This is it.
This is fucking it.
My first, legitimate, fight since I've started boxing.
Am I nervous? No question.
Am I amped? Damn straight.
Will I win and have everyone know my name by the end of the match? Fuck yes.
The crowd isn't too big but for a first match, it's more than I'm used to. Having the guys at Fighter's Den being the only audience I've fought in front of, the crowd of 200 definitely hits the high mark. I'd walked in earlier a little taken by the number of people but Coach shoved me forward, telling me that this would just help my name more when I won. And though it's a small difference to catch, I was glad he said when and not if.
Sanders and I are prepping on our respective sides of the ring, just under fifteen minutes to go before the match begins.
The high I feel right now is insane. Something about the cheering and hums from the crowd lights up the adrenaline in my veins. While fighting in front of people is its own dose of nerve-wracking, it causes a rush all over my insides and my heart is pounding against my ribcage from excitement.
I was more than surprised to see a few signs that said my name on them, being held up by various onlookers in the crowd. From what I knew, the company previewing our fight had shown a snippet of my match with Nate to introduce my position in the ring. A lot of people called my career a bluff, saying that my inexperience and newbie status wouldn't last me the first round. Seeing that some of the audience was on my side definitely encouraged my level of confidence.
I warily eye Sanders, noting that the fucker looks nothing short of relaxed. He's leaning his forearms on the ropes behind him and his legs are stretched forward while his ass is happily perched on the temporary chair. He's laughing at something his Coach says and when he catches my gaze, he smirks.
I'm gonna punch that smile hard enough to set it permanently diagonal.
A thwack at the back of my head bring my focus back to Coach Resnick, who's looming over me.
"I'm gonna tell you three things you need to know if you want to win this match, Cage." He squats down in front of me, forearms resting on his knees. I kneel forward and listen intently. Because even I won't admit to myself that I'm pretty fucking nervous, excitement and adrenaline aside.
"First, don't lose your fucking cool. That's exactly what you're doing right now. All the little shit did was send you a pansy smirk and it's getting you all riled up. Control your emotions in the ring because there's no room for them. In this ring, you breathe and live fighting and fighting only. No fucking emotions." He emphasizes and my head jerks in agreement.
"Second, don't let your status deter you. I've been training you for two months Cage and though I never say it, you're easily one of the most talented assholes I've coached. Boxing comes naturally to you and I can't fathom how you've never been pushed into it before. But don't think your inexperience is your downfall. It's your number one advantage. This kid knows nothing about you, aside from that clip. He doesn't know your strongest points or weaknesses, he has no clue how you fight. But you know all there is to know about him. We've analyzed every fight this prick has fought and you know his plays like the back of your hand. You know what's coming, he doesn't. Got that?" He grunts and I can feel my confidence being slowly restored.
"And last, don't fall for the trash talk. These boneheads do it all the fucking time, especially in the ring. They're gonna say things to completely throw you off your game but don't listen to that shit for one second. In fact, if he's talking trash you take it as a good thing. It means he's not confident in his own abilities and he has to find other ways to take you down. You stand your fucking ground and don't listen to a word your opponent says. This is a match between actions only. And if he pushes too far," He pauses, smirking wickedly. "Give that fucker something to cry for."
The five minute warning bell goes off and Coach stands, clapping both hands on my shoulders.
"Let's get you set."
I take off my silver fighting robe, handing it to Cameron who stands just outside my side of the ring. Coach hands me my gloves and I pull them on, curling my hands at the familiar covering and testing them out. He puts my mouth guard in for me next, my mouth stretching around it, and then my head covering. The noise of the crowd dims when my ears get covered. He taps the side of my helmet twice.
"Remember, use your defense like we practiced. When you tire him out, then go for a strike. And hit the left of his jaw; it's been broken before." With one final tap to my helmet, he bends and slips under the rope to join the guys.
