Page 26 of My Little Secret

Chapter 11

HAWK

The crowd thunderedfrom inside the arena, a rush and swell of noise that I could hear even while buried in the labyrinth of hallways. My gut was a tight knot, the familiar edge of tension and excitement rushing through my veins.

This was it. Match day. Travis squeezed my shoulders, urging me forward down the hall that led to the big event. Each step closer, I heard more chants, more shouts, more roaring from the audience. And in the swirl of it all, I wondered about Sadie.

We hadn’t spoken much since our last night together. She’d sent me a text late last night to say good luck, and I hadn’t responded. I knew that if I did, I’d open that wormhole up again. And I couldn’t right now.

But maybe after the fight.

That was the deal I’d made with myself. Stay away until it’s over. But afterward? Seemed like fair game. Because three days into our separation, I already knew that keeping myself away from Sadie long term would be a losing battle.

I clenched and unclenched my fists as we stepped into the arena. Lights arced around the stage area, energizing music filling the air. Brute and I were the headline match. Other lesser-round fights had come and gone before us, but now, we were the main event. I barely noticed the fans screaming my name or holding up signs as I walked down the black path to the octagon. Each step sent me deeper into match mode. Steady. Focused. Destined to win.

At the side of the octagon, I waited while Travis taped up my hands. Another assistant came around, briefing me on judges. I stepped into the ring at the same time as Brute, the smell of sweat and bleach stinging my nose. The room echoed with screams and cheers.

I stood rooted to my spot as the ref called out the rules. Brute didn’t break my gaze. He looked eerily calm, neutral like a serial killer. Way different from our last meet-up in the cage.

The announcer’s baritone rang through the arena, mentioning sponsors and the specs of this fight. I caught only fragments. Bitter rivalry and long-overdue matchup. The crowd pulsed around me, but my vision shrank to encompass my opponent and nothing else. The ref stepped aside. Lights dimmed slightly. And then the bell.

I slipped into a mode that I don’t even know how to access outside the octagon. Something flip-flopping between instinct and restraint, a rage teetering on control, a mischief that had blossomed into attack. My skin prickled. I would follow Brute’s lead.

His eyes went dark, and then he launched, lunging at me in a way that was less MMA and more angry. He pinned me to the side of the octagon, the cage biting into my back, and we grappled for control, forearms gnashing, knees jutting, necks craning to gain the upper hand.

We thudded to the ground on our sides. The floor play continued, fervent and jacked, as if the whole thing depended on this round alone. We grappled until the bell rang. The round was over.

But Brute didn’t let up. He fought me and wrestled me until the ref came over to pull him off. I hopped to my feet, chest heaving, heading for coach with my palms behind my head.

“What the fuck was that?” Travis spat when I got near. “The bell means it’s over.” He was shouting over my shoulder now. “Tell that Brute to obey the rules!”

“He’s pissed.” I tipped my head back as Travis squirted water in my mouth. “Pissed because I’m sleeping with his sister.”

“Jesus.” Travis fumbled to get some gel from his box, which he rubbed over a bruise on my face. “Trust me, I know what that’s like.” Then the bell rang, sending electricity streaking through my veins. I could react to that noise anywhere, even in a coffin underground. I hopped from foot to foot, relishing the swirl of energy inside me. There was nothing purer than an intense, technical fight.

Round two bled into three and then four. Brute and I fought steadily through each, the punch and pummel of flesh against bone lulling me into a space that I could only access under the glitz and blare of a televised fight. But by the fourth round some of that venom had drained. We were getting tired. Punches weren’t spitfire anymore; his grappling lacked staying power.

In round five, I gave it all I could. Every last ounce of me came out in the octagon, wringing the last drops out of a rag, and Brute seemed to do the same. We pummeled, pushed, and pounced our way through the ring. By the time the last bell rang, I couldn’t see out of one eye and my left hip was thrown.

On the sidelines, I leaned against the cage, waiting for the judges to tally their scores. I didn’t know what to expect. I hadn’t subdued Brute once; there was no clear winner to any round.

And then the announcer came into the ring, microphone to his mouth, a scorecard in his hand.

“And the decision is…Unanimous draw from the judges.” He showed us each the card—I had to squint to see—and each judge had ruled the same. A fucking draw.

The words clanked angrily in my head. I couldn’t even understand them really; I’d never heard them after one of my fights. Brute spat and stormed away. Music swelled in the arena; Travis led me out of the octagon. Voices chattered at my sides but I couldn’t make heads or tails of it anymore.

I’d never fought to a unanimous draw in my life. Hell, draws were rare as it was in the sport. Were we so exactly equal in the fight tonight?

Travis urged me down the pathway, yammering away about practices after the holidays and new approaches and fending off that right hook. Something about a rematch. I blinked, my head starting a dull throb.

“Rematch?” I shouted, looking back at him. Fans were screaming so loud I couldn’t even see straight.

He nodded. “It’s the only way. This fight has to be settled, man.”

We pushed through the swinging doors leading back to the prep rooms. Inside the relative quiet, I exhaled slowly, rotating my right arm in a slow circle.

“Take some time to rest up,” he went on. “Enjoy the holidays with your family. We’ll be back at it soon.”

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