Page 7 of Bullied By The Bad Boy

Out here, I am Tee. The guy behind the mask. No one can tell my identity, and I love it. It adds a bit of mystery to this persona. My opponent is already bouncing in the ring. As I observe him from my periphery, the fear in my guts intensifies. I trot to the ring with a calmness I don’t feel. The dude is a brick of muscles, and I am a pole of flexibility, speed, and skill. With a huge opponent, I must move faster and work twice as hard. I have a chance if I hit all the point spots. To be a bit fair, the ring uses a scoreboard similar to the real system.

The music fades once I step inside the ring. As expected, I wave to the crowd, and they erupt into another round of cheers. I reciprocate with a smile through theRey Mysterio-stylemask showing my lips. Coach got this design so I can sip water during breaks. This win will also be for them. I touch my chest one last time to confirm the presence of the necklace, and a familiar calm surrounds me.

I can do this. I will win.

For Hayden, for Coach, for the crowd. That unmasked guy behind me is going down.

Adrenaline pumps through my veins. I turn, ready to rumble, and my breath ceases.

Shit.

It’s him.

* * *

The first round lasts twenty-one minutes.

I am bleeding behind the mask. My heart beats so loud, I can hardly hear a thing. Coach squats in front of me with a water bottle held to my mouth for me to take a sip. I wince when I lift the hem of my bloodied tank top. He presses a warm towel to my side, and my teeth sink into my lip to stop me from crying or punching him. He should have discouraged me from getting into that ring tonight.

“Are you okay?” Coach asks with a worried expression. I nod. I am not in the least bit okay. My body hurts like hell. I need to soak in a tub full of ice for a week and eat only ice-cream. “Tee.”

“I’m fine.”

We would have gotten helmets, shin guards, and body protectors at a fair competition. But here, nearly everything is different. Kicks to the head score the most points. Body kicks are welcome; the impact is worse because we lack protection. The thrill of illegal fighting comes from the possibility of danger, and the crowd loves it. I love it too, but my body feels like a war zone right now, and I want nothing more than to rip this blinding mask from my face and take off.

I try to sit up on the dangling wires surrounding the ring, and a bout of pain cuts through my insides. I mask it with a smile, but Coach sees through the faux bravado. He cups my face with one hand.

“If you can’t go the next round, Tee, just say the word. You fought a good fight.”

No. I am no quitter. I will not say that word. Chuckling, I punch him lightly on the chest. Gosh, even chuckling hurts.

“Na, I’m good. I’m fine.” His eyebrows lift in disbelief. “Coach, this is nothing. I can handle it.”

But I fail to mention I might not last a third round. All fights are two rounds. Since the first round ended in a draw, another was automatically added. It sucks right now, but it has always been the rule. Coach hands over the water bottle. I take a sip, rinse my mouth and spit. I glance in Ben’s direction to see if I caused any damage. He is hunched in his corner, eyes downcast.

Would he have gone easy on me if he knew I was a female?

Ben raises his head, and our eyes meet. The open gash on his eyebrow is what I notice first. The profound bow of his pink lips is next. My gaze rests there for too long, and my mind works up scenarios. The commentator’s voice snaps me out of it. Our break is almost over. I clear my throat and flex my hands. How can I be thinking of kissing my opponent? Right now, Ben is the enemy.

He twists his neck, and a pop echoes in the ring. A lump forms in my throat when his eyes return to mine. I want to look away, but I can’t, not when he’s staring hard like he can see behind the mask. I touch my cheek to be sure the mask is intact, and a corner of his lips slowly lifts into a smirk.

Coach squeezes my knees, and I note the tensing of his jaw. “Tessa.” His voice lowers as if he’s about to tell me a big secret. My gaze flickers to Ben, who is talking to his Coach. They seem to be having a heated discussion. “His knee, his right knee is weak. Go for it. Take advantage of it.”

His words unlock old memories. I’m reminded Ben used to be the captain and center-back of the soccer team. He was the star player until a knee injury retired him. Though he no longer plays soccer, he still rolls with the jocks. I glance at Coach and subtly at Ben’s right knee. I wouldn’t have known if Coach hadn’t mentioned it because he never walks like he has a busted knee.

If I get one foul, I can make up for it with a headshot.

The female commentator’s voice booms through the speakers, dishing out so many instructions at once. Coach helps me to my feet. I understand his nervousness. I am also nervous. The cheers are not as loud as at the beginning of the match, but the tension in the air is thicker, so thick I can almost taste it. I don’t want to wonder how many of them placed a bet on me. Coaches are not allowed to place bets, but Coach Grayson has someone who does it for him. I get twenty-five percent. I don’t mind the amount since it doesn’t affect the regular cut I get at the end of each match.

I take one step forward, and Coach pulls me back. He motions to his leg. “His right knee, Tessa.”

With one pat on my back, Coach’s gone. I walk to the center of the ring. Two ladies in tiny black bikinis sashay into the ring, holding a banner with number two boldly written on it to indicate the new round. I take that time to assess Ben as he joins me in the middle. None of us reacts to the crowd. Instead, we analyze each other quietly. He towers over me by at least four or five inches, and the wheels in my head spin into overdrive, trying to remember tricks I can use to my advantage.

When fighting a taller person, you must get closer to them so they have little to no opportunity to launch headshots. Ben’s weight makes it harder for him to kick as fast, as high, and as much as I can. It’s what I get for being skinny. But his weight also lends strength to his punches; they are deadly. I ponder over this as the ladies exit the ring. The referee steps between us to create some distance, the bell goes off to signify the start of the second round, and the crowd falls eerily silent.

Ben is the first to attack. I dodge it. Someone in the crowd yells his stage name, but he doesn’t flinch. In here, it’s him and me alone. My heart pounds against my chest like a caged animal. He strikes again, and I groan as his fist connects with my side. Not again. Coach screams my name. He’s not allowed to give instructions once the fight begins, but I know what he needs me to do. Getting into position, I fake an attack. Ben ducks, and I perform a slapping kick to his right knee.

Foul.

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