I look out to inspect the crowd. Several have jumped out of their seats, cheering and holding up various signs. A few have started chanting Sanders' name and the prick stand with his arms up, grinning. The crowd goes crazy when he mimes a few punches. I'm tempted to spit my mouth guard at him. But then, I almost have to laugh at his suddenly angry expression when I hear my name being chanted. One of the girls at the front even thrusts her chest out at me, the shirt she's wearing spelling CAGE across her large breasts. I merely tap my helmet and my side of the crowd goes crazy over that lone action. It's fucking exhilarating but Coach's words come back to me: don't let anything get to you. My egotistical opponent is walking proof of just why.
Subconsciously, I look around for Emily and can't help the disappointment when I don't see her. I know I've been putting major and evident distance between us since yesterday but I wanted her to be here, cheering the loudest as she'd said. Cameron walking in on us though was a fucking wake up call if I've ever had one. It didn't matter how many times I told myself it wasn't anything that crossed boundaries. It was. And it almost felt serious to me and serious is not the way I went with girls. Why should Emily be any different? So I put up my walls and I know this pissed her off because all day yesterday I'd been reaching out to her first, only to ultimately shut her out. I feel contradicting anger and annoyance firing me up and I get my emotions under control. There's no emotion in the ring.
The bell rings three times and the lights of the fighting hall dim. Each of the stage lights come on with a click and the cheering heightens to the point of deafening. The match has started. I turn to the main camera. I bring my right glove up to my mouth, kissing it, before stretching it back up. The crowd's cheers intensify over this even though they don't know the meaning behind it.
I turn back to Sanders, who's looking a me impatiently, and we knock gloves. Game on.
The both of us bounce on our feet, circling one another but not striking. My heart is thudding from nerves and I can already feel myself breaking out into a sweat. The cheering dissolves into the background as I bring all of my attention to the fight. I mentally run over all of my moves and his, playing our fight out in my head. Most boxers are told to be prepared for anything but Coach encourages me to do mental play-outs. Even I know my predictions are always on fucking point. And from what I've studied in Sanders' fights, he always says a few things to his opponent before deciding to get down to it. The asshole confirms my prediction abilities when he opens his mouth.
"What did you say your name was again, newbie?" He taunts.
I raise an unamused brow. Don't engage.
"If I wanted to fight a faceless nobody, I could've sparred with one of the janitors at my gym." He sniggers.
He doesn't trust his own fighting abilities.
I smirk when Coach's words come back to me. I was also fairly good at reading people and I'm amused as fuck that this asshole is actually nervous. Because Coach is right; he doesn't know what's coming.
I know Coach told me not to engage in trash talk but I can't help it. If he's feeling unsteady before we've even fought, his punches won't be accurate if I goad him into them. He's feeling too much right now. I'm known for predictions so I take the gamble.
"You should relish the fact that you're a newbie, too. Might save you the humiliation when I knock your ass to the bottom of your career."
He snarls and I tilt my head mockingly.
"Assuming you have a career to begin with."
And that does it.
He snaps and strikes.
And because I know exactly what's coming, I duck under his left jab before he's even finished delivering it. The crowd loses it when his fist meets air and looks at the empty spot in front of him in confusion.
"Newbie." I mock and he turns.
Another mistake.
My counterpunch meets his jaw hard enough that he stumbles back. The cheering rises to an insane volume and the guys are tapping my side of the ring feverently. The first point goes to me.
"Cage!" I hear Coach yell and turn to meet his unhappy glare. "Stop goading him and playing games. Fight the way I taught you!"
I nod because he's right. Play time was over.
Sanders comes at me, hands poised to punch. I use my peripheral training to stealthily watch his feet. I know he steps with the side he's about to punch with. When I catch his right foot come forward, I lean my head to the side just to miss his right straight punch. I snap my attention back to his legs just in time to see his left foot shift forward. I duck and miss and his left hook. Bad move on his part for using offense one arm after the other because now he's left wide open. I'm still at eye level with his chest from ducking so I turn my right forearm toward my face and straighten out my legs, shooting up and clocking him in the chin with an uppercut. His head snaps to the side and he loses his footing. Second point goes to me.
"Good defense!" I hear Coach yell.
