Page 16 of Kingmakers, Year One

We face off against each other. He raises his fists up under his chin, shoulders hunched. I stand exactly as I am, with my arms at my sides.

I haven’t fought Chelovek before. I’ve seen how he moves, though. In fact, I can tell what sort of fighter he’ll be just by the way he walked into the ring: brash, swaggering, and overconfident.

Sure enough, as soon as Boris blows his whistle Chelovek comes at me with both fists flying, thinking that if he can land a solid punch I’ll go down hard.

I duck the blows easily.Left, right, left, left, right, right.

Jesus, he’s so predictable. I can see each punch coming from a mile away.

He’s already breathing hard. Either he smokes like Armen or he’s been neglecting his cardio. Probably the latter. That’s why he’s so soft around the middle.

I duck down and give him a sharp punch to the gut, testing his muscle tone. He grunts and exhales hard. He’s neglected his crunches too, apparently.

I can hear the spectators shouting their bets. Those who bet on Chelovek initially are now trying to hedge. But the numbers aren’t as much in his favor anymore.

I can see my father’s friend Danyl standing at the edge of the ring. He’s got his hands tucked in his pockets, smiling toothily. I’m sure he knew better than to bet against me.

Of course my father isn’t here himself to watch me win. He never comes to my fights. It takes a lot more than that to get him to leave the house.

I block another haymaker from Chelovek, and he hits me in the side with a left hook. I feel an unpleasant bending of the ribs, and I hunch over enough that his next blow catches me in the ear, making my head ring.

That pisses me off, but I don’t let my anger get the better of me. I shove it down, like coal in a furnace. I want the rage to fuel me, without letting the fire run wild.

I watch for my opening.

Left, right, left, left?—

This time I interrupt Chelovek’s sequence with an uppercut to the jaw. His teeth click together hard and his head snaps back. He stumbles back on his heels, dazed and pained.

I pursue the advantage, hitting him twice in the body and again in the head. Now I know his ears are ringing, worse than mine.

Chelovek spits a little blood onto the platform, raising his fists once more, steadying himself.

He comes at me slower now, more carefully. He learned his lesson. Or at least, he thinks he did.

I could wear him down like this. Let him tire himself out while I duck his blows. He doesn’t have the stamina to keep it up for long.

But I made my own bet on the fight. I’ve got to knock him out in the first round.

Only twenty-two seconds left, according to the count I’m keeping in my head.

If I want the KO, I’ll have to set a trap.

Chelovek is annoyed and embarrassed. He wants to hit me. If I offer a tempting bait, he’ll jump at it.

I send a couple quick jabs at his face, popping him lightly on the nose to piss him off even more. Then I hold my fists high, exposing that same right side to his left hook.

Sure enough, Chelovek swings hard for my ribs. He hits me in the same place as before, and this time I hear a pop and I feel the sickening hot burn of a rib cracking.

It doesn’t matter. I’ve already sent a right cross rocketing down toward his jaw. I hit him in the exact spot where thejawbone meets the skull. I can feel the bone separating. I watch the whole bottom half of his face pop out of alignment.

Chelovek doesn’t feel it. He’s already unconscious before he hits the ground. He goes down like a tree, straight and wooden, unable to even put his hands up.

The winners shout in triumph, and even those who lost their bets can’t help howling.

I stand tall in the ring, refusing to acknowledge the pain in my side.

Boris grabs my fist and hoists it aloft.

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