6. Sylvie
SYLVIE
The crowd had gone quiet as I climbed the stairs back up to the balcony. I could make out Rick’s voice, telling them who they’d be watching. “From the land of tulips and dykes”—the crowd snickered—”undefeated in The Pit these last three weeks, The Dutchman!”
Alec and I had both been born right here in New York, but he had to make it sound good.
“And stepping up to take him on tonight, a challenger from Detroit—Morgan!”
I faltered on the stairs. That was weird. Normally, Rick had a whole spiel. Did that mean he didn’t know this Morgan guy? What if he was dangerous?
I raced up the rest of the stairs, slipped through the crowd and leaned over the balcony to look. To my relief, Morgan didn’t look like much at all. He was at least five years older than Alec, maybe more. And he didn’t have Alec’s muscle or his height. Maybe this would be alright after all.
The Pit didn’t go in for niceties. The bell was an air horn, blown every three minutes to give the fighters a minute to recover.
There was no grinning blonde in a bikini holding up round numbers and no medics on standby for injuries.
Most important of all, there was no referee.
The rules were simple: you fought until one of you couldn’t get up.
The horn sounded and Alec went in fast and confident, swinging a heavy right hook. I think he meant to take out Morgan fast, before anything went wrong.
Almost immediately, it did.
Alec wasn’t slow on his feet, but Morgan made him look like he was sleepwalking.
Whenever Alec swung, Morgan was somewhere else.
His punches weren’t heavy, but they were lightning-fast and precise.
Within a minute, Alec was sweating and off-balance, guarding his side where Morgan had hit his kidneys.
I could feel my chest tensing up with every hit my brother took. Who the hell is this guy? Who’s Rick put him up against?
By the second round, Alec was starting to tire.
He wasn’t used to a small, nimble fighter.
He couldn’t turn fast enough, couldn’t protect his sides when Morgan darted around him.
And then a vicious kick to the back of the leg made him crumple and stagger.
His hands went out for balance, leaving him exposed, and Morgan started punching him in the face. One, two, three, four—
Alec finally got his hands up, but he was reeling. He slumped back against the concrete wall, blood pouring from between his fingers.
My insides had clenched into a tight, hard knot. I could barely breathe.
In the next break between rounds, the difference between them was obvious: Alec had to hold himself up using the wall, wiping the blood from his eyes. Morgan was rock steady and untroubled—not taunting and whooping but not worried, either. Just a professional, doing a job.
Then he stripped off his tank top and I saw the tattoos. Military tattoos. Rick had put my brother in the ring with some ex-Army guy.
The next round started.
I bolted for the stairs.