Modern gladiator, p.6
Modern Gladiator, page 6
The men circle around the octagon like a group of sharks watching an idle diver.
“Hey,” one says. “If it isn’t everyone’s favorite fighter. The one too good for a dojo.”
“Hello, Clark,” Keon says, his voice terse.
Clark pulls out a protein bar and smiles. He has the physique of a bear and the hair to match. The tattoos on his neck crowd together, so I can’t make anything out, and they’re thick enough to be another shirt underneath the first. Although he doesn’t have perfectly defined muscles visible from half a mile away, I can tell he’s stacked enough to give a bull a run for his money.
And he eats his protein bar like he’s punishing it for disappointing him.
The guy gets me nervous.
“Have you met Anderson?” Clark asks between bites. “He’s the one fighting you tonight.”
A man about Keon’s size leaps onto the outside of the octagon and pulls himself over the fence in a sheer display of athleticism. He hops down and strides over to Keon with his head up and his shoulders back. I step away, certain there will be a fight.
Anderson plants himself right in front of Keon, their faces so close I swear they could make out.
“I look forward to kicking your ass tonight,” Anderson says as he holds out a hand to shake.
Keon smirks, ignoring the offer. “I’ve seen videos of your past fights. You’re not the worst fighter in your academy, but you better hope he doesn’t retire.”
“You think you’re clever, huh? You better not get hurt too bad tonight, or else you might not recover in time for that qualifier.”
The thinly veiled threat isn’t lost on anyone.
I clear my throat.
Everyone turns to face me, some with confused expressions, like they had forgotten I existed.
“Who are you?” Clark asks.
“The safety inspector,” I say. “I came to check out the cage, and here I find unsportsmanlike comments. I might have to report this.”
The group of black-shirted men exchange looks and back away from the octagon. Anderson steps away, both hands raised.
“We were just being competitive,” he says. “We’re all friends here. Right, Keon?”
Keon offers a slow nod. “Yeah. Friends.”
“Good. Then I’ll see you in the cage tonight.”
“I look forward to it.”
Anderson hops over the fence as effortlessly as before. Once the group of men is together, they make their way to the backstage area, and my thoughts return to Lala and Derek. I doubt anything will happen, but I can’t stand the thought of my sister getting hurt.
“Come on,” I say, motioning to the gate. “We should get out of here.”
“Safety inspector, huh?” Keon asks with a smirk.
“It’s nothing. If those guys were any dumber, someone would have to water them twice a week.”
Keon snorts back a laugh. “Still. They’ve been out to scare me into joining their fighting academy for some time. Tonight I think they were done with that route and ready to get rid of me.”
“Are you… sure you’ll beat Anderson in the ring?”
“As long as he fights fair, yeah.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
Keon shrugs. “We’ll have to see, won’t we?”
“To be safe, we should stick together with Derek. Maybe they’ll leave you alone.”
“Here’s hoping.”
Keon opens the gate to the cage—a simple latch on the side was all it took. What kind of idiot am I?—and I try to hide my flushed face as I walk out of the octagon. Keon follows after me, but I stop a few feet away.
“I hope you kick Anderson’s ass,” I say.
Keon lifts an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”
I hadn’t cared if Keon won or lost until now. The fact some people are trying to bully him into quitting gets under my skin.
“Well, I’m your biggest fan,” I say, offering him a half smile. “So of course I want you to win.”
Keon relaxes a bit and chuckles. “That’s right. It’s a good thing you’re here, then. I definitely need at least one person cheering for me to win.”
Chapter 6: Fight Night
Keon Lynch
THE DEEP rumble of rock ’n’ roll pulses through my veins.
Heat scorches every inch of my muscles, making me want the fight even more. I hop in place, hyped on anxious energy. They haven’t opened the doors yet, but the announcer calls out my opponent. It won’t be long now. Then I’ll walk out to the octagon and the fight will begin.
One of us is going down.
“Ready?” Derek asks.
I reply with a curt nod.
The doors open. I’m bombarded by a wall of sound from the crowd. Cheering. Booing. Food gets tossed my way. I ignore it. Nothing will shatter my focus tonight. Anderson thinks he can break me? He’s got another thing coming.
