Page 20 of Fighting Jacob

Ignoring my winded composure, I scramble to my feet, hoping to bring our match back onto solid ground. I fight better when I’m on my feet.

The Terminator follows suit, but his footing isn’t as steady as mine. He has a massive gash above his right brow, and his nose is bleeding. I protect my face before tucking my elbows close to my side. I've never been a dancer, so unlike my opponent, my stance remains stable.

It’s for the best. Within seconds, The Terminator’s prance around the cage reveals his shortfall. Every time he swings his left hand, he leaves his left side open for infiltration. He does counterweight his movements with his right.

With the grin of a madman and my guard up, I step closer to him. When his left fist becomes friendly with my right ribcage, I punish him with a quick one-two combination to his exposed face.

Cracking drifts through my ears a mere second before The Terminator’s body flops onto the mat. As the ref rushes to him, I move to the outer wall of the cage to await his verdict. After checking my opponent’s pulse, he declares the fight over by technical knockout.

I get a decent amount of leverage when I leap into the air. “Hell yeah!”

My heart thrashes against my ribs as adrenaline surges through my veins. The feeling of victory is euphoric. Now I understand why fighters become addicted. The rush is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I just won my debut fight by a knockout in under four minutes. Fuck—you can’t get better than this—except perhaps my car romp with Lola.

After settling down my pompousness, I make my way to my opponent. When the ref notices my approach, he dives for me. “No, no, no, the fight is over!”

I shrug him off me. “I know that.” I’m not a fucking idiot.

When I stop in front of The Terminator, his weary eyes lift to mine. He glares at the hand I’m holding out in offering, unsure what the hell I’m doing. The constant hum that’s been filtering through the gym all night softens when I aid The Terminator to his feet.

“Good fight.” I tap my gloves on the hand dangling at his side.

“Maybe for you.”

With his brows as low as his frown, his manager assists him out of the cage. Hank arrives at my side not long later. He gives me a ribbing, saying I’m supposed to portray arrogance in the cage, or I won’t be seen as a serious fighter.

“You don’t help your opponent off the ground after knocking them out, Jacob.”

“Why not? The fight’s over, so why do I need to continue acting like an ass?”

With a deep sigh and a shake of his head, Hank exits the cage.

I follow after him, grinning like a dog with a meaty bone.

The next morning, I'm a little worse for wear. The Terminator was a worthy opponent. He has my ribs and torso screaming in pain, but the feeling of victory makes the ache worthwhile. Besides, none of his jabs landed on my face, so no one will know I was in a fight last night.

Because of my win, I'm automatically scheduled for a match next week. Fight nights are on Saturdays, so I'll maintain my current schedule: gym Monday to Friday, Mavs each Friday night, and Saturdays will now be dedicated to fight night.

I’ll also squeeze Lola in as often as she’ll have me—if she’ll have me.

With Sunday spent recuperating, I arrive bright and early Monday morning to Hank’s gym to prep for my next fight. Yep, that’s how addictive it is.

Hank spots me the instant I walk in. That's not hard, considering there's rarely anyone here but me. "You need to come up with a fight name."

I take a few seconds to settle my queasy stomach from the stench smacking into me before shifting on my feet to face Hank. My senses have adjusted to the smell the past few months, but I still get queasy.

“A fight name?”

Hank jerks up his chin. “Yeah, like a nickname; they won’t just call you Jacob.”

Unappreciative of the mirth in his tone, I flip him the bird. He laughs it off before he continues working the bag like he was when I entered. As I sit down to tie on a pair of gloves, I try to think of a name. Is it just me, or does it seem pretentious to give yourself a nickname?

Once I’m ready for my three-hour morning session, I join Hank near the boxing bags. “I’ll let you pick my name. Just don’t pick anything stupid.”

When he grins, I realize I just made my second fatal mistake. My first was playing along with Lola’s ruse of pretending we’re only friends.

Chapter Ten

Jacob

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