Chapter Twenty-Six
Sierra
I 'd never been to a professional boxing match before.
The closest I'd come was watching Connor's fight against Diaz on TV a week ago, curled up on my couch with Toffee, alternating between covering my eyes and screaming at the screen.
But nothing could have prepared me for the electric atmosphere of being here in person.
The hotel’s grand ballroom had been transformed into an arena, with the boxing ring positioned in the center under blazing lights.
The transformation was remarkable, from an elegant function space to a gladiatorial venue in a matter of hours.
The crowd's energy was a living, breathing entity that pulsed with adrenaline.
Mara had escorted me from our suite to the private VIP box Connor had arranged.
True to his protective nature, he'd made sure I was the only occupant of the box, with Mara standing guard at the entrance.
The woman was intimidating in her dark suit, her eyes constantly scanning the crowd below.
Her hand occasionally drifted to what I suspected was a concealed weapon beneath her jacket .
“Can I get you anything, Ms. Willows?” she asked, her voice professional but not unkind.
“No, thank you,” I replied, settling into one of the plush seats that offered a perfect view from above of the ring. “I'm fine for now.”
I was anything but fine. My stomach was a knot of nerves, my hands trembling slightly as I clutched the program.
The preliminary fights had already taken place, building the crowd's excitement to a fever pitch.
Now, there was only one bout left, the main event.
Connor “Killer” Graves versus Dmitri Volkov.
The announcer's voice boomed through the speakers, introducing various celebrities and VIPs in attendance.
I barely registered the names, focusing entirely on where Connor would soon emerge.
The crowd's roar grew louder with each passing minute, the anticipation building to an almost unbearable level.
Finally, the lights dimmed, and the music started—an entrance song, a heavy, pulsing beat that seemed to vibrate through my very bones. The crowd erupted in a wall of sound so intense I could feel it pressing against my skin.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” the announcer's voice thundered. “Introducing first, the challenger, with a professional record of twenty-two wins and two losses, standing at six feet seven inches tall, weighing in at two hundred and fifty-one pounds, Dmitri 'Sledgehammer' Volkov!”
The fighter emerged from the tunnel opposite Connor's, his massive frame draped in a red and gold robe, his expression stoic as he approached the ring. The crowd's reaction was mixed. There were some cheers, some boos, but it was nothing compared to what I knew was coming.
“And now,” the announcer continued, his voice rising with excitement, “Introducing the defending WBC Heavyweight Champion of the World!
With an undefeated professional record of twenty-seven wins, no losses, and twenty-four by way of knockout!
Standing at six feet five inches tall, weighing in at two hundred and forty-eight pounds, Connor 'Killer' Graves! ”
The arena exploded. There was no other word for it. The sound was deafening, a roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the building.
Connor emerged from the tunnel, flanked by Coach Miller, Jax, and Adrian.
He wore a black robe with a silver trim, and the hood pulled up to shadow his face, but I would have recognized his powerful stride anywhere.
He moved with the confidence of a predator, unhurried yet purposeful, his focus absolute.
As he approached the ring, he looked up directly at my VIP box, and even from this distance, I could feel the intensity of his gaze. He raised a gloved fist in my direction, a gesture that was both a promise and a claim.
I jumped to my feet, waving frantically and smiling, though I wasn’t sure how well he could see me from a distance. Still, he seemed to sense my excitement, a slight smile crossing his face before he refocused on the ring ahead.
He climbed into the ring with fluid grace, shrugging off his robe to reveal his rippling muscled torso and biceps coiled in tattoos.
The crowd's cheers reached a new crescendo at the sight of him, their champion, ready for battle.
Connor circled the ring once, acknowledging the crowd with a raised fist, before returning to his corner where Coach Miller waited with last-minute instructions.
Then, Connor and Volkov stood toe to toe, the opponent standing over Connor by several inches.
But what Volkov had in height, Connor made up for in sheer presence.
Even from my elevated position, I could see the intimidation tactics.
