My phone vibrates with an incoming text from Reagan.

I’m running late, be there in a few. I love you.

I reread her message and smile. I can’t believe how well things have been going since we got back together two weeks ago. It’s as if we never had a break to begin with. We picked up right where we left off, except we’re adults now and we both know what we want. Nothing’s going to stand in the way of us being together ever again. Everything’s been working out perfectly.

Yesterday morning at the weigh in I was 202 pounds which is just where I need to be for the light heavyweight class.

“Moira,” I say as I come upon her in the hallway by the locker rooms. “You okay?”

She giggles and takes a sip of her beverage. Judging from her incessant giggling and unsteady gait, I’d say she’s a few cups in already. “Who are you here with?” I ask my eyes scanning the area for someone to walk her back to her seat. I notice the credentials badge hanging around her neck and assume Reagan is the reason she has one.

“I’m with..some friends. Where’s...Reagan?” she asks.

“She’s running late. She should be here any minute now.”

She places her hand on my arm, patting me like a dog. “I always liked you...two as a… couple.” She giggles.

“Thank you. I like us too.” I smile at her inebriated state. At least she’s a happy drunk. Shuddering, I think about the alternative. I know firsthand what it was like to grow up with an angry drunk. And it wasn’t just consuming too much alcohol that made him angry. God forbid he ran out. Those times were just as bad. Shaking my head, I snap myself out of the downward slide my thoughts are headed. This isn’t the time to be thinking about dear old dad. I need to get my head on straight and focus on what I’m here for. Years of work have led me to this night and there’s nothing that’s going to stop me from being victorious.

“Heey Reagan,” Moira calls out as she catches sight of my girl.

Ray says hi to her, but her smile is all for me as she progresses down the long hallway. I pull her into my arms when she reaches me, kissing the top of her soft hair. “It’s so good to have you in my arms, Ray. You’re what I always need.”

She lifts her lips for my lowering ones. Brushing them gently over her mouth, my fingers caress over the back of her cheek. “I need to go warm up, now. I’ll see you after the fight.”

She smiles. “You’re going to kick his ass No-No,” she says, winking.

I walk backward a few steps and smirk. “You’re right.” Turning, I make my way around the corner and down the next hallway toward the locker room where Jimmy and Nick are waiting for me. I’m almost to the door when I realize I have no idea what Reagan wants to do after the fight. Does she want to wait here for me or would she rather I meet her at home? Heading back in the other direction, I’m about to round the corner when I hear Moira’s voice.

“Too bad...your...relationship won’t last.”

My feet freeze in place and my eyes narrow while I wonder what brought her negative comment on.

“What do you mean it won’t last?” Reagan asks.

“You’re...gonna break...up with him,” she sings it out as if it’s song lyrics.

“No, we’re back together now.”

I remain where I am, but peer around the corner at them. “Soo cute.” Moira pats Reagan’s arm. “I know...you are, but… we...have a plan. Shh….” She raises her finger to her lip. “Don’t tell anyone…that…,” she hiccups, “you’re using him for s.e.x.” She gulps the rest of her drink down. “You’re waiting...for the right...time to break it off. You’re going to do the heart...heartbreaking this time.”

My eyebrows press together and a sharp pain knifes through my chest as I think about what she just revealed. How much of this is drunken ramble and how much is true?

“We planned it...all ooout at Griff’s party, remember?” She turns to walk away and then stops, spinning around unsteadily to face Reagan again.

“See ya,” she says patting her arm once more. She walks off in the other direction from where she came. “Good luck to Nooo-Nooo,” she sings as she rounds the corner.

Reagan immediately crosses the hallway, stepping into the restroom.

Leaning back against the cool, cement wall, I let my mind turn over the unexpected disclosure revealed by Moira. Could it be true?

Thinking back two weeks to the night at Griff’s, I realize that’s the night I kissed her - and then told her it was a mistake. She was angry with me. But was she angry enough to concoct a plan to get us back together only to break up with me?

I ended things with her in the worst way possible. Could the last two weeks all be part of a revenge plan? It’s possible. The only way I’ll know for sure is to ask her. She can’t lie for shit. I’ll be able to tell as soon as I look in her eyes.

I pace up and down the hall, expelling some nervous energy. I don’t know if I’m more worried about my fight in a couple hours or if Ray’s lying to me. I can’t lose her again. I just got her back and my life is so much better for it.

Counting each step I take along the black mats lining the hallway helps to keep my mind occupied. I walk thirty steps in one direction and then turn around to walk back thirty more. Repeating this over and over helps to calm me - until I see her. I freeze in place as she catches sight of me. Approaching with a wide smile, my face, void of expression, tips her off that something’s amiss.

“What’s wrong?” She stops in front of me, and runs her hand over my aching chest.

“Did you and Moira make plans for us to get back together so you could be the one to end things this time around?”

