23
The arena buzzed around Nick, a humming vibration of music and voices. His team of coaches and trainers, journalists, arena employees, and WFC officials all moved in and out of the dressing room, a cyclone of energy in which Nick was the eye. He sat on the hard wooden bench, watching it all with a kind of surreal detachment.
He’d made it. He’d defeated both Kovac and Silva, and in less than ten minutes he’d be fighting Brody Hansen for the WFC middleweight championship. His heart pumped in his chest as nervous adrenaline surged through his body. He’d fought title fights before, but this was different. Not only was it the biggest title fight of his career but he was fighting for his place in the WFC. For his career. For his future. If he lost, what reason would Craig Darcy have to keep him around? If he got cut, he wasn’t sure where that would leave him. Would he go crawling back to Imperial? Find another league? Keep fighting?
Those options were shit. The best thing to do was to keep that door firmly closed and beat Hansen. Show fucking Craig Darcy and everyone else that he belonged here.
He glanced around the room, trying to center himself and not get lost in his thoughts. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, mentally preparing for the fight. Going over his strategy. Visualizing the win.
But all he could see was Jules’ face. He’d gone a solid five minutes without thinking about her, so she was due for an appearance. And even though he knew he should, he didn’t push the image away. Couldn’t stop seeing the hurt etched into her delicate features as he’d walked out on her. All he could hear were Gabe’s words.
I wish I could go back. I’d give anything to change what happened. But I can’t.
He’d spent countless hours replaying everything over and over again in his mind. How she’d hurt him a year ago in Chicago. Reconnecting with her here. How good—how fucking right—it had felt with her, despite the secrecy. The pain and fear he’d felt at the realization she still wasn’t letting him in. It was like a game of mental tug-of-war, and he careened between thinking that he couldn’t fix what was broken between them and hating himself for giving up. But what else could he do? He couldn’t keep putting his heart in a blender and hitting puree.
Omar crouched down in front of him, snapping Nick out of his seesawing thoughts, and started wrapping his hands for the fight.
He glanced up, and there she was, maybe ten feet away. Jules, with a tablet clutched in her hands, talking to Ashlynn. For one foolish second, he let himself hope she was there to see him, but he knew she wasn’t. She was working, and even though it wasn’t official, they were over.
He thought about standing up, about going to her, asking how she was, but he was paralyzed by the weight of everything crashing down on him. Regret and fear and loss. It was all there, ripping him open, and he leaned into the pain, clinging to it. It was all he had left.
She flashed him a tiny smile from across the distance. It didn’t meet her eyes, and fuck, he wanted to throw up, seeing the hurt and the sadness there, because he knew what that hurt and sadness felt like. He’d been buried in it since he’d walked out of her apartment. She gave him a thumbs-up and mouthed good luck before disappearing around the corner.
From the roar of the crowd, Nick knew that the championship fight was being hyped on the arena’s big screens and that it was go time. Hansen was due out first, but Nick was ready. A fresh wave of resolve washed over him, sharpening his focus.
He would fight, and he would win. There was no alternative. This was his shot at everything he’d ever wanted. The chance to prove himself on a bigger scale than ever before, to win the championship belt. Even if everything else in his life was a mess, he could have this. One dream was still within reach, even if the other had disintegrated into ash.
Nick stood, rolling his neck from side to side and hopping from one foot to the other, keeping his muscles warm and loose. He made his way out to the hallway, staring at the floor as he visualized slamming his fists into Hansen’s face. The prefight jitters faded away and he took a deep breath, tuning everything out.
The arena’s lights dimmed, and the crowd screamed. The opening strains of AC/DC’s “If You Want Blood” pumped through the arena’s speakers and Nick pushed his hood off his head as he stepped onto the arena’s floor surrounded by his team. A familiar rush of adrenaline surged through him, and he channeled it into focus and determination. Fans cheered and held their hands out for fist bumps and high fives as he made his way toward the octagon. He reached the steps and quickly pulled off his hoodie, T-shirt, and sweatpants. He popped in his mouth guard as the referee checked him over before admitting him to the octagon. His heart hammered in his chest, and he felt each throb like the beat of a war drum.
