Logan
"You're a champion; don't forget that," Rocco says. He's working on my right hand, wrapping it with the skilled precision of a veteran in this industry, and then moves to the left hand.
"I've never forgotten it," I say. "I'm here to win. Defeat isn't in my vocabulary."
The few photographers in the room are eating it up. They're standing off to the side, snapping picture after picture.
Tension is building. People have bet millions on this fight, and the odds are in my favor. The entire city of Las Vegas is on edge.
Today, victory will be mine and Hunter and I can finally put this to rest.
Rocco slips the boxing gloves over my hand wraps as my physical trainer massages my back and neck, trying to keep me loose. When they're finished, I stand up and give myself a couple of long stretches to loosen any remaining tense muscles.
I can't believe the moment is here.
Hunter and I are going to fight; there's no turning back now. It's like the moment when you board a rollercoaster, and the harness locks in place and the ride begins to move. At that point, you know there's no getting off. There's no changing your mind, even if you wanted to. You're in it to win it, and you have no other choice but to see it through.
"Two minutes remaining until our walk!" a woman says, peeking her head into the locker room. She's wearing a Bluetooth headpiece and is carrying a clipboard. She must be one of the event managers.
I bounce on my feet, shadowboxing in the air to displace my pent-up energy and to mentally prepare for this moment.
"You're an animal," Rocco growls in the form of encouragement. "People call you a fucking lion for a reason. Now let's give the crowd what they came for."
He slaps me on the back and the same woman shouts out, "30 seconds till our walk!"
Here we go. It's real. Now's the moment.
I'm a champion. I'm a lion and Hunter is the gazelle. In a few minutes, he won't know what hit him. I get my thoughts into fight mode.
"And 5, 4, 3, 2, 1—we're walking!" the woman shouts.
I place the hood of my jacket over my head, and while surrounded by my team of trainers, reporters, and photographers, we start the walk.
I'm walking in a wide stance, my shoulders out. I have a bounce in my step and my fists are up, shadowboxing in the air.
My mind is laser focused on victory tonight.
I can hear the music pouring in from the arena in the distance. The further I walk, the louder it becomes. The bass is beating a rhythm into my chest. It's as if someone is slowly turning up the volume.
And within moments, we're out of the tunnel and into the bright lights. The lights are so bright that they're blinding and fans are screaming. It's sensory overload. I'm assaulted at every angle.
People are hanging over their seats with their hands outstretched, pleading and begging for just a second of recognition.
"Logan! Logan! Over here! Kick his ass Logan!"
They're all hoping to touch my hand for a fleeting moment, as if by touching me they will have gained some sort of newfound luck. Like maybe I have the Midas touch or something. And the only thing louder than their screams is the music.
I can feel the music in my bones.
As I approach the ring, I still have my team with me. Photographers flash pictures at me as I officially step up to the ring. Once there, I turn to the crowd. With eyes wide I raise my arms up high in the air, fists clenched, abs taut and rippled, and they go wild, erupting in roars of applause. It takes me a minute to realize that they are roaring like a lion in their support for me. The entire ground seems to be shaking with their rabid energy.
I walk to my corner of the ring and continue to raise my arms at the crowd, trying to face my fans at every angle—north, east, south, and west.
And then the music changes.
I know what that means before the announcer says it.
"And now ladies and gentleman, entering the arena is Huuuunter!"
Even the lighting seems to change a different color.
The crowd cheers and it seems the fans are divided evenly because he receives an equal amount of applause. And then I see him. The man I've come here for.
It's a flash of red in the distance, and I see his robe. Instantly, I feel like a bull taunted by a cape.
Pride, anger, and focus are a potent cocktail, and right now, it fills my entire body and mind.
Cameras continue flashing.
The crowd roars.
The announcer keeps the energy high.
It's a buzz that the entire arena can feel.
It's time.
It's time for war.