Battered Not Broken (22 page)

Had Ivanov fought many left-handed opponents? Maybe that was an advantage Ryan had. Some fighters were subconsciously used to most punches and elbows being thrown from the right, a reflection of the majority of the population’s right-handed tendencies. When that was the case, a left-handed fighter was granted a taste of the crucial element of surprise.

But Ivanov didn’t seem surprised by Ryan’s next left-handed punch, which cut through the empty space where Ivanov’s head had been half a moment before.

Several more strikes were thrown on both sides. Some landed and some didn’t, but none hit Ryan above the neck. That had quickly become the fear that Ally’s perception of the fight centered around. More than anything, she wanted the match to end before Ryan could sustain a blow to the head.

Watching him fight wasn’t like it had been before when she’d enjoyed admiring his technique and powerful body. Instead, dread leant a sharp edge to her observations, fueling the kind of fear she hated the most – the kind that if justified would hurt her by hurting him, like a bullet passing through two bodies in a row.

She flinched when Ivanov threw a knee at Ryan’s washboard stomach.

Ryan had thrown a punch, leaving his left side partially exposed. Ivanov had chosen to take the blow to the jaw in order to take advantage of the opening. The two men collided, perhaps with a little less force than they would have if Ivanov hadn’t just absorbed a hard strike, but still.

Though Ally had felt a knee to the ribs before and knew how painful it was, a part of her was relieved that he’d been hit there instead of in the head.

He doubled over but straightened more quickly than the average fighter might have, resuming a solid stance for half a moment before throwing himself forward, wrapping his arms around his opponent’s body, cutting into Ivanov’s personal space with a hip thrown hard against his.

Even Ally was surprised. She watched, spellbound along with everyone else as Ryan sent Ivanov flying in a small arc, then crashing onto the mat a moment later.

Ivanov fell like any decently-trained fighter knew to, with an arm striking the mat with a
smack
that rose above the sound of his body’s heavier collision. But Ryan was already on him, assuming a side mount.

Ivanov had landed on his side and hadn’t had time to roll onto his back before Ryan had descended. Beneath the weight and force of Ryan’s body, he was caught with his back to his opponent – the last place a fighter wanted to be when the match ended up on the ground.

Ryan didn’t waste the opportunity. He snaked an arm around Ivanov’s neck, drawing it tight.

With his chin tucked hard against Ryan’s forearm, Ivanov looked surprised as his face grew a startling shade of red. Within moments, he was crimson.

Ally’s heart fluttered with relief. Ivanov wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer. He’d run out of oxygen and tap out, resulting in a victory for Ryan.

Ryan would be safe – the match would be over.

But it didn’t happen that way. Instead, a timer went off, signaling the end of the round.

Ally’s stomach plummeted as Ryan was forced to relinquish the choke he hadn’t been able to bring to fruition in time.

Ivanov rose, red-faced and sweaty, having held out long enough to escape a loss.

The prospect of a second round was frightening, but at least Ryan had made it through the first without sustaining a serious blow to the head.

Ally’s entire body hummed with the relief of temporary reprieve as noise rose from the crowd, surrounding her and filling the large, open room, echoing off every cinderblock wall as the two fighters retreated to opposite sides of the ring.

Cameron was already there for Ryan, acting as his cornerman for the night, a bottle of water in one hand and a towel in the other.

Ally hung back, still gripping the bottle she held – maybe Ryan would need it later. The break between rounds was only one minute long and she didn’t want to interfere or distract. The stakes were too high – it was scary to think about what might happen if Ryan glanced her way or thought about her when Ivanov should be the only person on his mind.

Ryan looked her way before the second round anyway, capturing her gaze for a single second that left her feeling alternately warm and cold inside. Whenever he looked at her – whatever the circumstances – instant heat beset her. But it couldn’t eliminate the chill of worry. The relief that had come with his first victory had been short-lived.

Another quick appearance by the ring girl, and then the second match started. If either Ryan or Ivanov succeeded in tapping or knocking the other out, it would be the last. If not, a third round would decide.

Ivanov was more aggressive than before. He lunged in with a kick that was brutally graceful, fully extending his leg in Ryan’s direction.

Ryan parried, a hand meeting Ivanov’s shin as he moved, dodging what would’ve been a hard blow.

Ryan landed the first strike, his gloved knuckles colliding with Ivanov’s jaw. More punches and kicks were exchanged, elbows thrown, and eventually Ryan backed Ivanov against one of the cage’s eight chain-link sides.

He had the upper hand, but it was hard to be glad, even as he rained blows on Ivanov. Because they were close and Ryan’s head was within easy striking range of his opponent, Ivanov was struggling to escape the unfavorable position by backing Ryan off with brutal retaliation.

Ivanov fit strikes in here and there – to Ryan’s torso and jaw, clipping his chin with a hook.

Ryan was relentless, the muscles in his back rolling beneath a sheen of ink and sweat. The short fringe of hair that hung over his brow was damp. He wouldn’t let up.

When Ivanov threw a knee upward, trying to manage a close-range blow to Ryan’s torso, Ryan blocked it. When Ivanov reached out and tried to establish a hold so he could throw Ryan to the mat, Ryan nailed him in the face with a straight punch. And so it went, until Ivanov landed one lucky elbow – one that arced across the front of Ryan’s face in a semi-horizontal line of force.