I keep trained on Sanders, watching as he raises his right arm and I poise my left shoulder to block him. I make the mistake of watching his arms instead of his feet and I don't catch his faux strike in time. My right side is left open. His left arm jabs me in the stomach with more force than I expected. I curl over and swear under my breath. I should've known better than to estimate him. Third point goes to Sanders.
"That's what I fucking thought." Sanders sneers and I try to keep my anger in check. No personal emotions.
I straighten myself up, prepared to strike him again, but he beats me to it. He lands a swift hook to my eye and my head turn to the side from the blow. Damn it. Fourth point goes to him. The ass was getting revved up by the crowd, who was now screaming for every point he took.
The bell rings, signaling the end of the first round and I trudge back to my side. Coach meets me halfway, ducking into the ring with a stoic expression.
"You let him get to you." He says simply.
I curl my fists to contain my anger.
"No shit." I growl when he removes my mouth guard.
"Don't start with me. That was on you for underestimating him. He may act like a little shit but he's good." Coach scolds and I wisely refrain from speaking.
"I had the upperhand." I try to defend but Coach stops me.
"You did. And did you see, how in a matter of seconds, he landed two blows on you? This is what I mean when I say don't let your guard down. Not even for a moment. The player may be predictable but the game isn't. The course of it can change before you even blink. You have to stay on your toes until the final bell goes off."
He hands me a watter bottle and I take it gratefully, chugging the contents down before taking another mouthful and spitting out the side of the ring.
"Remember his plays. When he strikes a jab, he always follows it up with a hook. That combo is almost mechanical to him. You're going to have to take a hit on purpose but just so that you can strike back, blocking his hook and landing a bolo punch the way I taught. He's going to think you're back to offense but that's a false play. After that, you go back to defense and confuse the hell out of him."
He sets my mouth guard back in, preventing me from talking any further, and taps the side of my helmet as the bell goes off to signal round two.
I do as coach says and take a hit within a minute into the round. I can practically see Sanders' head increase in size along with that ego, thinking he has the upperhand. He's sadly mistaken when, as he goes to land a hook, I stop it with my fist and use my opposing arm to land a cross punch on his cheek. It lands hard enough that he loses his hold on me and crashes into the roping behind him. I look to Coach for affirmation since I signaled my own play instead of his.
Good call, he mouths and I get my head back in the game. I got this.
And on and on the match goes, each round fiercer than the next. Sanders and I tie for points for most of the rounds and I see that Coach really did pick someone who matched my level of fighting. Sanders takes the win for round four, and I take the win for round six. Round nine just came to an end and the small arena is going crazy. None of them had predicted I'd make it this far. Neither did Sanders' team because his Coach is yelling, hands furiously moving as he lectures Sanders where he's sulking in his seat. His jaw is lightly swollen and there's a cut at the edge of his left eye. He's flexing his reddened knuckles after throwing his gloves off and is evidently both angry and spent.
I'm not exactly intact either.
A heady gash splits my bottom lip and Coach has been trying to stop the bleeding for the past five minutes, holding a towel tightly against the cut. My cheek is bruising and it hurts to wear my mouth guard because it causes my face to stretch. I'm panting and out of energy, guzzling down water to rehydrate as well as I can. My knuckles are sore and my feet ache but the adrenaline is keeping me going. Coach finally pulls the now blood-covered towel away, satisfied that the cut has merged enough to stop bleeding. He takes the bottle out of my hands and pours what's left of the water over my head. The coolness hits my heated body and I immediately groan from relief. I'm actually fucking spent. At the rate this is going on, there's a very good chance that I'll lose the match.
"I can see the wheels in your head turning." Coach comments and I crack an eye open.
"Coach and mind reader. One hell of a combination." I snort.
"Joke all you want, Cage. I know you're worried about losing. I want you to snap out of that thought because half of boxing is in the mind and if your mind is in negative territory, your fighting will suffer. You and Sanders are tied and you still have a chance so pull through and fight like hell."
"I am fighting like hell." I mutter.
"Fight harder. Take home the win for Sam and the money for Lizzie." He throws my words back in my face and it's enough to snap me out of my daze. Fuck. I'm taking this fight home.
