Chapter 28 – Clay
“You’re looking good.” Dallas says. He sets down the warmup pads and moves to check over my gear once more.
“I feel good.”
“Probably because you finally made things official with your girlfriend?”
I shake my head as he raises his brow in response. “What? You can’t still be on your fake dating bullshit with her?”
“It’s never been fake to me, but she still thinks it is.”
He smacks me a little too firmly in the chest. "She still thinks that because you haven't told her any differently."
“I know. I’m telling her tonight that I want us to stop pretending. Shit, I haven’t been pretending but I want her to know how I feel. I need to just... get my thoughts all straightened out before I bare my soul, you know?”
“Why are you dragging this out? It’s July, you should have told her two months ago.”
I pound my fists together, warming them in the gloves, “She’s young. Leaving for school in Houston in just four more weeks. I don’t want to hold her back.”
“Ah, so you’re afraid she’ll tell you she doesn’t want to do long distance and fake dump your ass?”
“I’m not afraid of that.”
He laughs. “You keep telling yourself that, maybe you’ll believe it someday but I sure as hell don’t.”
I shake my head at him, swaying lightly to keep my hips loose.
It’s the final qualifying fight, the one that sets the stage for the tournament in three weeks at the end of July, and I’m amped.
A win tonight locks me in first place, meaning I’ll only have to fight in the semi and championship rounds.
Fewer fights, better recovery, and a higher chance of taking the whole thing.
“Will she be here tonight?”
I nod. “Yea.”
He smirks and I swing a punch at his face lightly that he effortlessly deflects. “She’s been here to watch almost every one of your fights.”
“So?” I bounce back and forth on my feet, keeping my body warm and limber, “She likes watching me fight and supports me.”
He scoffs, “No woman likes watching underground fighting unless they’re a little bit crazy. That, or it’s because they're watching their man.”
I shrug. “She’s my girl.”
“I bet she’d like to hear those words.”
I huff, “I get it. I’m telling her tonight.”
He shoots me another exaggerated eye roll before we hear my name being called by tonight’s MC.
I sprint out of the locker room, bursting into the dimly lit bar and up through the ropes.
It’s a packed house tonight—the final match to qualify for the tournament.
While I’m already locked in and qualified, my opponent’s fate hangs in the balance, with everything to gain or lose.
The stakes couldn’t be higher for him, but I’m not letting up. I’m coming for first place.
Blake “Ground N’ Pounder” Turner stands across from me in the underground cage, his lanky frame radiating tension.
He’s six-foot-two and barely a hundred seventy pounds, all lean muscle and sharp, unforgiving angles.
What he lacks in brute force, he makes up for with ruthless cunning—I’ve watched him fight before, always slinking out of holds and striking with a surprising ferocity for his build.
The announcer’s voice fades out, drowned by the pulsing crowd around us and all I can think about is how badly I want this.
The bell rings signaling round one. I step forward, circling cautiously, trying to size him up in real-time.
His footwork is fluid, deceptively smooth for someone with his long limbs.
He throws the first strike—a quick jab, testing my reaction.
I dodge, but just barely, feeling the air from his fist brush past my chin.
He’s fast, faster than I expected.
Before I can regroup, he’s already closing the distance, firing off a low kick aimed at my thigh. It connects with a sharp crack that sends a jolt through my leg. I grit my teeth but don’t show it.
I feint a punch to his left, then dive in for a takedown.
Turner anticipates it, sprawling back just in time to avoid getting pinned.
His long arms latch onto my neck, locking me into a guillotine choke.
The pressure is immediate, my windpipe tightening as he squeezes.
My vision tunnels slightly, but I stay calm, forcing myself to shift my weight and break free.
I’m reminded of what Dallas taught me, ‘The fight is ninety-percent mental. Stay emotionally locked in and you’ll win every time during a take down. ′
I pry his arm off with all my strength and shove him backward. We both stumble, resetting as the crowd roars with excitement.
Turner grins, wiping a trickle of sweat from his brow. He’s enjoying this. I know his game now—he’s trying to wear me down, keep me on edge, and strike when I least expect it. But I’m not here to dance around. I’m here to win. And I’m not that easily tired.
I take a deep breath, reset my stance, and prepare to give him a taste of why I’m up for the first-place position.
I move in again, determined not to let him dictate the pace any longer.
I fire a straight right aimed at his jaw, and just as it connects with a satisfying thud, his elbow crashes into my forehead.
The impact is brutal—skin splits, and the sharp crack of bone vibrates through my skull, echoing so loudly in my ears that it drowns out the roar of the crowd.
Blood immediately starts pouring down my face, trickling into my vision, but there’s no time to process the pain.
Not yet. My head is swimming, but my instincts kick in.
I can’t let him take advantage of the opening.
I press forward through the haze, blood blurring everything into a red smear.
Arms shoot out, wrapping around his neck like a vice.
I drive my weight into him, feeling his balance shift just enough for me to take control.
With a grunt of effort, I drag him down with me, both of us crashing to the mat in a scramble of limbs and adrenaline.
He thrashes, but I’ve got him. My legs coil around his torso, locking tight as I cinch in the choke, squeezing my forearm deeper under his chin. Blake claws at my arms, trying to pry me off, but the panic in his movements tells me he knows it’s too late. I’ve got him.
The blood keeps dripping from my forehead, seeping down my face, but I can feel him weakening beneath me. His body shudders, his resistance faltering. I squeeze tighter, my grip relentless, each second pushing him closer to the edge. Then, in a last desperate motion, he taps.
I release him immediately, rolling off to the side as the ref rushes in to check him. My chest heaves as I gulp down air, blood still streaming from the cut, but none of that matters right now. I push myself up to my knees, the ref grabbing my wrist and hoisting it into the air.
“Winner by submission, and our new first place contender in our end of July tournament, Clay “the Crusher,” Cameron!”
The crowd erupts in a deafening roar, but all I can focus on is Maggie.
She’s there, in the front row with a mixture of glowing pride, excitement and horrified concern on her face as she cheers for me loudly.
I stoop down, gesturing for her to come closer to the edge of the rink.
She pushes through the crowd until she’s right in front of me and the moment she’s near, I want to tell her everything.
I can feel the adrenaline of the fight mixed with my love for her pumping through me.
Blood drips into my right eye—I’m sure I’ll need stitches or staples for it—but I don’t care. Wrapping my hands around her neck, I pull her in and kiss her deeply, tasting her fear, pride, and excitement as the crowd erupts around us.
“You were incredible,” she breathes, pulling back and in that moment, it’s just us—no crowd, no noise.
Just two people making their own way in this world, doing what we want, on our own terms. Age gap be damned.
I want it all with Maggie—the woman who stands by me in my wildest, most reckless moments.
Her eyes become more concerned as they roam over my face. “We need to get you to the hospital; you’re bleeding pretty badly from this gash.”
I pull back, jump over the ropes and down to the floor, but not before I scoop Maggie up in my arms and roar like the champion I am. I have it all: the girl, first place in my fighting league, a job I love, a fulfilling hobby, and the woman that I love.
Now I just need to tell her.