Grace for Drowning Page 17

  I did that for fifteen minutes, and then my name was called. A surge of excitement hit me. It was time.

  The lights in the arena were almost blinding. I walked out across the floor and up into the cage, the roar of the crowd swelling like a jet engine in my ears. That noise tweaked something deep in the back of my head, but I forced it away. There was nothing to be scared of here but the man across from me. I knew what I was here to do.

  My eyes went instinctively to the bar, to Grace. Just seeing her was like a fresh shot of adrenaline. She flashed me a nervous smile and then gave a little nod of encouragement. It was strange having her here. Fighting had always been so personal for me but, for the first time, I actually felt the urge to prove myself to someone else. This was me in my purest form. This was what I did best, and I was going to put on a show for her. I found a smile of my own and winked at her, and some of the tension visibly bled from her muscles.

  The crowd cheered again as Brock stepped up to join me. He was always an entertainer and was well liked around these parts. As we went through the pre-fight ritual, I took the time to study him, running through what I remembered from our previous fight. He was a few years older than me and a few inches shorter, with hulking shoulders and the kind of stocky frame that is much more powerful than it looks. His fists weren't all that dangerous, but if he could get me on the ground it might spell trouble. He also had a penchant for flashy kicks, which was something I planned to use against him.

  Charlie finished his speech. Brock and I touched gloves, and then the bell sounded and the world faded to a dull blur around me. There was just him, me, and thirty feet of canvas. He came in fast, launching himself at me with a rapid series of punches which I easily blocked and evaded. That sort of vicious opening told me he was really feeling the adrenaline tonight. I countered with my own attack, a string of lightning fast jabs designed to probe more than damage. He raised his guard, taking them on the forearm, and then darted backward. He didn't look rattled at all, which was impressive. If anything, he was quicker than I remembered.

  With the initial formalities out of the way, we began circling one another. I continued to test him, searching for weaknesses, using my superior reach to keep him out of his comfort zone. We traded punches. None of his connected with any force, but I landed two good rights on his chest. That took some of the wind from his sails, but he kept coming, responding with a stinging kick to my upper thigh that sent a shock rolling through my body. There was a determined glint in his eyes, a kind of hunger I rarely saw in my opponents. Something primal stirred inside me. This was a real contest.

  He advanced again, trying to crowd me, fists tearing through the air as I ducked and wove and defended. He knew his best chance was to find an opening and take me to the mat, and I foolishly gave him one. I put too much into my counter attack. Maybe I was trying to end it then and there, I'm not sure. In any case, I extended too far, my strike shooting out over his head as he dove in low. He slammed into me, knocking me to the floor, tangling his body around mine. The impact drove the air from my lungs.

  The next minute was as intense as any in the fight. Ground work doesn't appear particularly exciting at first glance, more like a casual embrace than a vicious battle, but it's actually an intense contest of strength and technique. The goal is to get your opponent into a body lock, applying pressure either to one of their joints or their neck, forcing them to concede the fight. Even the tiniest mistake can give the opponent the opening that they need, and if you don't tap out fast enough, it can lead to serious injury.

  The two of us rolled across the mat, desperately jockeying for position. Brock had the upper hand, and was trying to work himself on top of me so he could trap my leg against his body. He was going for a kneebar — a lock that hyper extends the knee — which can be one of the most devastating moves if it goes too far. I fought with everything I had, desperately struggling to keep him to one side of my hips. He was incredibly powerful, and he displayed an uncanny amount of patience. He knew we were evenly matched down here, and if he forced his way between my legs, I wouldn't have the strength to stop him. Blood was raging in my veins, and all my muscles burned. Even in that moment, mere inches from defeat, I felt a powerful sense of euphoria. You're never more alive when you're staring out over the brink.

  His grip weakened ever so slightly, and I spotted my opportunity. With a great heave, I yanked myself free and shot to my feet, stumbling backward. He followed with a snarl. I could have tried to use that opening to my advantage and get him in a lock of my own, but the truth was, I was a little shaken. Besides, I'm a striker at heart, and I knew that when we were on our feet, I had the advantage. I wouldn't underestimate him again.

  The struggle on the ground had left us both panting, and we were content to slow things down until the bell rung to end the round. As I returned to my corner, my eyes once again returned to Grace. There was concern on her face now, but I once again found a smile. I had this.

  "What the hell was that?" Tony asked, handing me a bottle.

  I shrugged. "He got lucky."

  "No, you got cocky. You wanted to go for a fancy knockout, and you nearly paid the price."

  I sucked in some water, just enough to wet my mouth. Tony was right. "It won't happen again."

  "You're damn right it won't."

  I shook my head. "He must have been training like a motherfucker. His ground game is through the roof compared to last time."

  "So don't let him take you down again. Keep your distance."

  "That's the plan," I replied.

  The bell rang again, and Brock leapt up, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet as he moved to the center. The break had done him good. He looked fresh and full of energy. That first round performance must have buoyed his spirits, and rightly so. He was in this, which was more than a lot of people would have expected.

