Chapter Twenty-One #2
Del was a huge black guy with a thick neck and balled shoulders.
I liked that, heavy bodies moved slowly, and we could use that to our advantage.
Keith was tall with long rangy limbs and a scar that ran from his top lip to his nose, distorting his mouth.
The word ‘ DAMAGED ’ was tattooed in thick letters over his chest.
We’d read their profiles, their list of wins and defeats. Impressive stuff.
But not that impressive—today would be another defeat on their tally card.
“You good, bro?” Cillian asked through his black mouth guard as he fiddled with the waistband on his black fighting shorts. A line of determination slashed over his brow, and his eyes were narrowed.
“Yep.” I jumped on the spot several times, loosening my Achilles. “Let’s get this done and dusted.”
“She okay?” Cillian nodded at Rebecca.
“Not sure.” I frowned. “Let’s not draw out the pain, knock ’em down and out quick.”
“Sounds like a plan.” He slammed one open-fingered gloved hand into the other.
Cillian was up first, but we hadn’t let that bit of information leak, keep them guessing, that was our strategy.
So we both stayed backed into a corner of the octagonal cage.
Phil was at our side along with a few members of the club.
Everyone was riled up for the fight of the summer.
Their deep chatter was both excited and restless and really got my nerves fizzing with anticipation and my muscles flexing.
Music blasted out, Kings of Leon , ‘Sex on Fire’, the throaty lyrics and heavy beat seeming to add speed to the blood in my veins.
“Good luck.”
I turned. Rebecca had approached the cage, her eyes wide and her mouth in a worried line.
I spit out my mouth guard. “Hey, babe, don’t be so worried.”
“I…please don’t get hurt.”
“We won’t, promise.”
She gave me a frown that told me I couldn’t make that promise.
“Okay, okay, not badly, will that do?” I smiled, trying to make light of it. Perhaps her coming along hadn’t been such a good idea.
“Not at all,” she said. “Don’t get hurt at all .”
“You know what we can do. You know we can handle ourselves,” I said. I stooped over and spoke in a lower volume. “So, jeez, have some faith, huh?”
She bit on her bottom lip. “I’ll be waiting, right over there.”
“I know, doll, and we’ll be with you soon.”
She melted into the crowd, and I jumped up and down and replaced my mouth guard.
Cillian gave me a frown.
I shrugged.
Vickery, the independent judicator stepped into the center of the cage his plain black shirt and trousers, signaling his role. He held up his hand, and the arena went quiet.
He was known for being a bit of a showman, so I hoped his spiel would be quick.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he started, “you have come to witness one of the greatest spectacles in our beautiful city today. The multiple-title-holding brothers, Finn and Cillian Sullivan, and Del the Destroyer paired with Keith Kickass are here to battle it out.” He paused as a cheer went around.
“These guys are not used to defeat, they live and breathe the fight, so, spectators, do not wince if there be blood and hard hits, do not gasp if teeth fly and noses break, you have come to witness the bare bones of the sport we all love.”
He beckoned us all to the middle, and we smacked fists, reminding us we were sportsmen not kill-to-the-death enemies.
“Now let’s get started,” Vickery yelled, “five, five minute rounds, that will end in a knockout, technical knockout, submission, or disqualification. Elbows to the head are allowed, no kicking or kneeing the head. What will the end result be? Who will go home victorious? Only time will tell, and that time is now!” He checked his watch, put his whistle in his mouth, and blew.
Both Cillian and I skipped into the cage, fists up, not that we were both fighting, we just wanted to keep the mystery of which one of us was going first.
The second of confusion worked, and Del skipped side to side, flicking his attention between us, not sure who to focus on.
In a well-rehearsed movement, I went backward and Cillian went forward, taking a slice at Del’s chin and backing it up with a blow to the temple.
The crowd went wild. Del staggered, but only for a second because he came back kicking low ankle picks, and Cillian had to scoot sideways, backward, sideways again before he could counter with his own right-footed kick that landed on Del’s thigh.
It was a solid kick right above his knee and caught Del in a moment of imbalance. He fell to his ass, scooting to the netting with his momentum and crushing up against it.