Her eyes go wide and immediately I know it’s true. Fuck. Clenching my teeth together to hold in words better left unsaid between us, I turn and walk back toward the locker room.

“Noah, wait,” she yells following me.

I keep moving, focusing on breathing through the burning pain in my chest.

“Noah, please.”

Hearing the tears in her voice has my feet pausing. Running a hand through my hair, I inhale deeply and face her.

“Moira and I did discuss that, but I changed my mind.”

I laugh. “Sure, you did. I don’t have time to deal with this now, Reagan. I need to go get ready.” We lock eyes and I notice the tears welling in hers. They change nothing. Time to lock in. I have a job to do and I can’t let anything distract me from it. Turning around, I make my way toward the locker room, purpose in every step I take. I have a fight to win and right now that’s all that matters. As I round the corner, I hear her call out, “good luck.”

I spend the next few hours in my designated locker room. As the challenger in the main event I am given a private space to wait and prepare. I spend the first hour loosening up with some shadow boxing, stretching and listening to the crowd out front cheering and jeering their way through the preliminary fights.

Jimmy picks things up over the next hour and we start running through some ground positioning and standing clinch drills. At some point my mind begins to wander, thinking of Reagan and the uncertainty of where we stand. Jimmy sees I’m distracted and responds immediately with a hard slap across the face. “Knock it off. Whatever it is you’re thinking about, don’t. Nothing else, no one else, matters right now. There’s only here and now. There’s only what you need to do.” His eyes are staring straight through my own, making sure I hear every word. “This is your time kid. You’ve earned it and it’s all yours for the taking. So, let’s focus on what comes next and you take what’s yours, you hear me?”

I hear every word. My focus returns and my vision narrows. I stop hearing all the background noise and seeing all the secondary movement throughout the room. Hell, I barely remember the official witness coming in to watch my hands being wrapped. The seconds tick into minutes and before long someone is at the door to let us know we have five minutes.

The walk to the cage comes in two stages. There’s the walk to the curtain, which is all backstage, solemn and in no way any less anxious than what comes next. The walk from the curtain out through the crowd and into the spotlight is an all-out assault on the senses. Blinding lights fill the stadium, music echoes off every wall and seems to bounce up through the floor. The fans scream, shout and even reach out, literally trying to grab hold and get your attention. We pause at the curtain and Jimmy grabs hold of my face with both hands. “Are you ready?”

I don’t hesitate. “I’m ready.”

He looks directly into my eyes again. “Yeah, you’re ready.”

The announcer calls out my name and the hometown crowd of the TD Garden erupts. The regional and national sports outlets have been playing up the local underdog storyline for weeks now and the crowd is showing me some serious love.

The audio kicks in and I hear “ARE YOU READY…?” followed by the familiar heartbeat of the DX Theme Song echoing through the arena.

I turn back to Nick, who’s in my corner with Jimmy tonight. He was responsible for getting tonight’s entrance music to the production folks.

“Really?” I’m not sure if an old school professional wrestling theme song fits in at an MMA fight in the Garden, but the response is immediate and the crowd becomes even louder than just moments ago. Nick winks, crosses his arms and chops them downward with a smile.

The adrenaline pumping through my veins now feels alive inside me and I can barely contain it as we walk down the aisle. I’m checked by the referee for grease on my body and he then applies Vaseline to my face and forehead before I finally enter the cage to raucous applause and screams. Even after the crowd settles in, a healthy chant of No - No is picking up steam across the arena.

The champ comes out next to the sound of Brazilian hip-hop and sporting a large entourage. Each one of them looks tougher than the previous. The Pitbull himself seems offended by the love the crowd has for me and he looks like he’s ready to fight some spectators along the way. Twice during his entrance event security has to step in between him and random people in the crowd that he stops to argue with and berate.

Within seconds we’re face to face listening to the referee’s instructions and expectations for a good, hard, clean fight. Sousa does his best to intimidate me during the instructions, staring directly at me and quick twitching his neck from side to side.

I’m ready.

We’re told to “touch gloves” out of respect and then to back into our “corners”.

He holds his hand out long enough for me to respond then pulls it back before I make contact.

I’m ready.

I step back as instructed and hear Jimmy talking from behind the steel mesh. His words are muffled as I drown out everything outside the cage. My eyes are locked in on the Pitbull and his are on me. We crouch on opposing sides, each waiting to be set loose so that we can do violent things to the other.

I’m ready.

The ref signals for the start of the fight and Sousa immediately races across the cage and jumps into a flying knee that nearly finds its mark on my head. I’m almost able to slide out of the way, catching only a glancing blow to the shoulder, but it spins me around. Before I can catch my bearings he’s on me, connecting with two quick, hard jabs to my chin. I stagger back a step against the cage and shoot two quick jabs of my own, which he easily avoids, showing me that not only is he strong, he’s fast.

I hear Jimmy shouting from my corner. “Get some distance - distance - distance.”