Nick stepped inside and tipped his chin at Hansen, his focus narrowing on the man on the other side of the octagon. Hansen rocked back against the cage, spreading his arms wide, a cocky grin on his face.
Gary Watts stepped into the center, his microphone in hand. The crowd was so loud that his first few words were snatched away by the roar of thousands of people.
“. . . five rounds to determine the inaugural WFC middleweight champion!” The cheers swelled even more, but Nick didn’t take his eyes away from Hansen, sizing him up, raring to go. “Fighting out of the blue corner, holding a professional record of eighteen wins and three defeats, standing five feet eleven inches tall and weighing in at one hundred eighty-five pounds . . . Brrrrrrrrrroooody Haaaaaaansen!” Hansen threw his arms up in the air, inciting more cheers from the crowd, as well as a chorus of boos and jeers.
“And now!” continued Gary, pointing at Nick, who hopped from foot to foot on the spot. “Fighting out of the white corner, holding a professional record of twenty wins and two defeats, standing six feet one inch tall and weighing in at one hundred eighty-six pounds, presenting the former Imperial MMA middleweight champion . . . Niiiiick Giannnnaaaaaakis!” The final syllable of Nick’s last name was swallowed up by the roar of the crowd. A trickle of smug satisfaction worked its way through him—he was clearly the crowd favorite with a much louder, boo-less cheer.
Nick met Brody in the center as the referee went over the rules. He extended his gloves toward Brody, offering to touch before the fight in a show of good sportsmanship, but Brody refused and moved back to his corner. Boos followed him, and Nick smiled as he stepped back. He’d gotten under Brody’s skin, which was a good sign. But Nick wasn’t a fool. He knew he was in for a hell of a fight. Hansen hadn’t made it this far without talent, skill, and guts.
“You ready?” The referee asked from the middle of the octagon. Nick and Brody both nodded, and the referee clapped his hands together. “Fight!”
Fists raised, they sized each other up, moving in a circle around each other. Brody shot out a low, testing kick, grazing Nick’s shin. Nick retreated and then landed a jab with his left, just as Brody connected with his right. They each backed off, still circling. Still testing. Nick was gauging the distance, figuring out how much of a reach advantage he had over Brody, calculating his next move.
Brody sent out another testing jab, but Nick blocked it and countered it with a low, hard kick. The loud smack of his foot connecting with Brody’s shin echoed through the arena. Brody advanced, and they traded a series of hooks and jabs. Nick tried to duck and block, but a couple of hard, jolting shots got through. They backed off and then traded again, but Nick could tell from the way Brody swung his shoulders that he was going for the same combo, so he ducked low and landed two hard punches to Brody’s stomach. He gave Nick a shove and danced back a few paces. If those shots had hurt him, it wasn’t showing on Brody’s face. He launched a high kick at Nick, who blocked it with his forearms. The impact rattled his bones, but just like Brody, he didn’t let it show on his face.
Brody adjusted his stance and Nick saw his opening. He landed a hard right on Brody’s cheek, and his head snapped back. The skin under his eye split and blood trickled out. His eye began to swell almost immediately. But it didn’t faze him, and he came back at Nick swinging. They traded shots, and Nick landed as many as he took.
For the first two minutes of the fight, they circled and traded, circled and traded. Brody slammed his fist into Nick’s face hard enough that the impact snapped his head back and sent pain crunching across his nose, but Nick kept moving forward, landing an uppercut that sent Brody sprawling backward. Nick didn’t let up, following him, but Brody swung his hips and kicked, his foot landing against Nick’s side. The impact took his breath away for a second, pain radiating up his torso. Heat throbbed across his side, and he could taste the blood dripping down from his nose. But Nick had been in battles like this before. Instead of letting it unsettle him, he let the pain drive him.
Nick darted out his right fist in a cross, connecting with Brody’s temple. Brody’s legs gave out and he dropped to the ground, the crowd letting out a collective gasp. Like a shark scenting blood in the water, Nick pounced without hesitation, but Brody was already surging back to his feet. They grappled and Nick shoved him away, creating enough distance to land another upper cut. Brody fell again, landing on his back. Nick loomed over him, hammering his fists into his face. Brody kicked up, his heel slamming into Nick’s shoulder, and in the millisecond he’d earned himself, he got back to his feet.
