Page 59 of Broken By the Bad Boy

Me: missing you. Love you. Sleep well.

Benny: sleep well Gracie. I LOVE YOU.

Twenty-Eight

We win the first round.

The screams and cheers from the crowd threaten to rupture my eardrums. My heart pounds fast against my ribcage. My vision alternates between blurry and invincible. I sway back and forth, numb to the pain. Coach waves his hands in front of my face, and I slowly snap out of my trance.

Sweat stings my eyes, and my chest rises and falls in tempo with my breathing. I accept the towel Coach offers me and wipe my face under the mask as best as possible. It’s too hot under it, and I’m tempted to rip it off my face for the nth time. Ben flashes me a grin. His sweaty body seems to shine under the fluorescent lights. We both fought, but he doesn’t look half as disoriented as I do. Not fair. He gives my shoulder a firm squeeze when the referee returns to the middle of the ring.

“If you win this round, then it’s over,” Coach screams over the noise. “Can you do that?”

I drag in a shaky breath. Everything fades to the background, except for Coach and Ben. If we win this round, we will qualify for the next match. If we don’t, I can’t say for sure that my body can last another fight with the twins. I peer at the identical duo squatting on the other side of the ring. One of them has a cut under his eye. When they catch me staring, I am forced to look away.

A lady in black bikini sashays into the ring. She holds a board with the number two written on it above her head. Ben taps me. A burst of energy explodes inside me, and my fist jams my palm. I jump to my feet, bouncing to keep the current flowing through me. We will win this round.

Ben and I stand side by side as per Coach’s instructions. We don’t fully stand on our feet. Our bodies are alert, and we bounce on our toes. Using one hand to protect our sides, we get into position once the referee pushes the whistle into his lips. The hall falls silent when the crowd notices, and we jerk into action once the whistle goes off.

They attack first, and we dodge them smoothly. My heart pounds in my ears. I block, attack, guard, defend, combining everything to keep them at bay. My legs and arms move in quick succession, inflicting as much damage as possible. Ben closes in on the taller twin. He fakes an attack, and I swoop in for a knockout kick to our opponent’s head. The crowd boos as he collapses to the ground. Simultaneously, we turn to face the other man standing in the ring.

One down, one more to go.

Without his partner, his moves are uncoordinated, and we quickly figure him out. It takes only a few minutes for Ben to get him down. My heart slows its rhythm as the referee squats before him to count. The crowd counts along with him, their excitement so thick as they scream in unison.

Ten.

Nine.

Blood rushes to my ears, and my eyes dart to the timer. If he stays down, then it’s a win for us. Coach’s eyes meet mine. He wipes his forehead with the towel hanging from his shoulder and resumes pacing. The twin I knocked down is still out cold. But this one stares sleepily at us.

Five.

Four.

The twin’s eyelids flutter close, his head falls back, and he throws his forearm over his forehead. One second more. The crowd goes quiet, the countdown ends, and a thunderous cheer erupts.

We won.

We did it.

I scream, and Ben plugs his fingers into his ears. I am beside myself with joy as I leap on him.

Adrenaline pumps through my veins. I almost kiss Ben until I realize how awkward it would look to see two sweaty male fighters making out in the ring. Ben slips his hand in mine, and my grin doesn’t falter.

A bell rings to signify the end of the match. One minute we are alone on the stage, and the next, Coach is inside the ring with us, arms wrapped around our shoulders. The referee motions for us to walk to the center of the ring. Ben stands on his left, and I stand on his right. He takes our hands and raises them.

The winner of tonight’s match is us.

Another round of screaming from the crowd begins. The commentators speak rapidly, but I don’t care for their analysis. I am too stoked to listen to their professional ramble. Coach guides us to the changing room. Once the door closes, Ben wrenches the mask from my face and claims my lips.

“We did it, babe,” he whispers against my lips.

My eyes shimmer with tears. “Yes.”

Tears shine in Ben’s eyes, but they don’t fall. My shoulders vibrate, and a sob escapes my throat. What was supposed to be a cry of joy turns into full-blown tears, and I break down in his arms. The tears won’t stop pouring. I cry harder into his chest while he rubs my back, muttering sweet nothings into my ear. It’s not what he thinks. I have to tell him now. I couldn’t do it all week with the practice and anticipation of today. Plus, I was scared. He holds me until my tears subside.

Coach comes over to give us a speech about good work and team effort. He ends his speech with a pat on our backs and departs the room. I forget what he says the moment he leaves. His speech won’t matter if I am not here next month for the next fight. We are moving tomorrow morning.

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