Chapter 24 #2
Danny launches himself with a flying knee while DeLuca is distracted by the crowd’s applause, and his hit lands square in DeLuca’s face with a sickening crack.
Blood trickles from the bridge of DeLuca’s nose as Danny lands gracefully, balancing on one foot, then hops to his other foot, kicking DeLuca upside his chin.
The bell rings and the fighters return to their respective corners. A young medic tends to the cut on DeLuca’s nose while Danny confers with Gracie on his plan.
“Good first round?” Dad asks, his eyebrows raised optimistically.
“I don’t know,” Casey says. “It looked pretty even.”
“They’ll score it ten to nine,” I say. “Danny won that round, which will only piss DeLuca off more. I should be down there,” I say, half standing and then sitting again, wringing my hands.
“Relax, Lauren,” Casey says. “You’ve earned a night off. Besides, we can see way better from here.”
The second round begins with both fighters ready. Danny extends his hands to touch gloves as a sign of good sportsmanship, but DeLuca turns both his hands around, sticking his middle fingers up. His chest rises and falls rapidly, but Danny’s breathing remains steady.
DeLuca sneers now, circling in jagged movements, but Danny conserves his energy. His moves are quietly graceful, utilizing every muscle to carry him through time and space. He’s in complete control.
DeLuca attacks, exploding on Danny with a flurry of fists and elbows.
Danny mostly dodges them, only to be hit with a sickening kick that cracks against his right shin.
His knee buckles, and he limps to one side, putting all weight on his good leg, but his face doesn’t show the pain. Only steely determination.
Come on, Danny.
“Did you hear that kick to his shin? God, that must have hurt,” Dad says, biting his fist.
“He’ll be OK, Gerry,” Casey says. “Don’t forget who coached him on being calm in the face of discomfort.” He looks at me with pure admiration. “If he couldn’t handle a little pain before, he can now.”
DeLuca comes at Danny again, but this time, Danny dodges his attack and lands several punches before the bell rings, signaling the end of the second round.
“He won that one, too,” I say, calculating the blows in my head. “Only one round to go.”
Casey interlaces his fingers with mine, and I squeeze his hand back, relieved to have a moment to catch my breath.
Gracie holds ice to Danny’s leg and speaks to him sagely. He nods along for a bit, and then closes his eyes, shutting the rest of us out. If only closing mine would let me meet him wherever he is.
When the final round starts, the fighters square up on a floor freshly stained with DeLuca’s blood.
“We’re in a great spot, points-wise,” I explain to my dad and friends. “As long as Danny doesn’t get submitted or knocked out, we’ll win.”
The minute the round starts, DeLuca goes on the offensive again, his explosive style making the crowd go wild as he peppers the air with lightning-fast jabs.
Danny uses his own momentum against him and muscles him to the ground.
DeLuca flips them both so he’s on top, but he can’t pass Danny’s guard.
“This looks bad,” Dad says.
“Danny is a jujitsu fighter. That means he’s more comfortable on the ground than in stand-up boxing. Watch—he’s letting DeLuca wear himself out.” I rub my hands on my legs and work on slowing down my pulse through breathwork.
“Hey,” Casey says, nudging me with his shoulders. “Is it your heart? Just breathe. He’s going to be OK.” He watches the fight for a moment, and then turns back to me. “You really care about him, don’t you?” he asks, his tone thoughtful.
I open my mouth to respond, but don’t get the chance.
“He’s breaking his arm!” Dad says in alarm.
In the ring, DeLuca has gathered Danny into a textbook armbar, twisting his left arm in a mass of flesh and muscle beyond what’s naturally possible.
Shit.
“It’s OK,” I say. “Danny knows how to get out of these. I’ve seen him do it a million times. Look, see how his wrists are still free? Armbars only become a problem when both joints are controlled.”
“But what if he can’t get out of it?” Dad asks. “What happens then?”
My stomach tightens. “First comes the pain. Then his ligaments tear … and the elbow joint dislocates.” I wince, looking over at my dad. “Finally, his forearm fractures.”
“But he can tap out before any of that happens, right?” Dad says hopefully.
I don’t answer. Instead, I pyramid my hands at my face and wait for Danny to make his move. To regain control using one of the grips I’ve seen him practice with Gracie in the gym. The palm grip, probably—that would work best to protect his open wrists. Gracie yells the same from his corner.
But DeLuca must sense it’s coming. With a burst of energy, he takes control of both joints.
“Now he’s in trouble?” Dad asks, partly covering his eyes.
My eyes flick to the fight clock. Twenty seconds left. Too much time. DeLuca can snap Danny’s arm ten different ways by then.
“Lauren,” Dad says, his voice filled with worry as he touches my arm. I grab onto his for support. “Why isn’t he tapping out? You said no one gets seriously hurt because they can tap out.”
I check the clock. Ten seconds.
Danny, please just tap. I hold my breath, begging with each passing second to see the calming fluttering of his fingers on the mat, rescuing him from this pain.
Danny’s face contorts in red agony. His head lolls to the side, his eyes searching for someone in the front row. Searching for me. I stand, and our eyes lock.
Casey rises from his seat next to me, and when Danny’s eyes slide over to him, they awaken, flickering with torment.
DeLuca sinks the armbar deeper. The referee hovers close, ready to stop the fight at any sign of a serious injury. Even a scream could be seen as verbal submission.
Danny closes his eyes, his expression now stoic in the face of what must be excruciating pain. It doesn’t change when Deluca twists him farther and farther. He shows no outward reaction when his arm relents, fracturing barely two seconds before the buzzer.
DeLuca throws his hands up in victory, running to his corner to celebrate.
“No,” Dad says, his voice hushed with raw disbelief. “He lost.”
Casey puts a comforting arm around my shoulder, pulling me to him. My feet stay anchored to the spot.
Gracie is next to Danny on the mat. Danny clutches his arm to his chest, his breathing labored.
“He won,” I say quietly, almost to myself.
“How?” Casey says. “His arm is broken.”
“Danny was ahead on points and the ref never stopped it,” I explain. “He knew if he could just sit in the pain until the buzzer, he’d win. Even if it broke his arm.”
The fighters meet again in the center of the ring for the judges’ announcement. Danny cradles his bad arm with the other, standing straight and calm; DeLuca hasn’t stopped moving and yelling, furious with what his cornermen have already told him is about to happen.
The referee raises Danny’s good arm in victory.
The crowd erupts around us. Drinks are spilled and cheers fill the air. Brent McGovern arrives in the ring and puts a hand on Danny’s shoulder. Danny bristles, looking down at him in disgust.
“Danny, this fight made UFC history, but some may say your recklessness will change the sport—and not for the better.”
Danny’s face shutters to his flat mask of anger, not able to suffer this man at all. But still, he hasn’t stormed off yet. I steeple my fingers at my lips.
“Breathe, Danny,” I whisper to myself. “Focus on one good thing you like about him.”
“Ticket sales are expected to be low for your title fight, with most fans skeptical it will even happen at all,” Brent goes on. “What can you say to appease their fears?”
Danny’s expression smolders. It’s a miracle Brent hasn’t been singed by his look. He takes one deep breath and focuses his eyes on the man’s left hand.
Finally, he speaks.
“I like your wedding band, Brent,” he says, his voice strained, as if this took great effort. Maybe even more effort than the fight he just won.
I exhale in relief. He’s doing it.