"There we go. Back to it, Cage." Coach smacks a hand to my cheek and puts my mouth guard back in. He takes my chair and steps out of the ring just as the bell goes off to signal the final round.
Sanders and I circle each other warily. His trash talk stopped about four rounds ago. I've been able to defend most of his plays and he's having a hard time defending mine because he sill doesn't know my fighting style. I still can't seem to recognize his faux strikes and it's pissing me off. While my defense and knowledge is definitely advantageous, his offence and experience meets me halfway. It's hard to estimate who's going to take the win. I shouldn't expect to; it's only my first fight.
Just as I'm about to take the risk of offence, a head of brown catches my attention and I dart my eyes toward it.
Holy shit, it's Emily.
She came after all.
And from what I can see, she's definitely cheering the loudest. I don't deserve her presence but hell does it make me happy.
My elation doesn't last long because a blow to my chin knocks me out of my daze, hard enough that my vision slightly blurs.
"Focus, Cage! Take this shit home!" Coach taps the ring angrily.
I shake my head out. Fuck. He wasn't kidding when he said no personal emotions.
I feel a warm trickle running down my chin and the pain on my lip alerts me that my cut has reopened. I spit over the side of the ring when the blood accumulates in my mouth.
"What's wrong, Cage? That hot piece of ass distract you?" Sanders chuckles, leering at Emily.
My blood boils in anger as he runs his eyes and all over her, talking obscenities about how she'd make a great bang.
And I fucking lose it.
Defense is the last thing on my mind as I charge forward and pummel the everloving hell out of his pretty face. My right jab meets his stomach and he bends in over in pain but I have no mercy. My left fist connects with his jaw in an uppercut and when his head snaps up, I immediately strike his nose with a power punch, taking the match home. Sanders falls to the ground, blood spurting out of his nose but he's immobile.
That's right, asshole.
Fucking KO.
The bell dings to signal the end of the match and the crowd is screeching, wildly jumping out of their seats as the announcer declares the match a win by knockout. The guys duck under the ropes and enter the ring, charging at me until we're all piling on top of one another. Coach takes my head between his hands, shaking.
"You fucking did it, Cage! You actually managed a win and a knockout in your first match alone!"
The guys are giving me slaps on the back and ass, congratulating me with clear happiness and shock all over their faces.
"KO in your first official match. You fucking monster!" Cameron laughs, tapping my helmet.
I'm breathing too hard to say anything back but I'm laughing. Fuck that, I'm flying. Of all the times I've fought nothing has felt like this. The adrenaline in my veins is buzzing so violently, my hands are actually shaking. My heart feels like it's going to jump out of my chest and my head is reeling from the high. This is single-handedly one of the most satisfying moment in my life. Nothing feels as incredible as taking home a win and I know now where Sam's passion derived from.
This one is for you, brother.
The guys turn me to the direction of the crowd and I'm taken back when I hear them chanting my name.
"Cage, Cage, Cage, Cage, Cage!" Their voices sound like a rythmic drum and I laugh from shock.
"Give it back to them!" Cameron yells in my ear so I can hear him over the noise.
I raise my arms up victoriously and they cheer. Man, do they cheer. It's unreal what I'm feeling right now and all I can think is I want to feel it again.
My eyes scan the group and some of my high actually lessens when I don't see Emily. She left? It feels like a physical blow to my adrenaline but I know I did it to myself.
So I pretend like I'm still reeling from the win, even as I shake hands with Sanders, even as I talk to a few reporters, even as I sign a few autographs, even as I go out with the boys for a celebratory drink, even as I party in the club they've taken me to and end the night with my tongue down some random girl's throat, even as I get home to Lizzie who greets me with a smile having watched my match, even as Greta congratulates me as she fusses over my wounds, even as I lay in bed exhausted but still feeling a bit of that buzzing rush.
Until I can't pretend anymore and realize the win never felt complete because Emily wasn't there.
_________________
A/N
What did you guys think of the first match? Did Jaxon kick ass or what!?
The strain between him and Emily will definitely be resolved soon, in heated passion no less. (Hint, hint)
All comments and feedback is gladly encouraged!
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Thank you :)