“Stay here,” Nate tells me, pointing to a seat under a giant American flag. “I’m not kidding, Priss. Stay here. I’ll come get you when the fight is over.”

“I don’t need you to come get me.”

He looks over his shoulder as Dom’s opponent starts towards the ring and then back at me. “I get why you’re here. Should you be? No. But I respect that you are, okay? But, listen to me, you should’ve called me and let me figure this out, not springing it on us.”

“I’m going to be fine,” I insist. “Make sure he’s fine. He’s the one with busted ribs and an attitude to match a wounded badger.”

“That’s the plan.” He starts down the steps, taking two at a time. He gets to the rail where he has to turn and go down another set of stairs. “Three rounds. Be here when I look up.”

“Fine, fine.”

I get situated in my seat. There’s no one in my immediate vicinity, and as I look around, I’m kind of grateful. The noise in this place, whatever you call it, is incredible. I keep flinching as the crowd roars—I’m not even sure what for most of the time.

Everyone has a drink of some sort, and although I thought smoking was illegal in all public areas, apparently fights are an exception because there’s enough smoke in here to give someone cancer.

The longer I sit, the more uncomfortable I feel. Everyone has a pack, a group of people surrounding them. Everyone but me.

Like a tsunami wave that comes from nowhere, I feel every word Dom has said about these things. I must stick out like a sore thumb because Nate found me easily, without even looking, I think. The groups to my right and left have spotted me. The one on my right just kind of snickered and went back to their party. The one on the left seemed more … interested in me. I focus on the ring in the center of the room, two flights of stairs below, and listen as the announcer calls Dominic’s name.

A blast of rock music rips through the building and I see Dom coming up a ramp from the far side. He’s shirtless in a pair of dark green shorts, his hands in dark gloves.

The crowd goes wild, definitely louder than they were for his opponent. Every female in the room is whooping and screaming, shouting profanities and lewd suggestions and offers that render me speechless.

I’m on the edge of my seat in every sense of the word. My heart is beating so loud that it nearly drowns out the chaos surrounding me. People are chanting Dom’s name, filling in the walkway below to get a better look as he’s approved by the referee and enters the ring.

I’m panting, my breath coming in quick, rushed spurts. A burst of activity rumbles from the people to my left, but I can’t take my eyes off the ring.

Dom heads to the corner where I see Nate and an older man with “Percy’s” written across his shirt in green. The older man is in his face, looking animated, and Dom nods, showing his mouth guard. Then he looks at Nate. Nate points up, at me, and Dom’s head turns. Our eyes meet. Even in the midst of all these people in this crazy place, we find each other. I smile at him, holding a hand on my heart. He almost smiles, but not quite. Then he looks away.

They’re in the middle of the ring, and before I know what happens, the bell rings.

Everyone is on their feet, yelling, shouting, splashing beer out of cheap plastic cups. There’s a flurry of activity from Dom’s opponent, but Dom seems to block most of them. Dom fires back with punches of his own, landing a few.

They go round and round, pulling my heart right along with it. My hands are clenched in front of me as I keep whispering, “Come on, Dom,” in repetition.

The clock on the wall starts to wind down and I take a breath of relief. It’s a moment too soon.

Dom gets hit by a kick right above his waist on his right side. He drops to one knee.

My heart stops as I spring to my feet, watching as his challenger gears up to take him out.

“No!” I shout, my voice not a drop in the bucket in comparison to the madness around me.

Just as he’s within striking distance, the bell rings and the round is over.

I fall back in my chair, landing with a thud. The audience is amped after that display, the close call on Dom, but not me. I can barely breathe.

The stands shift, everyone angling for a better view in expectation of an angsty second round. I, too, head down the steps and stand at the railing. My fingers twist around the rusty metal pole, my eyes glued on Dom in the corner.

He’s bleeding from a cut above his left eye. The older man has a giant cotton swab held to it as he yells in Dom’s face. Dom turns my way and I see the panic on his face.

He reaches for Nate and they exchange a few words. I realize—they can’t see me. I’m not where I’m supposed to be.

Hurrying back to my seat, I trip and fall onto a woman in the aisle on the left.

Her drink, a cheap beer, soaks my shirt. It’s the loss of her drink, not the impact, that has her screaming in my face.

I look over my shoulder to the ring just as she plants her hands on my chest and shoves me backwards.