Page 111 of Forbidden Romeo

Quinn is on the defensive.

It takes me a split second to come up with my plan. If he wants to play defense, I’m going to let him. I need to go in with quick, tight hits, keep him guessing and hopefully overwhelm him before he can get a read on my preferred attacks.

I lurch forward on an off-beat and aim low.

Quinn moves like a flash. Quicker than I ever thought he’d be able to manage. He dodges effortlessly and lands two light punches to my side.

I leap away quickly to keep him in front of me. The crowds are already getting excited.

My opponent’s face is unreadable as we begin circling each other again. Okay, new plan.

Again, I lurch off-beat and feign a left attack—only to move in on my right foot. Just as I think I’m about to land, Quinn is suddenly there to block, and I’m rewarded with a punch to the gut.

I stagger back to the tune of the crowd’s ‘ooohs’ and try to pretend the blow didn’t almost wind me. Pulling up my hands defensively, I try to discern any kind of tell in my opponent. But he simply stares blankly back.

Ding, ding, ding!

Saved by the bloody bell. I head back to my corner.

“Stop attacking,” Coach says as soon as he hands me a bottle of water. “Let him come to you.”

“He hits hard,” I admit quietly.

Coach merely shakes his head, “You’ve taken harder. Don’t let him see you flinch.”

I nod and throw the bottle back to him before heading toward where my opponent is already readying himself for round two.

“Jack!”

I look back over my shoulder at Coach.

“Left foot!”

Ding, ding, ding.

We start our dance again.

This time I hold back as instructed, watching Quinn intently. I register every flicker of movement he makes, positioning and repositioning to take on any offense he might take.

When it comes, I’m ready for it… until I’m not.

I dodge, and his first swing goes wide—only for his other fist to collide with my jaw. Hard.

My feet barely hold me up. Stars scatter through my vision as I try to evade my opponent. But suddenly, he’s there again.

Two punches to the gut and another to the jaw. As I fall to the ground, I feel something snap.

Faintly in the audience, I hear someone scream. But as I lie there, all I can focus on is the bright lights above me. Until the ref blocks them out.

Five fingers up. Then four. Three.

Shit.

I scramble to my feet, shaking off the way the world spins around me, and hold my head high. The telltale taste of iron fills my mouth, and when I spit, blood splatters on the pale floor. I wipe my chin off it as I glare at Quinn.

The ref watches me a moment longer before conceding. I’m still in the game.

Quinn immediately darts forward, hoping to take me off guard, but I evade, landing awkwardly on my left foot. In the brief second of instability, Quinn is there again. Another punch to the side.

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