slim.

I briefly sweep my gaze over the crowd. A sea of unfamiliar faces. Mostly men. A few women. A few kids. Who the hell brings little kids to a cage match?

I flex my fingers testing the limits of the wrap job.

Block. Defend. Block. Strike, strike, strike.

“You know they green-screened a crowd behind us in the matches all season long?” Venom shouts in my ear. “This match won’t be weird and silent like the others were.”

“That’s okay.” It’s nothing but noise I can easily block out. Better than the eerie silence of the earlier matches.

All the ring girls from the house are prowling around the outside of the cage in tiny gold shorts and barely-there tops.

None of them better come over here and bother me.

I’m stopped by an official-looking guy in a black suit who points to a black rubber mat for me to stand on. I shake off the robe and hand it to Venom, then kick off the slides. Woolly picks them up and backs away.

The ref joins us and nods at me. “Mouth guard?”

I hold it out for him to check, then pop it in.

“Arms up.” He lifts his hand in case I’m confused about what he means by up.

I hold my arms out at my sides and stare straight ahead, not really taking anything in. He runs his hands under my arms and down my sides, pats my legs and checks my feet for hidden paper clips or razor blades, I guess. Then he skims his hands over my shoulders, arms, and elbows to make sure I’m not greased. He checks my gloves, then someone hands him a tube of Vaseline and he smooths a bit over my cheekbones, forehead, and nose. At The Castle we let someone else do this for the fighters.

You’re in the big leagues now.

“You may enter the cage.” The suit guy sweeps his hand dramatically through the air toward the open cage door.

“Thanks.” I nod at him.

Venom slaps my shoulders. “Get him.”

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