Frustration tugged at Nick, but he didn’t let it take hold, knowing he needed to stay focused. Sweat coated his chest and arms, and he could feel his pulse in his ears. Brody landed a jab and cross in quick succession. Pain exploded across Nick’s face as the octagon seemed to tilt, and Nick stepped back, breathing through the pain, trying to bring everything back into focus.
Brody lunged forward, shooting for a take down, but Nick sprawled his legs and shoved his hands down, breaking Brody’s grip easily. Before Brody could move away, Nick landed another jab, further opening up Brody’s cut. He retreated, wiping at the blood pouring down his face. Nick stepped toward him, still feeling wobbly, but knowing he needed to keep pressing forward.
Brody threw another kick and it landed against Nick’s ribs. Sharp, stabbing pain burst across Nick’s chest, but Brody cried out in pain, dropping his leg clumsily.
Rumor has it Brody Hansen is dealing with a knee injury.
The words from that interview weeks earlier echoed through Nick’s mind, and he knew he’d be a fool not to capitalize on it, especially given how the fight was going. Gritting his teeth and pushing the pain aside, Nick charged forward, slamming punches into Brody’s face and body.
Brody defended, but then he took a wild swing. His fist hit Nick’s jaw, and for the second time, Nick’s vision slid away from him momentarily. A sickening wave of nausea rolled through him as he stepped forward, getting his fists back up. But he wasn’t fast enough, and Brody threw another haymaker. It smashed into Nick’s temple, and before Nick could stop himself, he’d slipped to his knees. His body thrummed with pain, nausea, and the foggy heat that came with eating punches.
“Come on, Nick! You got this!” Jules’ voice pierced through everything, and Nick managed to push back to his feet. The crowd roared, their cheers a crescendo matching the pain burning through Nick’s body.
He bent low and slammed Brody into the fence. Nick’s muscles screamed with exhaustion, but he tightened his grip, trying to drag Brody to the ground. Brody smashed his elbow into Nick’s forehead above his right eye, and Nick felt the pressure and then the warm trickle of blood from the gash.
The horn blew and the referee dove between them, sending them back to their corners. Nick practically collapsed onto the stool, sucking in deep breaths as a cutman began to work on his gash while Omar held a bag of ice to his chest, helping to cool him off and slow his racing heart.
“He’s hurt. You need to work that left leg. I want to see kicks. He’s tough, but if you work that leg, he won’t be able to keep going. You hear me?”
Nick nodded, but didn’t say anything, saving his breath for the fight. He rose from the stool, his eyes and mind clear again, the bleeding from his injuries stemmed. He could feel the skin above his eye tightening as it swelled. He turned and glanced out at the crowd, and his gaze found Jules. She was on her feet in the front row, her eyes bright, her hand pressed to her mouth. Their eyes met and she gave him the tiniest nod. Fresh adrenaline soared through him.
The second round started and Nick struck first, landing a kick on Brody’s injured leg, and then another, before throwing his arms up to block Brody’s punches. He landed another kick, and Brody’s legs wobbled. Nick went for a combination, connecting his fists with Brody’s face. Brody stumbled backward, crashing against the fence, and Nick surged forward, connecting with an uppercut, and then another combination. Brody held his arms up, trying to block the punches, but Nick held him at arm’s length and then teed off, landing shot after shot, soaring on adrenaline. Blood dripped from Brody’s face onto the mat, and suddenly the referee was between them, waving Nick off and ending the fight.
Everything inside Nick went still and then exploded in a flash bang of emotion and adrenaline. He dropped to his knees and let out a triumphant cry, his voice lost in the roar of the crowd. He pushed to his feet and ran across the octagon, hoisting himself onto the top of the padded fence, straddling it. When he raised his arms in the air, the arena exploded in a riot of sound, and it didn’t matter that he was bleeding, that his eye was swelling, that his body was hurt and exhausted.
He would remember this moment for the rest of his life.
From his vantage point, he could see Jules jumping up and down and cheering for him as loudly as anyone else in the arena. God, he loved her. And for the first time since walking out on her, he wondered if just maybe there was hope for them.
After all, he was the fucking champion. Nothing was impossible.