After all the hours spent in training listening to Jimmy holler in from cage side, his voice is imbedded in my brain and clicks with me right away. My reaction is immediate and I slide back to gain some space.

Sousa sees this and steps in, firing a quick jab - cross combination. He’s a wild man in the cage and doesn’t mind taking aggressive chances. It’s made for quite the highlight reel of knockouts over the past couple years. But we noticed in our film study sessions that in his recent fights, the Pitbull appears to be seeking the big ‘highlight reel’ finish. Since then, our plan has been to make him chase me and counter-punch as he opens himself up.

I instinctively drift back and to the side, timing it to be just out of reach as he extends too far on the second punch. I drop a quick, jab over the top of his arm and catch him clean on the cheek. He steps back and I follow, hitting him with another jab in the same spot and a solid hook to the body. His knees buckle and he staggers back, but recovers before I can move in and finish him. It’s early in the fight, but I can see in his eyes and in the short breaths he’s taking, he felt every bit of the body-shot and I’ve delivered a message.

Antonio Pitbull Sousa didn’t get to be champion by mistake. He’s been in tough spots before and has always been able to fight through, overwhelming opponents with his strength and athleticism, as well as a fast, hard, aggressive response.

He springs forward, throwing a hard roundhouse kick to my lead leg, then a flurry of punches as I step back and into the cage directly above his coach and cornermen. With my back against the steel mesh and his team just outside the cage shouting in Portuguese he goes to work, hammering me with body shots like he’s tenderizing a piece of steak. While I try to defend the body blows he switches up and targets my face and head.

“Keep moving - movement - movement.” Jimmy calls in from across the cage.

Again, his voice flips a switch and I start ducking, bobbing, moving and trying to avoid as many of the punches as I can. I reach out to pull him in for a clinch, but he’s keeping his distance. He steps in quick, dropping bombs and sliding back just far enough to stay out of my reach, but close enough to keep me pinned against the cage.

I’m only dodging half of his strikes. The rest are finding their mark on my ribs, face and legs. Sousa’s reputation is well earned, as his punches and kicks are fast, strong and on target. The next minute is a clinic on dishing out punishment and he’s giving the lesson. I can feel the bruises already forming on my thigh from his kicks and a large mouse swelling up under my left eye from a strong right hook.

The Pitbull shoots in and scoops both legs out from under me, dropping me onto my back. I try to roll out and spin back to my feet but he’s already flat on his stomach beside me on the canvas, attempting to sink in an arm triangle choke. The champ is strong and his jujitsu is world class, but submissions are one of my strengths and I’m able to slip my arm under his chin, roll onto my stomach and cinch in an arm triangle of my own.

Sousa rolls out into an armbar submission and has my elbow ready to pop. I roll up and across, spin around to reverse the hold and now his elbow is the one straining to stay in its socket.

We spend the next three minutes flowing from one submission attempt and defense to another at a blistering pace. The bell sounds and the round is over. The ref steps in and untangles our limbs before things get ugly, as neither one of us is ready to stop. I get up and slowly shake my arms and legs loose, before walking over to my team. I feel good.

Sitting on the wooden stool while Nick gives me water and Jimmy advises me on what’s working; I lean over to look across at Sousa. Frustration is clear on his face while his corner team frantically shouts at him. He looks tired.

As Jimmy reminds me about my stand-up defense and the strength of my ground game, Nick catches sight of Sousa and notices the same thing I do. “You got him. He’s done.”

Jimmy stops talking and stares briefly at Nick, then over at Sousa with his team and then at me.

“He’s done.” I look him straight in the eyes and tell him again. “He’s done.”

“Yeah, he is.” Jimmy likes my confidence. “No-No, put him away and take what’s yours.”

The ref calls us out for the second round. I feel good.

I’ve taken his best punches and kicks. I’ve defended every submission attempt and given as many as I’ve taken. I can see in his eyes that Sousa is at a loss. He’s given me his best and now he knows it isn’t enough.

My turn.

“Let’s get it on.” The ref calls out.

Sousa digs deep and races toward me again. This time I step in to meet his charge, snapping a front heel kick directly up into his chest and sending him crashing back into the cage by his corner. His team erupts in the rapid-fire shouting of instructions as I chase him down and feign a punch toward his face and then connect with two solid body blows. He doubles over just enough for me to clasp my hands behind his neck and pull him into a tight clinch.

The clinch is my home.

I unleash a devastating knee up into his ribcage, then another and another. I feel him buckle and weaken. I snap a sharp elbow across his chin and follow it up with two more, each harder than the previous and all three landing squarely on target. He’s done.

As he sinks down to his knees I throw a hook across the other side of his chin and miss with a second when he drops straight down onto the canvas, unconscious. The arena explodes in screams and applause. I’m now the undisputed Light-Heavyweight Champion.

My life will never be the same.