Page 3 of From Best To Bested

“I’m just saying,” the new guy continued. “Your champion set it up real good. Take out the biggest threat and then call it a night.”

“That’s because no one else is here to challenge me,” Roman thought, but he bit back his words, too exhausted for an argument or another fight.

“I’d like to step up.” The guy stretched his arms wide with confidence, awaiting a cheering crowd that didn’t follow. “I’ll take the Challenger’s Chance.”

Roman shrugged off the cheap taunting, not impressed or intimidated. He’d just taken down Maxwell King, who wore literal steel boots. There was no one who’d fall for some no-name’s feeble attempt at looking brave.

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves another contender,” Warden Sadler announced, egging on the audience around Roman and the one who watched from above.

Masked figures studied Roman, and he sighed as the warden gave weight to this new face. As the champion, he could accept or decline any match-up. Too many rejections, and he’d look weak. Every part of Roman wanted to say no, but Warden Sadler kept applying pressure with his words, encouraging the audience to join in, and Roman felt the pressure.

Warden Sadler hated Roman and would honestly push Roman into a million back-to-back fights if he could swing it.

The warden used to force Roman to interact with the clientele on the balcony more frequently. They were the real authority in the arena. The inmates and guards might’ve hated Roman, and the warden might’ve despised Roman, but so long as Roman remained champion, he remained in favor of the money that kept everything here moving.

After shucking his responsibilities for far too long, Warden Sadler tried to force Roman to meet the authority above, privateshowings where they could fawn over the mighty inmate, the champion in the slums, the dirty fighter they would clean up.

Roman put an abrupt stop to those meetings. When Warden Sadler challenged him, Roman broke the man’s nose. When the warden tossed Roman in solitary for three weeks, Roman didn’t break. When Roman finally returned to the arena, both men came to an understanding.

The Lawless Authority loved Roman, and his sudden absence demanded an explanation. Warden Sadler couldn’t touch Roman so long as he remained champion, but Roman knew one misstep would be his demise.

“Fuck it,” Roman thought before he stepped into the center of the arena and waved over his foolish opponent.

If he could survive a rigged match against Maxwell King, he could hold his own against anyone else tonight. He wasn’t foolish, arrogant perhaps, too arrogant to shrug off the taunting, but smart enough to know to end the match quickly.

“What’s your name, buddy?” Roman asked with a cocky grin. “I like to know who I’m bending over.”

The laughter of the crowd made Roman’s insides twist with regret. Roman wouldn’t be bending this guy over; he didn’t bend anyone over. Prison rules mixed with hyper-masculinity didn’t offer Roman many choices when it came to feeding the beast of trash talk, though. It took everything Roman had as champion to put a stop to as many of the rapes around here as his clout offered. He still never stopped the screwing. Not that he wanted to. Live and let live, he didn’t give a fuck who anyone fucked. But he knew a pressured face lying to him when Roman would try to interject. Some men went so quietly and so willingly, Roman considered the ruling as champion a futile effort in a broken system. At least he tried more than the staff.

The young man stepped into the arena, taking off his shirt and shifting his stance to match Roman’s. From how he carriedhimself and the build of his body, Roman gathered he wasn’t a stranger to combat. He wasn’t as muscular as Roman, a bit leaner by the looks of it, but taller by a few inches. The sides of his head were shaved short, but the rest of his black hair was thick and styled in a sloppy fauxhawk, considering there was limited access to proper products, but the raised hair added to his height.

“Ezra Delgado,” his fourth opponent for the night responded. “But you can call me Champion.”

His deep bronze complexion was covered in faded tattoos and small scars, an indicator he was not afraid of a little pain. Roman’s own pale skin lacked tattoos, but his fresh bruises for the night had an almost humorously matching pattern to Ezra’s ink.

“Oh, I like you.” Roman would keep an eye on Ezra after he knocked some sense into him tonight.

Young guys like him, ones that didn’t walk in with an immediate bond to a gang or family behind bars, often found themselves at the mercy of the cruel. Roman knew from experience that mouthy motherfuckers had to defend themselves more often or learn to shut the fuck up.

Something about Ezra suggested he didn’t quiet down just because a threat towered toward him. Roman respected that.

Warden Sadler announced the match, and Roman went to work evaluating Ezra. It didn’t take long to figure out Ezra moved as quickly as Roman, something two quick jabs to the face taught him. He favored his left side, so Roman did his best to skirt around on Ezra’s right. That tactic only offered Roman a few breaths between blows.

Eventually, Roman and Ezra found themselves in a steady back-and-forth. Roman let Ezra lead the fight, using the time to catch his breath and look for patterns. Once he got a good gauge for things, Roman moved in fast, faster than Ezra’s eyes couldtrack. Roman was exhausted, but he had more than enough stamina to hold out.

A few swift punches changed the direction of the match, and soon, it was Ezra intently backing away, falling short of escaping Roman’s reach and trying to study the move sets. Roman learned long ago to never leave a trail to follow. He changed his tactics, pulling Ezra back into stalking forward. When Ezra resisted, Roman taunted with some well-placed and painful punches. Anger often gave way to strategy, and Roman used that to pull Ezra into his defeat.

“How long you been here?” Roman asked, taking a lucky shot from Ezra, but only so he could knock him squarely in the chest.

“First day.” Ezra winced, regretting the back step as his footing stumbled.

“No way.” Roman weaved around Ezra and punched him in the right side with enough force to knock the wind out of his lungs. “First day, and you managed to slip down here.”

Roman baited Ezra with a few more questions, enjoying the conversation and noting how easy it was to feed off the guy’s energy. The more Roman caught his second wind—well, more like his seventh wind at this point—the more Ezra struggled to keep up.

It didn’t take much longer before Roman had knocked Ezra off his feet and sent him crashing into the concrete. Ezra struggled to move, his hands shaky on the ground. Roman leaned in, a bit to taunt his opponent, a bit to rile the last of the fight left in him. Ezra swiped, then faltered, and returned his hand to keep from collapsing entirely.

“Nice moves,” Roman said mockingly, but he held genuine respect for the boldness.

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