  I changed tactics, doing everything I could to keep space between the two of us. Whenever he tried to charge, I kept him at bay with long defensive punches that forced him backward. They weren't really capable of causing serious damage, but that was fine. I wasn't trying to hurt him yet. I just needed to keep him from getting close and tire him out. My fitness is second to none. I can go five rounds with the best of them and still have some left in the tank. But a lot of guys don't have that luxury, and when they get tired, they get sloppy.

  After a minute of dancing around the ring, I could see the frustration on his face. He'd thought he had a winning strategy, but now he couldn't execute it. I was too tall, too fast on my feet, and I didn't make the same mistake twice. His breath was coming short and sharp and his skin was slick with sweat. I was wearing him down and he knew it. So he went to plan B, which was exactly what I was waiting for.

  He began throwing a series of brutal head-high kicks. If you watch a lot of kung-fu movies, you're probably under the impression that fancy kicks win fights, and it's true, if they connect, they can end things on the spot. But they're also slow and they leave you vulnerable, which means you need to be pretty sure you're landing a winner if you want to use them without getting punished. Brock had no such certainty. I let the first few swing through open air, content to learn his rhythm. On the fourth one, I struck. Rather than darting backward like he expected, I ducked forward, taking the blow on my shoulder and kicking his other leg out from under him. He dropped to the canvas, and I was on top of him before he had time to blink. He tried to protect his face, but it was useless. My position was too strong. Four solid blows later, and the referee ended it.

  The crowd exploded.

  Charlie stepped back up into the ring and shot me a quick smile before taking my hand and raising it above my head. "The winner by knockout...Logan Anderson!"

  The medic was already on stage tending to Brock. I didn't think I'd done any serious damage. Sure, there was blood running down his face, but he was already conscious and sitting up.

  I took a moment to soak it in, reveling in the last seconds of that glorious hi
gh as it gradually bled away, and then Grace was there next to the ring.

  "That was freaking awesome!" she said, pulling me in for a kiss. She looked like I felt — skin flushed, eyes blazing with excitement. I loved seeing her so animated.

  "I'm glad you enjoyed it," I replied.

  "I did. A lot. Although for a minute there, I thought maybe he had you."

  I nodded. "I underestimated him a little, and he took advantage."

  Her smile grew sultry and she leaned in close. "That's a coincidence. I was hoping to give you the opportunity to take advantage later. You know, assuming you have a little left in the tank for me."

  With enough testosterone circling my system to kill an elephant, I had to resist the urge to throw her over my shoulder and drag her into the back office at that very moment.

  "I always have something left for you," I replied.

  "Excellent." She glanced back at the bar where a crowd was now forming. "Well, I should probably get back to it, but I'll see you in an hour or so."

  "Definitely."

  I waved to the crowd as I made my way back to the locker room. I wasn't exactly the most fan friendly fighter on the Final Blow roster, but they all knew that by now and they didn't seem to begrudge me a little eccentricity. If they really wanted autographs, they knew where I worked.

  Once inside, I began my cool down procedure. Much like before a fight, I enjoyed being alone afterward too, but a few minutes into my routine, there was a knock at the door.

  I turned, expecting Charlie or maybe a bold fan, but the man in the doorway was clearly neither of those. He was impeccably dressed — suit, tie, boardroom-winning smile. He looked to be about fifty, still fit, and tall enough that he could almost look me eye to eye without craning his neck. Also, he was vaguely familiar, although maybe that was just because I'd noticed him in the crowd.

  "That was an impressive performance," he said.

  "Thanks." Something about him made me wary. He didn't belong in a place like Charlie's. We were a casual bar that attracted a casual crowd. The Madison Avenue getup made him stand out as much as if he were wearing an Elmo outfit.

  "I was hoping to have a few minutes of your time."

  I shrugged. "You've got one. What can I do for you?" No good was going to come of this conversation, I could feel it. Men in suits wearing predatory smiles don't visit places they don't belong unless they want something, and I couldn't see those goals aligning with mine in any way, shape or form. But part of me was morbidly curious.

  If my rudeness insulted him, he showed no sign. "My name is Alex Task." He paused, apparently looking for some sign of recognition. He got it, but it wasn't what he expected.

  "You were at my last fight too. The one with Caesar." I remembered him now, an out of place suit in a sea of tee shirts and faded jeans. At the time I'd registered then ignored him — the seven foot Italian meathead in front of me had been a slightly more pressing concern — but my brain had a habit of storing anything out of place, just in case. He'd been eerily calm, watching proceedings with a clinical eye while the room screamed around him.

  He nodded slowly, like his respect for me had just gone up a notch. Bully for me. "Where possible, I always make an effort to watch my fighters. I'm the owner of TPW."

  "Ah." That stood for The Perfect Warrior, AKA, the league Caesar came from. Things had just gotten more interesting. They were a fairly big deal in the fight world. UFC still had the industry by the balls, but there were a couple of leagues in the second tier, and TPW was at the top of that list. They'd been struggling for years to break through, but it's hard when your competition has the money and prestige to poach your best guys out from under you.

  I don't think anyone had really expected me to beat Caesar. I'm good, but that dude is a machine. It was the closest fight I'd ever had. I honestly wasn't sure what would have happened if I hadn't gone all rabid dog over Grace and Jonah. But there's no point wasting time on hypotheticals.