Blood sprayed, an explosion of red that stained both men and splattered across the mat.

The crowd roared, obviously loving the display.

Ally’s fingers tightened convulsively, without her permission, aching as their tips dented the plastic sides of the water bottle she was wringing. The contents of her stomach went sour, and the fight continued anyway.

Ivanov finally got the throw he’d been looking for, sending Ryan to the mat and following him down.

As their bodies tangled, Ryan didn’t stop fighting. He didn’t stop bleeding, either. He was a mess and the cage would be too, by the time the match was over. His nose had clearly been hit, and noses could bleed a lot. Hopefully the blood wasn’t coming from anywhere else, but it was impossible to be sure as he rolled across the mat with Ivanov.

Ivanov wrapped his arms around Ryan’s lower leg, capturing it in a hold that looked painful even before he cranked it, executing an ankle lock. Maybe he’d wanted to be as far away from the source of Ryan’s bleeding as possible. Whatever his motivation, the joint lock looked agonizing.

Ryan rolled, attempting to slip out of Ivanov’s hold. He’d halfway succeeded when Ivanov redoubled his efforts, struggling to keep Ryan in the lock.

Ivanov began to crank the lock again, and Ryan almost managed to slip away. Back and forth, they struggled.

Ryan’s face shone with sweat as he continued to fight, a tendon standing out at the side of his neck, obviously strained. Sweat trickled into his eyes as blood ran down his chin.

Ivanov’s face was contorted in an expression of pure determination. He continued to fight for control over Ryan’s ankle, the muscles in his thick arms bulging.

The timer sounded before Ryan could tap. Unlike the last time, it was a welcome sound.

The fighters separated, destined for a third and final round.

Ally rushed forward, her eyes glued to Ryan as she hooked her fingers through the side of the cage.

Cameron held a clean towel that Ryan took, pressing it to his face, hiding everything but the fringe of his short bangs from sight. He’d removed the butterfly bandage that had formerly covered the head wound he’d suffered a week ago. A red line marked the freshly healed-over wound. When he lowered the towel, it was stained red.

He looked up, focusing on her through the links that separated them. His eyes were clear beneath a sweaty brow. She had to tear her gaze away from them to see that blood was still trickling from his nose and that below that, his lips were swelling. They’d been cracked open, bottom and top alike. His face would be throbbing soon, if it wasn’t already.

He removed a blood-smeared mouth guard and accepted the bottle of water Cameron offered him, lifting it to his split lips and taking a couple swallows. His throat muscles worked beneath a layer of sweat and a few thin rivulets of blood that had managed to make it over the strong curve of his jaw.

It was time for the third round before Ally realized that her fingers were hurting from gripping the chain-link so tightly. Reluctantly, she stepped away from the cage, slipping back into the area where she belonged, in a folding seat that was near the ringside, closer than the rows of bleachers where most of the spectators were seated.

A bloody nose and busted lips. Those were the minimum extent of his injuries – it was possible they were worse. She’d only been able to glimpse where he was bleeding from and where he was beginning to bruise. Even if his injuries were relatively superficial, what about the impact that had gone beyond his opened flesh?

And there was still the third round – a last act that was unfolding in the cage as she sat powerless on the outside, listening to Cameron cheer, his ignorance enabling him to enjoy the competition as Ryan landed a punch.

It was difficult to watch Ryan trade blows with his competitor, punishing himself and enjoying it. Each blow Ivanov threw represented a greater risk than the ones Ryan fired back, though they were just as powerful. No one knew what Ryan was gambling with except for him and Ally, and her conscience threatened to burst at the seams with guilt she had no way of focusing to produce a solution.

Still, it would have been impossible to look away. She even begrudged the time it took to blink, afraid she’d miss some crucial second that would change Ryan’s life all over again.

When Ryan backed Ivanov against the cage again, raining punches, her veins thrummed with nervous energy. Then Ivanov crumpled against the wall, sliding down the chain-link to collapse at Ryan’s feet.

Knockout.

Relief coursed through Ally’s bones like lightning through a metal rod. She leapt from her seat as Ryan raised a fist in victory.

The crowd loved the sight of a winner masked in sweat and blood. The sound of their cheers swept over Ally like a sonic blast as she made her way toward the octagonal cage, her heart beating twice as quickly as normal.

Ryan descended from the cage, his gait steady and muscles shifting beneath the mess that had dripped and trickled down onto his chest, forming a streaked stain like an abstract red ink tattoo across his collarbones and pecs.

Cameron was in Ryan’s personal space immediately, crowing over the victory and offering towels and water.

Ryan took the towel and mopped his face as he moved toward the locker area, his strides long. He slowed when he neared Ally, lowering the towel to meet her eyes.

“You did great,” she said, because it was true and because it was done, no matter what the outcome. “How does your face feel?”

“Wet. I’m going to shower. Then we can get out of here.” His lips had swollen further during the third round and were more purple and red than their former shade of pink.

“Okay. I’ll be waiting.”

He disappeared into the changing room to wash the blood and sweat from his skin, leaving Ally to face Cameron.