Page 89 of Forgotten Comeback
“You’re going to make me miss the first fight!”
“Not if you say yes.”
“I’ll say yes, but only if you knock out your opponent in the first sixty seconds of your bout,” Taylor says smugly, thinking she’s won.
“Deal.” I place her on her feet and walk out.
Chapter
Thirty-Five
Taylor
With the Round 1 sign overhead, I strut around the ring, my cheeks aching from smiling too damn much. The same barrage of insults and/or pickup lines is hurled my way as I return to my seat and get my signs in order.
And getmyselfin order as Gavin’s bout is next. Why, oh why, do I keep playing games with that man?
The announcer hypes up the crowd, and even though I’ve seen Gavin’s entrance, it still gets my ovaries all excited.
The ref goes through the pre-fight routine, and soon the bell rings. Like a lion released from its colosseum cage, Gavin attacks his opponent with a ferocity I’ve never seen before.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. Four Mississippi. Five Mississippi. Six Mississippi. Seven Mississippi. Eight Mississippi. Nine Mississippi. Ten Mississippi.
His fists move so damn fast as I continue mentally counting the seconds.
Thirty Mississippi.
His opponent’s now against the ropes.
A perfectly placed uppercut at thirty-one Mississippi’s, and a combination too fast for me to clock at thirty-two Mississippi’s, and down crumbles Gavin’s opponent.
Gavin’s waved back to his corner, and his eyes lock with mine.
Like that?His eyes say.
Like that, my pussy responds with a violent flutter.
And yes, it does pain my little feminist heart.
Gavin’s opponent is out for the count, the crowd having gone absolutely wild.
Everyone clears the ring, with the bloody bucket guy doing the best he can, and I situate the Round 1 sign on top of my stack for the last fight.
Someone appears looming over me, and I jerk up in my seat to find the mean girl. “Oops.” She kicks my stack, and the round signs go sliding across the floor, with the top sign now underneath the ring.
She struts off, and I scramble out of my chair on a curse, reorganizing the signs. Except I can’t get Round 1 unstuck; it’s wedged perfectly beneath the ring.
I wave Steve down, and he comes hustling over. “I need another Round 1 sign,” I tell him in a rush.
“We don’t have extra signs.”
The announcer’s voice booms over the loudspeaker as he introduces the fighters, and I don’t have much time before it’s my cue.
Snatching the permanent marker Steve keeps in his front pocket, I wiggle out of my boy shorts. “Put your phone in selfie mode and hold it up to my ass.”
“Do I even want to know what’s happening?” he grumbles, but does as I ask.
“I’m taking artistic liberty,” I inform him, eyeing my ass cheeks on the phone screen as I work.
