Page 76 of Captivating

Yeah, baby . . . That never gets old.

He steps out to catch his balance and shakes it off, but I rang his bell, and he hasn’t done shit yet. This sport is as much about mental toughness as it is physical.

And right now, he’s shaken.

With his hands up, he stalks forward, not as energized now as he was sixty seconds ago but not giving up.

He’s already slowing down, and better yet, he’s making himself an easier target because his tell is showing. This guy is a great fighter. I’ve watched him in person. Flown halfway around the world to do it. Studied him. For fucking hours. He’s good. Not great. Not me.

Pound for pound, he’s strong and fights like it.

But this sport is more than strength.

But he’s not me.

He hasn’t trained like me. He hasn’t lived this life his whole fucking life.

And it shows.

He’s favoring his right leg.

Off-balance.

Fucking tells.

He’s going to shoot out with his leg.

Not a chance.

“Take it to the mat,” Maddox yells.

Already there, cousin.

I take him down so fucking hard, the cage rattles, and the crowd fucking roars.

My fists rain down hell over his face.

I shift my legs and lock them around his hips, immobilizing him.

He’s fucked. Locked in place because he needs his arms to protect himself.

He can’t fight when he’s too busy defending.

I bring my elbow down as he turns his head and strike his cheek.

The crack of bone on bone is deafening.

His eyes roll back but stay open. Fuck, that’s gonna hurt.

I take advantage of his daze and do it again.

This time my elbow connects with his nose.

Blood sprays from his nose, soaking the mat, but I don’t stop.

Sorry, man.

I do it again, and he chokes back the blood now flowing into his mouth, so the ref doesn’t call the fight, and shifts, trying to break my hold on his hips.

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