Connor's unflinching stare, the slight forward lean into Volkov's space, the absolute certainty in his posture that said he was already the victor; they just needed to go through the formality of the fight.
They touched gloves, a brief moment of sportsmanship, and returned to their corners. The bell rang, and just like that, they were in motion.
The first round was a blur to me. I understood the basics of boxing from watching Connor's previous fight on TV, but seeing it in person was entirely different. The speed, the power, the strategy—it was overwhelming.
I was standing and clutching the railing of the VIP box, alternating between smiling wildly when Connor landed a punch and gasping when Volkov managed to connect.
I wanted to squeal, to scream, but my nerves stood on edge, fearing the looks it might attract. I bounced on my toes instead, brimming with anticipation.
The second round began with more of the same, but about halfway through, Volkov landed a solid right uppercut that snapped Connor's head to the side. I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth in horror, but Connor seemed unfazed, shaking it off and pressing forward with even more determination.
The third round was where everything changed.
Connor came out like a man possessed, immediately closing the distance and trapping Volkov against the ropes.
What followed was a brutal display of power—a flurry of hits that Volkov could only partially block.
When they separated, Volkov's face was already showing damage, blood trickling from a cut above his eye.
“Yes, yes, yes!” I chanted to myself, jumping up and down with each successful hit.
I barely recognized myself. This jumping, excited girl was a far cry from the girl I'd been just recently.
But something about Connor, about seeing him in his element, had unleashed a side of me I hadn't known existed.
Midway through the round, Connor feinted with a jab, making Volkov raise his guard, and then delivered a thunderous punch to the body that made Volkov double over. Connor followed with an upwards punch that rocked Volkov's head back, and then another hit that sent him staggering across the ring.
The crowd was on its feet now, sensing the end was near. I was practically hanging over the railing of the VIP box, Connor's name at the tip of my lips. C
Connor pursued Volkov relentlessly, cutting off any escape route and backing him into a corner.
What followed was a barrage of punches so fast and powerful that Volkov's defense crumbled completely.
One in particular connected with devastating force, and Volkov's knees buckled.
He would have fallen if the ropes hadn't caught him.
The referee stepped in, giving Volkov a standing eight count. His eyes were glazed, his movements unsteady as he tried to convince the referee he could continue. After a quick assessment, the referee waved the fight on.
Connor didn't waste the opportunity. The moment the fight resumed, he closed in for the finish. A hit to get through Volkov's weakened guard, and then the knockout blow—delivered with such technique and raw power that Volkov was unconscious before he hit the canvas.
“Yes!” I whispered-screamed, jumping up and down in victory. My hands were squeezing the railing in unimaginable excitement as I held off from screaming my head off.
The referee didn't even bother with a count, waving his arms to signal the end of the fight as medical staff rushed into the ring. The crowd erupted into a frenzy, and I found myself vibrating along with them, a release of all the tension and excitement that had built up watching Connor in combat.
Connor stood in the center of the ring, arms raised in victory, his chest heaving with exertion, but his face showing no signs of significant damage.
As the referee officially declared him the winner, Connor's eyes found mine again through the crowd, and he pointed directly at me with his glove before smiling.
The gesture made my heart skip a beat, and I watched in silent shock, a smile on my face. Why was I okay with him giving me such public attention? At that moment, it was just Connor and me, connected across the distance by something I was only beginning to understand.
Mara appeared at my side, her usual stoic expression softened slightly by what might have been amusement. “Mr. Graves has requested that I bring you to him immediately,” she said. “Follow me. ”
I practically bounced after her as she led me through a series of corridors and security checkpoints, flashing a VIP pass whenever necessary.
The backstage area was a hive of activity; medical staff, officials, press waiting for interviews, but Mara navigated through it all with the efficiency of someone who' done this many times before.
We reached a door marked “Killer” just as it swung open, and Connor emerged, freshly showered and in sweatpants a towel around his neck. His knuckles were red and slightly swollen, but otherwise, he looked remarkably unscathed for someone who had just been in a professional boxing match.