Chapter 37

Cooper

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I know that I am an exceptional fighter and I don’t believe in false modesty. I don’t try to act like I think every puffed-up iron smasher at the gym has a chance with me in the cage. It’s just a fact, and one that I’ve always worked really hard for, that they don’t. That said, pride comes before a fall and though I know I can, and will, take home this tournament victory, just like the others, I can’t deny that Carl the Crusher is one of the few guys in league who is an actual threat.

I don’t respect him at all as a fighter. He’s juiced up worse than Schwarzenegger at his peak, and his clownish muscles may be a great show, but he didn’t actually earn them. It’s like women who buy their boobs—there’s nothing of personal merit there. But bought or not, Carl’s heft alone can cause some real damage. Paired with his understanding of the sport and the fact that he’s just about at the peak of his career, this isn’t a fight where anyone could phone it in and still be okay.

Carl swings for my head. I dodge his massive, ham-sized fist by just a fraction of an inch, socking him in the gut as I duck under his arm. The crowd boos as he responds to the punch, folding a little. Signs of weakness and pain aren’t welcome. They want to see the blood spill from gashes on foreheads. They want to see the arms bend in ways that they shouldn’t. They want the loser beaten into submission at the close of the match, barely able to keep it together. But they don’t want to see pain. Men fight with honor, with dignity, and, most of all, with grit.

Carl recovers himself quickly, coming back up to standing as he spins around to face me. He roars, pounding a single fist on his enormous barrel chest and hurtles towards me, two hundred seventy pounds of infuriated muscle. I am up against the right side of the cage and can’t go left in time without being within reach of his dominant right arm. I can’t meet him head on without taking a serious hit from the force of impact. I make a split-second decision and feign left before dropping low and taking him out at the knee. With a massive thud, his bulk hits the canvas and the crowd erupts into a deafening, collective cheer.

The round is over and our trainers come up to check on us and give the usual words of encouragement—’kill that motherfucker,’ ‘it’s you or him, take him out if you want to keep his teeth,’ ‘fuck him up like he slept with your sister,’ etc. It’s all incredibly predictable, but it’s partly because the crowds expect it and partly just for the trainers to see you up close. They all know their fighters well enough to be able to tell if something is seriously wrong. Those little pep talks save a lot, but not all, lives.

I use the quick break to look out at the crowd. I quickly scan over to her seat, expecting to see my beautiful girl cheering for me, but her seat is empty. She’s probably in the bathroom or grabbing a bite from concessions. Great, I wanted her to see me make Carl hurt. Still, I can’t blame the woman for being ravenous after all the physical activity we’ve been up to. And it’s good that she’s fueling now, because I’m going to want another victory round after this match. I’ll just have to slug the Neanderthal double as hard when she gets back.

The little break is over and we’re all set to go again. Carl is clearly pissed. This is his year to win, or he’s already going to be on the downward slope of his career without a tournament under his belt since before I came onto the scene. He jumps up into the air and comes down with a thud, shaking the cage platform. He’s in a power position, with a wide stance, bent knees, and fists up to spar.

“I’m going to kill you, boy” he thunders, eyebrows scrunching together in his wide, lined forehead.

“I don’t see it,” I taunt, staying on my side and making him come to me. As soon as he’s close enough, I throw a punch. He blocks it, returning with a jab. I block it, twisting around and blocking with my left arm while punching with my right, slamming into the top of his cheek with the satisfying crunch of bone under massive force. He roars like an insulted bear, blood trickling down his face, and comes for me. But I hold my ground, blocking and jabbing and throwing punches and roundhouses right and left. I catch his arm as he comes for me, twisting it behind his back and body slamming him into the ground, pinning him to the ground with an elbow-knee hold. He strains against me, but I push harder, twisting his arm up tighter against his back until he roars in pain.

“All the juice in the world and you still can’t scratch me,” I say, watching as he turns red with the signature mix of rage and pain that all my opponents get the chance to enjoy. I’ve got him firmly in my grip, so I look up again to see my girl watch me fight. I frown. Branna still isn’t back, and unless the concessions line is moving at goddamn turtle pace, it’s getting worryingly long. 

Where the fuck is she?

Carl takes advantage of my momentary lapse of attention to slam his oversized head back into my chest, throwing me back and off of him. I need to focus. I turn my thoughts away from Branna and focus back on Carl as I hop back up to my feet and get in fighting stance. I’m not going to get myself killed up here because my girl takes forever powdering her nose, or whatever it is women do for hours in the ladies’ room.