Page 13 of From Best To Bested

“You pull a stunt like you did today at the cafeteria, and I won’t toss you in solitary,” Warden Sadler said, the edge in his voice turning hot and sharp. “I’ll throw you in The Pit and leave you there to rot.”

He had to win. He had to defeat Ezra. Reclaim his title. Hold onto any strength he could in this den of vipers. The next misstep would be Roman’s death; he knew that more than anything. He’d spoken out too much, he’d crossed too many monsters, he’d left himself vulnerable from every direction.

The day of the fight, Roman couldn’t stomach anything. Not that he wanted to eat the cafeteria food where spit in his mashed potatoes was a luxury seasoning compared to some of the things tossed in to mock him.

“You look terrible,” Levi approached Roman outside of the cafeteria, eyes darting to see who watched his movements. It pained Roman that Levi and so many others had to watch their backs because Ezra didn’t give a fuck about anybody but himself.

“Thanks?” Roman quirked a brow.

“My bad.” Levi sighed. “Just worried. About you. Not about the situation. Not that I’m not worried about it. Not that I’m worried worried about it. Really, my only focus is on you and how not terrible you—”

“I didn’t sleep well is all,” Roman interjected to spare himself a ten-minute rant of Levi flailing about to dig himself out of a word hole he would only continue sinking further into. “It’s all good.”

“You look sick,” Levi said. “Are you sick?”

“No,” Roman insisted. “Nerves is all.”

“Maybe you should reconsider.” Levi had this pleading desperation on his face; all he could see was the worst.

That hurt more than the doubt itself. Doubt, Roman could handle. He had enough to spare. It was Levi’s optimism crumbling away before him that really ached. Levi was such a beacon of positivity here, and the idea of losing that spark of joy infuriated Roman. The rage would be enough to push him through the competition no matter how hungry he was from missing meals, how worn down he was from watching his back, or how sleep-deprived the dread of this rematch had left him.

Roman would push through.

“Here.” Levi offered Roman a bottle of water, clear and pricy and something he could no longer afford thanks to the warden cleaning out his commissary funds.

“Thank you.”

“You look tired, dude.”

“I’m fine.” Roman took a swig. “I’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.”

Ezra whistled. Not the commanding dog call he’d used on Levi last time he dared talk to Roman. No, this whistle was flirty and encouraged others to add in their own mocking catcalls. Roman glowered, unwilling to fuel Ezra’s blatant baiting.

“You ready to get beat down?” Ezra chuckled. “After the fight, I mean.”

Levi swallowed his nerves, averting his gaze from Roman, and returned to Ezra, probably desperate to stay in the man’s good graces just a few days longer. If Levi wanted Roman to backout or worried Roman would lose, then that meant Levi had already conceded his fate. Levi expected to get passed along soon enough.

Roman wouldn’t let that happen. “See you tonight, Ezra.”

With that, Roman left the cafeteria and returned to his cell, where he rested and ran moves until a guard arrived to escort him to the arena.

No other matches were set, no Challenger’s Chance open to the crowd. All that awaited Roman as he walked into the cold basement arena was a rematch where he’d either regain his honor or lose what last shreds of dignity he had left. The authority above was bigger than it’d ever been. The crowd below had swelled twice in size, and it seemed guards who weren’t even working late-night shifts had stayed to see the rematch.

“Here’s to a spectacular evening,” Warden Sadler announced, stirring the crowd. “The rematch no one asked for but the disgraced Roman Grayson begged for.”

Booing from the crowd didn’t surprise Roman, but the jeers from the authority, the wealthy founders, took him aback. They didn’t seem so fickle.

“We all know what Grayson is willing to wager if he loses again,” Warden Sadler continued. “One wonders what he offered just so our new champion would consider this fight worth his time.”

Roman’s entire expression twisted into fuming fury for the laughing crowd, the very direct assumptions they made for the warden’s not-so-subtle accusation.

Ezra stood tall in the center, ready and taunting Roman to approach. Since Roman didn’t care to build hype or delay the inevitable, he bulldozed past the crowd and went right for Ezra. The first punch hit hard and served as the starting bell since both men ignored the ceremony of such things.

Ezra had allowed Roman an easy first strike, an act of gloating or pity, and one Roman would make the new champion regret. Roman came in faster than last time, not allowing Ezra an opportunity to recover, to pivot, to dodge. Blow after blow, Roman knocked Ezra back, keeping him close to the crowd but not daring to press in. He couldn’t trust them not to help Ezra, not to hit Roman.

The last time they faced each other, Roman was exhausted and on his last reserves. This time, he knew his stamina would outlast Ezra. Still, his lungs clawed at him, and his muscles cramped. So much stress whittled away at him since his defeat, but Roman ignored the aches, ignored the pain. He continued pressing into Ezra, one successful strike after another.

Everything was going well until Ezra ducked and countered, landing his first punch of the night. Roman had readied himselfthe same way he had a thousand times before when an opponent came in to hit him. It would hurt, but Roman would be fine. He’d taken his fair share of punches to the face.

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