  I studied the man in front of me. His face betrayed nothing besides a hint of amusement, but I got the sense he was a man accustomed to disguising his emotions. Was he pissed that I'd KO'd his star? Maybe he wanted a rematch?

  I decided to test the waters. "How'd your boy shape up after the other week?"

  Task chuckled. "He's fine. A little bruised, but I think his pride was hurt worse than anything."

  I nodded. He hadn't taken the bait, so now I was done with small talk. The ball was in his court.

  Five seconds of silence later, he cleared his throat. "Well, the reason I'm here is to talk about your future."

  I felt a sick little sneer creep onto my face. My "future." What a fucking joke. People like him love to use those big sweeping terms. They sound a hell of a lot better than the dirty reality of their pitch. The army had talked a lot about people's "futures." Free training, travel, lifelong comradeship. It was all true, to a point, they just neglected to mention the fine print. That's what you've got to watch out for.

  "Oh yeah?" I replied. "What about my future?"

  "In a nutshell, we want to offer you a contract. You were very impressive against Caesar, and the way you recovered tonight just confirms it. We think you'd be a valuable asset to our organization."

  A "valuable asset." This guy had the corporate lingo down, alright. With just a couple of words, he'd effectively reduced me to my monetary value. Numbers on a page.

  "And what would this contract entail?" I asked.

  His smile widened a little, apparently taking my curiosity for enthusiasm. "The details need to be finalized, but our goal is to make you one of our A-listers. Fights in every state we have a presence in, major publicity, not to mention what I expect will be a sizable increase in compensation. We think you've got what it takes to be the next big thing, and we're willing to invest heavily in making that happen."

  Scenarios ran through my head. Media tours, fan signings, my body crushed against an airplane window with businessmen crammed in like sardines around me. More money would be nice, sure, and I'd welcome some stronger competition, but the rest of that stuff was unthinkable. And then there was Charlie to think about.

  "That all sounds very generous, but what happens with Final Blow?"

  He made an apologetic face. "Exclusivity is standard TPW practice. When we invest in someone, we want to know they're not going to get hurt fighting anywhere with...lower standards, let's just say."

  "Lower standards?" I spoke softly, but there was no disguising that he'd made a mistake.

  "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that," he said quickly. "Charlie has done very well for himself out here, all things considered. We just like to have complete control over our fighters, that's all."

  He spoke with the sort of neutral business voice designed to keep everything friendly and polite, but I could hear the undercurrent of condescension. I took a moment to compose myself. I was on thin ice with the police as it was. I didn't need the shit that would come from knocking this guy out.

  Even if he wasn't pissing me off, there was no question of taking the offer. I couldn't walk away from Charlie. I wasn't conceited enough to think Final Blow would collapse without me, but it would certainly be set back. Charlie had given me everything. He'd saved me. I couldn't abandon him. Besides, I finally had my life under control. I had a rhythm and structure that worked for me. Rocking the boat was the last thing I wanted to do.

  "I appreciate the offer, but no thanks." I returned to my cool down, but the dismissal was apparently lost on him.

  "Think about it for a few days. This is a big opportunity. You don't want to rush your decision."

  "I don't need to think. I'm happy where I am."

  Task's smile slipped. This wasn't a man who was used to being turned down. He'd expected this to be a cake walk. And why wouldn't he? Most unknown fighters would kill for a chance in the big leagues. But I wasn't most fighters. "You're happy wasting your nights working in this dive, instead of reaching your full potential? You're happy getting
paid peanuts when you could be clearing six, maybe seven, figures a year? That's right. I've done my research. I know all about you Logan. This is a chance to turn your hobby into a career. Don't throw that away."

  Something inside me snapped. "I've got a career," I replied, stepping in close and letting the full weight of my anger play across my face. "It involves throwing unwanted customers from this 'dive' out on their asses. And guess what? You just made the list."

  To his credit, he maintained eye contact for several seconds before looking away. "I'm sorry that you feel that way." For a man who was a split second away from having his head introduced to the floor, he didn't sound particularly afraid.

  He began to walk away, but then called back over his shoulder. "Until next time."

  I didn't like the way he said that.

  *****

  The next couple of weeks felt almost like a dream. Ostensibly, very little changed. I still spent my days training and my evenings working, but now I had Grace to look forward to at end of it all, and that made a world of difference. That night watching films at my place seemed to have unlocked something between us. Without any words being exchanged, we found ourselves spending every night together. The speed of it frightened me, but it also felt like the most natural thing in the world. When we were together, I felt more human than I had since the day I shipped out. I'd been detached for so long, unable to relate to the world or the people around me, and then along came this tiny pixie-haired goddess who just didn't give a shit about any of my issues. It was a goddamn miracle.

  All that positive energy was doing wonders for other parts of my life too. My anxiety had never been better, and I was training with the sort of passion I could usually only muster before a big fight. I actually felt hopeful, for the first time in as long as I could remember. The future wasn't just a blur of fists, sweat and loneliness anymore. There was light now, too.