Page 24 of You Had Me At Thirteen

* * *

Iglance at my phone again as I race upstairs to my room. When I enter, I throw my laptop on the bed, then pull out a black t-shirt and a grey pair of shorts from my drawers and change into them.

My muscles tense as I recall Matilda’s interest in my whereabouts on Thursday nights. As much as I don’t want to tell her where I go, and what I do, there’s a feeling of satisfaction that ignites in my chest that she pays enough attention to me to notice I’ve been leaving at the same time every Thursday night for the last couple of months.

Fuck. I thought I could just experiment with her, but there was something different in her eyes tonight. She didn’t look at me like she wanted to hurl profanities at me. My name on her lips and the way she fucking smelt like vanilla and sunshine had my heart pounding in my chest from the moment I stepped through her front door.

And to top it off, I’m late.

Jordan messages me to ask where I am, so I send a quick reply as I’m shoving my gear into my bag.

Fifteen minutes.

Hurry!

The warehouse is only a ten-minute drive, but I arrive in just over seven, running a couple of stop signs on the way.

When I get inside, I find Jordan against the far wall. He lifts his chin when he sees me, motioning for me to hurry, so I push my way through the crowd. It took a few weeks of coming here before I got used to the smell of dampness and dirty socks.

‘Fuck, man. Talk about cutting it close. You’re up next,’ Jordan says as I reach him.

‘Calm down. I’m here, aren’t I?’ I glance around at the crowd. It’s not as big as previous weeks, but the payout will be decent if I win.

How this place hasn’t been shut down yet is beyond me. Although, I didn’t know this type of thing even existed until Jordan got me my first fight. It has me wondering what other dodgy shit these people get up to, but as long as I keep my head down, turn up to fight and don’t ask questions, I get what I need, and the rest of these fuckers can go about their illegal dealings with no issues from me.

Jordan slaps me on the back. ‘Get moving, dude.’

‘Yeah, yeah. I’m going. Don’t have an aneurysm,’ I say before making my way to the change rooms.

The room is chilly as usual, in more ways than one. The concrete walls and the fact that I’m standing ten metres underground keeps the rooms cooler than the outside temperature.

But it’s the alone time down here that has me on edge tonight. So I shut it off. There’s no room for emotions here. When you head into that cage, any fear you feel will betray you, your opponent sniffing it out the moment you step foot into their territory.

I’ve seen big guys – undefeated ones – make one wrong move and panic, if only for a second. But that’s all it takes, a moment of fear, of vulnerability, and the vultures circle until you hit the ground with so much force you break every bone in your face.

I throw my bag onto the steel bench, digging around in it for my gear. As I replace my shorts and t-shirt with a pair of MMA shorts and black fingerless gloves, I try to push thoughts of Matilda from my mind. Emotions make you weak, and she’s making me feel many of them.

My usual routine involves me warming up for at least fifteen minutes, but I don’t have the time. It doesn’t matter though – my body is so amped up with adrenaline, I feel as though I could take down a fucking rhino.

Matilda makes me feel the same way when I look into her brown eyes. An image of her on her knees in front of me fills my mind, those dark eyes pleading with me as I fuck her mouth.

I shake my head.

Not going to happen. If this is how I feel when she hasn’t even touched me yet, imagine what would happen if she did. I’d spontaneously combust for sure.

The roar of the crowd has me heading towards the entrance to the cage, which sits a level below the main deck. Access in and out of the cage is easier when the crowd isn’t gathered in the exits.

As I wait for my name to be announced, it occurs to me that in the rush to get changed, I forgot to ask Jordan who I’m fighting tonight. It doesn’t matter, though. So far I’m undefeated, and if my opponent is anything like the last few fucking useless ones, then this fight will be over and done with in one round.

If I’m lucky.

It doesn’t take long for Dan, the announcer, to call my name, then Tommy Thatcher. I haven’t fought him before, but his older brother, Stu, got his arse kicked by Jordan a few weeks back, so I’m hoping for an easy fight.

I’ve known Jordan since the time I met Koby, and when I found out about my mum’s cancer a few months ago, he was the first person I told. Even though Koby is my best friend, Jordan went through a cancer diagnosis himself, so I felt like he was the better option.

My head was spinning, and when I mentioned to Jordan that I was going to kill the next person who looked at me the wrong way, he suggested I use that anger in the cage. He set it all up. After my first fight, I felt a sense of calm, so I came back the next week.

I bounce into the cage, throwing punches out in front of me, the crowd’s roar in my ears, and make my way to my side. The cage is typical of MMA, octagonal, and about nine metres in diameter with an open top. The floor is a deep red, which helps to hide the stains from all the bodily fluids spilled onto it every night.

---