Page 2 of From Best To Bested

Roman ducked and rolled away, scrambling to his feet as Maxwell stomped behind him, determined to beat Roman while he crawled to safety. Maxwell’s boots slammed with loud bangs, the force of steel against concrete, and Roman realized the footwear had a bottom padding of metal to really ensure Maxwell would break Roman’s face with one swift kick.

The crowd wasn’t a safe place for Roman; they hated him as much as he hated them. He kept low to the ground, rolling away from Maxwell’s strikes as much as he avoided the danger of the crowd.

Once, in a show of stealth, Roman allowed himself to fall back into the protection of the audience when in a two-on-one match-up. Biggest mistake of his life. He still carried three scars on his left hip from the shiv someone used to level the fight against his favor. The warden hadn’t called things to an end during that match, and Roman knew he wouldn’t consider Maxwell’s boots an unfair advantage now.

Roman nearly made it to his feet when Maxwell knocked into him, and Roman rolled close to the crowd. Too close. Someone started kicking him in the ribs, knocking the breath out of his lungs. Roman didn’t have time to look at the coward who’d dared. Pick a number with this fucking group. No, Roman had already lost precious seconds and needed to escape Maxwell’s thunderous stomps.

He moved with such terrible force, Roman didn’t see a way out, a way to win, a way to avoid the heavy footsteps that sought to stomp Roman into the ground.

Maybe he didn’t have to avoid the inevitable. A terrible idea crossed Roman’s mind, and he hated himself a little for it. Any pain he felt seemed a fitting reward for his reckless strategy.

Unable to dodge, unable to get to his feet, Roman slid forward and punched Maxwell in the balls. The man’s boots weren’t the only thing made of steel, though. Roman hadtried this strategy once before, only to find out Maxwell didn’t flinch, and just like last time, Maxwell smiled down at Roman’s foolishness and smacked him across the face.

The backhanded slap was less lethal than a punch, but Roman registered the reasoning. Maxwell wanted to shame Roman more than pummel him. He also needed Roman on his back, not slumped over and semi-conscious from a few punches. No, Maxwell wanted Roman to be fully awake and aware for what came next.

Without delay, Maxwell slammed his foot down into Roman’s chest and stole what little air he held onto. Roman screamed, unable to stifle the pain of the boot coming down on him. Again and again and again.

Maxwell put the full weight of his body into the crushing force of his foot. Roman didn’t resist, allowing Maxwell to feel the pressure of Roman’s chest, ready to collapse. His hands seemed like delicate things when gripped onto Maxwell’s massive foot. The man had smug satisfaction, pinning Roman beneath his heel and preparing to end him. He wouldn’t stop at Roman’s surrender. No, he’d want Roman’s submission; he’d want Roman to admit his weakness when faced with pure unstoppable dominance.

“You’re almost as ugly as you are stupid.” Roman winked.

With that, it sent rage coursing through Maxwell as Roman anticipated, and when the man lifted his foot to give one more terrible and mighty stomp, Roman slipped his hands where he needed. Using everything he had, Roman twisted Maxwell’s foot and used his weight against him. Maxwell had been foolish, tipping his own balance when crushing Roman, and all Roman needed was to tilt the trajectory a little more.

Maxwell hit the concrete, and everything went silent for a moment. His fall created a literal quake as the towering giant had been felled.

Roman didn’t stop twisting just because Maxwell had tumbled forward and crashed to the ground. No. Roman didn’t stop twisting until something popped. When Maxwell screamed, Roman snatched off the man’s metal boot and straddled his chest as Maxwell struggled to roll over.

Roman slipped his hand into the boot and punched Maxwell in the face. When Maxwell roared, Roman punched him a second time. When Maxwell went feral, Roman punched him a third time. When the crowd booed, Roman punched Maxwell a fourth time. When Maxwell passed out, Roman got up and stalked toward one of the guards holding a line for the crowd. Some phony effort to keep order during the chaos of combat.

Roman punched him with the metal boot still over his fist. He removed the boot and let it drop next to the bloody and wheezing guard with a loud clank.

Instigating fights against the people in charge of his life had never been something Roman wavered with before or after his incarceration. It didn’t take long for Roman to learn which guards were good and which were on the take.

Roman knew which guards inmates could trust, he knew who would turn a blind eye during an assault, he knew who moved product, and he knew this guard had acquired the boots for Maxwell King.

“Enjoy your matching faces, you fucker.” Roman took heavy breaths, soaking in the roar of the crowd.

They might’ve hated him most of the time, but when they showed him love, it sent a rush of adrenaline coursing through him. It hit Roman with a high unlike anything he’d experienced. Roman loved these fleeting seconds, the wave of victory, the chant of loyalty, the calm afterglow of combat. He lived for these moments; he clawed at them.

“What a splendid victory,” Warden Sadler announced, either burying his resentment for Roman’s antics or truly not givinga fuck about the guard’s face. “What a glorious bout with the Challenger’s Chance. Our reigning champion has once again cemented his place at the top. Be sure to come back and see who the champion declares for the winter semi-match lineup.”

Roman took heavy breaths, still holding back his exhaustion and unwilling to let anyone here see how truly winded he was, but he studied the crowd. Part of being champion was having a hand in all the competitions, not only his own fights. Being champion meant taking on the responsibility of working closely with Warden Sadler, but Roman tired of that early on, finding the corrupt man a bigger headache than a champion should have to listen to.

“Is that really it?” someone shouted.

Only Roman heard it. Only Roman heard it because he always listened to the whispers between the roars, always prepared for the threats veiled beneath the cheers, always ready for any attack.

“You go a few rounds, and you’re done,” the person called out again.

This time, a few others heard, and this time, the crowd quieted some.

“Talk about staging the bullshit,” he said again, the stranger whose voice became more and more grating as it grew louder, and the audience became quieter.

Roman turned to face this loudmouth.

“Anyone here take bets on the big one falling?” An unfamiliar face appeared from the crowd, and the young guy pushed his way to the front. “I could’ve made a racket if I realized you were just playing pretend.”

“Nothing fake about this,” someone argued—someone likely friends with Maxwell and offended by the implications.

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