Page 175 of The Breaking Pointe
I smile, giving him a nod.I tighten the straps of my gloves, feeling the familiar grip of leather against my palms.My muscles are starting to tingle with a mix of adrenaline and anticipation—each nerve buzzing like live wires.I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of my gloves.The roaring crowd is nearly vibrating through my bones, and we aren’t even standing out there.They know.Most of them do,at least—that this isn’t just a fight.It’s personal.Every scar, every confrontation, every instance leading up to this moment has brought me to this very spot.
My heart is pounding with a newfound purpose in thisworld. The heavy doors finally swing open, sending me to stepontothepathtothering.Theairisthick,charged withelectricityandenergy.Walkingupthelongaisle,I takenoticeofhowthewallsarelinedwithbannersand flashing lights, reflecting the chaos of the spectacle waiting ahead. My footsteps are only audible to me, almost stomp- ing against the polished floor to move myself, firmly anddeliberately.As the crowd becomes more visible, I flicker my eyes around the arena to view thousands of faces—some shouting, some silent, some just plain fucking happy—yet my focus stays unbroken.I’m too locked into the onward battle.
I guess in a way, so are they.
By the time I fully reach the visible eye, the music is kicking into full crescendo, and simultaneously I see him, already in his corner. I can nearly see flames in my eyes at the sight of him, knowing I have to wait a little bit longer to lunge my fists at him. I knew he’d look questionably awful, but that was an addition, this time.He looks like allhe has on his
mind in this moment is murder at my expense.
We’re on the same page, and this will be the first and only time I make that a thing.
Reaching the ring, I grab the ropes and pull myself up and into the ring, finally getting a good look around the arena, seeing the audience for who they really are.In my observance, I waver my gaze down to my team to see Noelle and Steven.Noelle looks reserved but smiling like she’d never seen anything like this before, while Steven yells and rages off the handle in my name.
Trey uses the same method as me and gets into the ring, cupping my face. “Here we go. Meet him in the middle. Make me proud,” he commands, giving my arms a quick pat before leaving me in the middle of the ring to watch Daniel replace him and walk up to me.
Unsureofwhetherornottoholdmyfistsoutforhim to bump, I stand there with my arms dropped to my sides, giving him a straight face to prepare myself for whateverhe has up his sleeve.“Fancy meeting you here, like this. Again,” he says playfully.Examining his face, I peep a gross, rat mustache growing on his upper lip, then look at every other part of his face to take my mind off of the visual of such monstrosity.
Don’t say anything. Keep your comments to yourself because anything can be used against you.
The referee joins us in the middle, going over basic rules to the audience, but my ears can’t help but to tune him out as I fix combinations in my head to start out with.
“Nothing to say now? You had a lot of shit to boast about before,” Daniel badgers me, resisting his own urge to step closer into my vicinity.
Physicallyswallowingmypride,Ishutmyeyesfora second, waiting for the referee to speak to us.
“Alright, are both of you men ready?” he asks, prompting my eyes to launch open.
Inodmyhead,andsodoesDaniel.“Anywords,or concerns?” he adds.
“No,” I murmur through my mouth piece.
Daniel gives me the most evil of smiles before looking at the referee. “This should be quick.”
He looks at both of us, sighing and shaking his head. “On the sound of the bell.” He points at both of us, backing away slowly.
From the slight sound of the bell, Daniel’s eyes switch to a setting of burning hatred, signaling to me that he is here not just for victory, but for redemption over anything else— though he’s beyond psycho for not admitting his wrong doings.
Theringbecomesabattlegroundasourlimbscollide insavagechaos.Eachpunchfromeitherofusfeelslike it can break a bone. He’s already aggressive, snarling like a beast, ready to tear through flesh. We exchange the first few blows—quick jabs, and then a direct throw at the middle of my face that snaps my head back. But I lunge back, holding on and taking the fuel. Now my face is stinging, and so are my insides.
“Gotcha!”He laughs, dancing around me like a circus clown.Shaking myself back into shape, I throw my body back into motion, returning the similar, but harder straight shot at his mouth.His head bobs back, I’m sure similarlyto mine, if not worse.His eyes come back to me, his face reddening. “You son of a bitch!” he snaps.
He then charges at me, tossing whatever moves his fists can manage out of anger, and I stick my feet into the floor of the ring, standing my ground as I dodge what I can—doing my best not to sniffle up the blood trickling down my nose now.We each are showing strength beyond comparison, and neither man is budging. But his fists are different from mine in ways I forgot about.He is relentlessly aiming for my jaw, my ribs, my face—every shot delivered with a brutal intensity that speaks of over a year’s worth of bad blood. Rage is officially blinding him, one hundred-percent now, and he is seeing what he can try.
Thistime,hischestbumpsmeback.
Stumbling back, slightly, I watch him, getting back into his stance. “Come on. Don’t be a bitch,” he says, breathing heavily.
Fine.Time to really get to work.
Meeting him head-on, I push myself in his direction, launching a fist and glove, feeling it connect with his ribs, followed by the shift of muscle and bone. It was wonderful form, but not strong enough.
He retaliates with a brutal right hook, causing blood to drum in my ears when he catches me flush on the cheek.Pain ignites my vision, sending me into a bent over position, but before I can get comfortable, I pull myself up, successfully, inhaling what feels like all the air in the world and using it to send a vicious uppercut that catches him square on the chin. He stumbles in a small pattern of directions until suddenly accepting his wound and dropping to his knees. What feels like what is lasting for ages of a round, was just the beginning of the tide turning. We are equally battered with sweat and bloodmixingtogether—they’reindistinguishablenow—
and we can’t help but want to push each other to our limits. “That’s round one!” The referee grabs my wrist, raising my arm in the air to signal my winning for the first round,
then drops it just as quickly.
I feel two arms grab my shoulder from behind with a towel and lead me to my chair in my corner to sit me down.
