4. Roman
4
ROMAN
The next morning, I’m stretching out on the mats when I come to the conclusion:
Lily was wrong. I absolutely remember her.
I grab a nearby tennis ball. With a groan, I begin rolling it under my tight back.
I slept like shit last night. I couldn’t get Lily out of my mind, so I ended up tossing and turning until almost 5 a.m. I kept replaying my hour with her, the way she left, that kiss ?—
Fuck , that kiss.
But ultimately, it’s not the mind-melting kiss that has me distracted this morning. It’s the part that came after it.
Maybe I should’ve gone after her. I wanted to. But in a way…she was right. Not about me not remembering her—the crick in my neck is proof enough of that. But she was right about cutting things off last night.
My life is insane. Every hour of my day is scheduled, every ounce of my focus is taken; there’s no room for anything, or any one else in it. Beyond a single fun night, I wouldn’t be able to give Lily the time or energy that she deserves.
So then why am I still thinking about her this morning, frustrated by the truth that I’ll never see her again?
“Roman.”
At the sound of my manager’s voice, I turn toward the gym office where he’s standing in the doorway. I know what he’s going to say before he even says it, the biggest grin I’ve ever seen on his face giving it away.
“You ready to win that title?”
My heart races at the news. I knew it was coming, but hearing it out loud…
“Born ready,” I say firmly.
Instantly, every thought about Lily evaporates. I’ve been working toward this goal for over a decade, which means the title fight is the only thing I can afford to think about.
And just like that, I put everything that isn’t that golden belt out of my mind.
* * *
Four Months Later
“ Ladies and gentlemen, this is your main event of the evening! Introducing first, fighting out of the red corner, your challenger, Roman Ward! ”
I bounce around on the balls of my feet, keeping my body warm and my excitement to a minimum. I’ve never felt this confident going into a fight. Not just because of this specific opponent, but also because of the rightness of this moment. I was born to do this, born to own the title of best in the world. I put a decade of work into getting to this point, weathered all the blood, bruises, and trying days. This is the easiest part.
“Alright, Roman, you know what to do,” my striking coach says through the cage. I ignore the announcer’s introduction of the champ and focus on my coach’s voice instead. “Stay at your range and light him up with those punches. He’s not going to know what to do at that distance.”
I nod firmly in silent understanding. I’ve been visualizing how this fight is going to go for twelve weeks now. I know the game plan inside and out.
“ Fighters, are you ready? ”
I nod at the ref, though I never look away from my opponent. He signals with a nod, too.
But he breaks our eye contact as he does it. And then the bell rings. I’m grinning even before I’ve taken a single step forward.
Before he’s even thrown out a single punch, I’m on him. Holding the center of the octagon, I impose my will within the first ten seconds of the fight, moving him where I want him to go and throwing out a three-count combo that he’s forced to deflect immediately. I barely give him any room to breathe.
I snap out another combo, and this time, the left hook lands clean on his chin. The crowd roars at the contact.
“That’s it, Roman, let those hands go!” my corner yells.
My opponent tries to return a punch of his own, but I slide away, staying at the perfect distance where I can touch him but he can’t touch me. He quickly jumps back to regroup, frustration flaring in his eyes.
I throw out a jab, then another. When he retreats from my third one, he backs right into the cage. Which just puts him at the end of my kick range.
Grinning, I whip a vicious kick to his ribs.
Another wave of cheers from the crowd. When it dies down, the sound of the ringside commentators reaches my ears.
“Roman is really starting to light up the champ here early in the first round, Joe. I mean, we knew his striking was going to test Baker tonight, but wow. This is more impressive than I think anyone was expecting.”
Their praise only fuels the excitement in my veins. Biting down on my mouthpiece, I dart forward with another vicious combo.
Double jab, cross to the body, left hook to the head . Snaps his head to the right.
“The champ is in trouble, Joe! Roman just landed a hard left hand, and Baker is clearly wobbly right now. Could this be the end already? We’re only a minute thirty into the first round!”
Another combo. Another shot landed.
“ This is the wildest championship fight we’ve seen all year! He’s making the champ look like an absolute amateur! ”
I never stop attacking, never give him any space to breathe. I’m not searching for a knockout this early in the fight, but I’m damn sure going to pick him apart with my striking.
