Page 120 of You Had Me At Thirteen

When we get below ground, Wren leads me over to Jordan. His face lights up until he notices the look on Wren’s face.

I’m practically handed to Jordan, Wren’s lingering grip searing my skin. ‘Watch her. Do not let her out of your sight,’ he says, before stalking away.

Wren won’t even look at me, so I have no idea what’s going on in his head. It’s usually his eyes that tell me everything, which is probably why he’s avoiding any eye contact. I wring my hands in front of me, on the verge of tears as I watch him disappear down the stairs to the change rooms.

Jordan pulls me to his side, wrapping me in his arms as he lets me cry into his t-shirt. ‘He’ll be fine, Til. Don’t cry.’

‘Why did you let him come back?’

‘He needs this, babe.’

Shoving Jordan away, I slap his chest. ‘No, he doesn’t. He’s been fine, he doesn’t need this… he’s…’ I wipe my nose on the back of my hand, unprepared for the fountain of tears.

Jordan ducks down to my level, searching my face. ‘He’ll be fine. This is Wren we’re talking about.’

‘You don’t know that. How could you possibly know that?’ My tears stream down my face, and I know I’ll be all blotchy if I don’t stop crying. I’m just glad no-one is paying attention to me, because I’d probably throw them into the cage and challenge them to a throw down.

Jordan takes my face in his hands. ‘Deep breath, babe. Just breathe.’ He sucks in a breath, waiting for me to follow, so I do as I’m told, feeling my nerves settle slightly on the exhale.

When I’ve calmed down, Jordan pulls a chair next to his and plants me on it. Not that it helps – I’m still unable to sit still. Wren shouldn’t be here. He’s angry, and he’s reckless when he’s angry. I’ve been in the firing line of his anger plenty of times, and it sucks, but he’s getting better. At least he was before this.

‘Who’s he fighting?’ I say when Dan steps up to the mic.

Jordan rubs his forehead and licks his lips, a pinch of fear in his features for a slight second but that disappears, replaced with a half-arsed attempt of calmness. ‘Some new guy. He hasn’t lost a fight yet.’

Oh God. My whole body vibrates, sending my legs bouncing while I chew my nails.

‘Can Wren beat him?’

Jordan nods. ‘Yeah, as long as this guy stays clean. From what I’ve been told, he’s a fucking dirty bastard. Loves to dish out the cheap shots.’

‘Fuck,’ I say, leaning forward, my face in my hands.

Jordan rubs my shoulder. ‘He’ll be fine, Til.’ But I think Jordan’s words are more for him than for me, considering it’s now the third time in five minutes he’s said that.

Dan quiets the crowd by lifting his hand. ‘What a show we’ve got for you tonight. He’s been away for a few weeks, but we’re happy to welcome back Wren “The Butcher” Stevenson, and a very special newcomer. He’s known underground as the Grimm Reaper, but his real name is Michael Anderson, and he’s come to give our boy Wren a fair fight.’

‘Fair, my arse,’ Jordan says as he rakes his hands through his short blond hair. When he leans forward in his seat, his legs bounce up and down, matching mine. He’s not making me feel very optimistic about Wren’s chances.

My heart hammers in my chest, my palms sweaty as I squeeze the sides of my chair. Everything is happening so fast, and this sense of impending doom is overwhelming my senses to the point I’m on the verge of fleeing.

Wren had given up fighting before his mum’s death, only coming back when we broke up, but he’s in a terrible place, and no-one can snap him out of it. He wouldn’t tell me exactly what his dad has done, so I’m at a loss how to help him, anyway.

Dan calls Wren and Michael into the cage and as soon as I lay eyes on Michael, my upper body deflates like a shrinking balloon. He’s built like a brick shit house, easily twenty kilos heavier than Wren, but not as tall. Wren’s physique is leaner, but this guy looks like a power lifter turned fighter.

Jordan takes my hand, his just as sweaty as mine, and gives it a squeeze. If he wasn’t holding onto me right now, I’d likely jump into the cage and stop the damn fight.

Dan signals the start of the first round, sending Michael barreling towards Wren, his feet heavy on the mat. Wren slides out of his way, sending him into a fit of popping veins and grunts. A wicked grin ignites on Wren’s face, but it’s more of a sneer as he presses himself into Michael’s space, pretending to throw a punch before jumping back and kicking Michael in the side of the head.

The crowd roars, but I sit in silence, trying to stop the vomit from rising into my throat.

Michael's chest heaves, his entire upper body ripped as every one of his muscles contract under his skin. He circles Wren, cracking his neck before coming at him again, but for a second time, Wren moves so quick that Michael doesn’t stand a chance at landing anything. Sweat pours down Michael’s face and onto his body. It makes me wonder if he’s taken steroids at some stage, the way his muscles bulge on his gigantic frame.

But Wren isn’t quick enough when Michael grabs him, wrapping his arms around Wren’s waist before lifting him off the ground. I cover my eyes with my hands, only peeking out through my fingers just as Wren kicks up and out, using the momentum to free himself. This dance goes on until the first round is called, which has me relaxing slightly.

When Wren turns to walk over to his corner, his eyes meet mine for a second, before Michael races up behind him and throws a punch into the back of his head.

I’m on my feet in a second, watching Wren’s eyes roll back into his head, his knees hitting the padded floor before his torso follows. He slams into the mat, and then nothing. It all seems to happen in slow motion, just like in the movies. Screams fill the surrounding air until I realise they’re my own.

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