Cillian pounced, circling his body around Del’s and capturing him in a hooks-in leg lock. He placed his right arm around Del’s neck in an anaconda choke and clasped his dark hair.
Spit flew from Del’s mouth with each breath, and his cheeks puffed up, becoming redder by the second. He bucked and tried to turn but to no avail. Cillian had him well and truly trapped.
Vickery scuttled around, whistle at the ready, shoulders hunched.
My heart raced, and my guts clenched. This was quick work even for us.
And then Vickery gave the point with a sharp, high-pitched blast and a wave of his arms.
The crowd were uproarious. Cillian released Del and shoved backward on his butt before springing upright. He spit out his mouth guard and grinned at me.
It was an excellent start, but we still had a long way to go.
Once upright, Del shook his arms and shrugged, hopped on the spot, and glared at Cillian. He was hungry for victory now, determined to get revenge for that last slick move that saw him concede a point.
The next round started with gusto, legs and arms flying, fast twists and turns. Cillian hit the side of the cage, stumbled and fell but was up in a flash and avoiding Del’s heavy kicks and cross-punches designed to take out Cillian’s dominant arm.
“Just fucking put him down,” I yelled through my mouth guard.
And then Cillian spun past me, held out his hand, and requested a tag.
I slapped his hand and rushed forward.
Del glanced between us, perhaps though wondering if we really had switched, we looked so similar. But I was fresh and greedy for the fight and approached with lightning speed.
He blocked my first three punches, then I got him in the kidney. He spun and threw out his right leg, catching my left knee. I hit the deck to avoid it locking out, but the moment my body made contact, I rolled and jumped up. He was right there, his determined face inches from mine.
I flew out my fists, making several contacts; he did the same, his bulk filling my view and forcing me backward.
The yells of the crowd faded, the music dulled, the lights blurred—all I focused on was Del and taking him down.
Counterpunches became my best friend, and each time he opened up a vulnerability by firing a hit at me, I got him one back. I nearly got a neat kick to his jaw, but he blocked me, so I lowered my head, bull-style, and rammed him into the cage side.
He huffed out a breath and clasped me as we fell to the floor. His skin was slick with sweat, and beneath his flesh the solidity of his muscles tried to clasp me in various holds and locks.
We were in a stalemate, locked together, no give available, then he managed to unbalance me and force me upward. He kept on going, lifting us both. Instantly, I recognized the move, he was going for a body slam, something I really didn’t want to give him.
I dropped to my knees, pummeling his abdomen with vicious blows. He huffed and grunted and clasped me to him to reduce my momentum.
Frustration gripped me, and I gave up the position by retreating, fists up. I was panting. Neat adrenaline coursed through my arteries.
He darted at me, then leaped up, knee at the ready, and attempted a knee-strike.
I slipped to the side and whacked him in the head twice for his trouble.
He paused, dazed. His partner yelled at him, arm outstretched to tag. It was a good moment for me, and I performed a level change, dropping and running at him in a take down.
We both flew to the floor, but I’d known it was coming and quickly hooked on to him. He tried to sweep, change the dominance, but I wasn’t giving up my top position.
His partner, Kev, was going wild just feet from us, desperate for a tag so they wouldn’t relinquish another point. But it was too late, Del had no choice but to tap out when I subjected him to a ground and pound and causing blood to spurt from his left eyebrow and lip.
The whistle blew, and I jumped up, wiping my brow with the back of my arm. I swept my gaze over the crowd, my attention landing instantly on Rebecca. She half smiled at me, her hands clasped beneath her chin.
My heart swelled with love for her, but I beat it down. The cage was no place for romantic emotions, the here and now was about annihilation and violent victory.
Kev tapped in, and I retreated, giving Cillian the space. Phil passed me water, and I drank deep.
The next five minutes were a real treat for the crowd. Both fighters were aggressive, hungry for the points and engaging all the moves. They grappled on the sides of the cage, each got a take down and Kev got a warning for a foul move—a head butt that split the skin on Cillian’s cheek.
I was buzzing with the speed of it, desperate to get in and fight again. I was flying high. Life was good in and out of the cage. What more did an Irishman need?