“He’s about to get desperate, Roman. Watch for that takedown!”
My coach’s instruction comes a second too late. By the time I read my opponent’s body language, he’s already ducking under my punch and shooting for my waist.
I drop my hips back, fighting the takedown. But he has too much space to drive me back, too much time to get me off balance. Before I can get my back against the cage, he’s pulling my legs out from under me and taking me to the mat.
“ And the champ gets the takedown, just in time! What a turn of events, Joe. ”
I manage to get my legs around my opponent’s waist, controlling his posture and minimizing the amount of damage he can do. He still tries, though. Even with me pulling his head down, he tries to throw out some punches to my ribs, my head, anywhere he can reach.
I’m able to block most of them. When he starts to move more wildly, I decide to take the risk of unlocking my legs from around his waist.
But only so I can throw one leg over his shoulder and re-lock them around his head and arm.
“ Roman’s going for the triangle! And he’s got it locked! The champ is in trouble. This could be the end. ”
Victory heats my chest when I feel how tight I have the submission locked. There’s no space around his neck, and with my hand pulling his head down, I have no doubt I can put him to sleep in the next ten seconds.
“Hold it, Roman, hold it! He wants to tap!!”
My coach’s scream only fuels my effort. Gritting my teeth, I squeeze my legs as hard as I possibly can.
I think I feel the champ’s hand flutter against my leg, the sign that he’s itching to tap out and end the fight. But before I feel the tell-tale pat, he somehow gathers his legs under his body and starts to stand.
“ The champ is trying to stand up! This is insane. He might not even be able to get to his feet before he passes out. Clearly, this is his last remaining effort to fight what’s likely an imminent loss. ”
I can hear him wheezing, looking for air he doesn’t have. Impossibly, I squeeze the submission harder, even as I feel him stumble to his feet. The movement lifts my hips off the mat.
“ I think he’s going for the slam! He’s going to slam his way out of it! Is it going to lock the submission up tighter, or will it make Roman let go?! ”
A sound like I’ve never heard before comes out of my opponent’s mouth as he gathers every remaining ounce of energy he has left to lift my body into the air.
He gets me higher than I expect him to. But it isn’t until I’m above his head that I start to question if I should let go and protect myself against the slam. Normally, I would just hold on, but?—
It happens in slow motion. One second, I have a submission locked up that I’m convinced is going to win me the fight I’ve spent my whole career working for. The next, I’m dropping from a height I’ve never been dropped from, my confidence wavering and my concern spiking.
Then I’m hitting the mat, 230 pounds coming down on top of me with who knows how much force behind it. And I feel a searing pain in my lower back.
I don’t know what happens after that. There’s chaos, everyone’s shouting, and suddenly, half a dozen people are crowded around me. I’m not even sure when I let go of my opponent.
My head is throbbing . There’s a buzzing in my ears, and I can’t tell which way is up. I’m frozen, both physically and mentally.
It isn’t until my coach’s face appears in front of me that I realize I’m lying on my back on the mat. His mouth is moving; he’s saying something, but my brain can’t make sense of what it is.
And then I’m being jostled, the ring doctor coming into my view. I watch his mouth move as he calls out to someone. The expression on his face—of shock, and fear, and downright panic—is the first thing that really filters into my consciousness.
My gaze jerks back to my coach. “What—” I have to clear my throat to try again. “What’s happening?”
“Don’t talk, Roman. The doctor’s going to get you fixed up, don’t worry,” he says with false calm. I can tell he’s faking it because his expression is morphing into the same one that the doctor was wearing.
Then I realize the doctor is no longer touching me. Which is weird, because how is he supposed to fix me up without examining me?
But when my gaze shoots back to the doctor, my blood turns to ice.
Because he is touching me.
I watch with growing horror as he inspects my legs, flexing my foot and then pushing my leg to bend at the knees.
“Dom,” I say on a shaky breath.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him move closer so he can hear me better. “What is it, Roman? What’s wrong?”
Slowly, I turn my face toward him, shock and horror tensing everything inside me. I can feel myself starting to disassociate, can sense that this moment is going to change me forever.
My voice is devoid of emotion by the time the words make it to the tip of my tongue.
“I can’t feel my legs.”