Derek walks to the side of the octagon and stands at the corner closest to my side. I stride into the cage and tap my gloved hands together, enjoying the feel of my body straining to contain my excitement. Anderson dances around the opposite side of the mat, his sweat glistening under the harsh spotlight overhead. He glowers at me. Adrenaline steels my heart. I won’t be shaken by the likes of him.
There’s a bell ring. The match has started.
Anderson holds out his hand. He wants to tap gloves. It’s a show of respect—of brotherhood camaraderie. Not every fighter wants to do it, especially not with me, a guy they barely know, but I always appreciate it when someone offers.
I hold out my hand and step forward.
And then Anderson throws a punch inches before we tap gloves. I step back, dodging the blow.
A roar of excitement washes through the crowd. The announcer says something, no doubt about the treachery, but the pounding of my heart deafens me to everything.
Anderson steps forward for a follow-up strike, but he has a predictable fighting style. I saw it in all the videos. I rush in and punch him across his face, my knuckles cushioned by the gloves, though I still feel the undeniable sensation of hitting bone square on. He stumbles back, and I go to throw a left hook. Anderson lifts his arm, blocking his face. I strike his elbow and jump away, satisfied with the blow I landed.
His eyes take a second to focus. I rattled him good.
I take in a deep breath, and it’s like swallowing raw power.
This is it. The intensity. The bloodlust.
I want to destroy my opponent. I want to prove I have the potency—the strength—to stand among the greats of the world. If our lives are fleeting, if we’re nothing more than stars in an endless ocean of darkness, I want to flicker just once before fading away. I want to feel as though I’ve made an impact on the world. I’ve made a name for myself. I’ve accomplished. I won where others failed. I succeeded where others gave up.
Nothing tastes as gratifying as victory.
Anderson throws a kick. I sidestep away. He throws a second kick, too fast and too reckless. I catch his leg, getting him off-balance, and then I toss him to the mat. The slam rocks the octagon and the audience. Cheering cuts through my focus for a brief second as I stand over Anderson and punch downward, pile-drilling home a heavy blow. I bust his nose, and blood explodes across his chin.
I punch again, splitting open his eyebrow. I go to punch a third time, ready to end this fight, when he strikes my right shin.
Fire flares to life under my muscles, flooding my leg with agony.
Anderson didn’t punch hard—it’s the same pain from the other night.
I leap away from Anderson and stagger backward, my adrenaline waning. The crowd and announcer seem louder than before. People scream and yell. My name. Anderson’s name.
“Why’d you stop?” Derek shouts. “You had him on the ropes. Push! Push!”
Derek doesn’t know about my leg. And why would he? There’s no mark or bruise. I had almost forgotten it hurt. Even now, the pain has subsided, but the brief graze almost had me tapping out. I can’t let Anderson hit me there again. I need to end this fight fast.
Anderson gets to his feet. His face looks like a mudslide, blood weeping into one eye.
But he doesn’t look confused. He might have seen my grimace when he struck my leg.
Anderson rushes forward and sweeps with a low kick, straight for my shin. I dance away, my breathing heavy. He knows.
Fuck.
When he comes in for another low kick, I punish him for it. I punch straight into his gut, making sure to keep my right leg back. He hits my left leg, sure, but I can take some abuse before I need to back off. Anderson kicks again. I punch him in the jaw. His lip splits, and blood splatters across my forearm, but he doesn’t go down. He’s got fortitude. I’ll give him that much.
Anderson throws a fast punch, no doubt fueled by desperation. I lean away, my heart pounding hard enough to drown out all other distractions once again. I charge forward and slam us both to the mat. I can’t risk him kicking forever. Instead, I hold my breath, flip him over, take in a controlled gulp of air, and then mount him from behind. He bucks—he’s strong—but I’m better.
I wrap my arm around his neck in one quick snakelike motion. I lock my other arm behind his throat and torque. Anderson flails and thrashes. I keep to my left side, protecting my shin as much as possible, counting down the seconds.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.
Anderson arches his back, all muscles straining to dislodge me.
Five Mississippi.
I torque harder, like I’m trying to pop his head straight off his body.
Give up, asshole. You’ve lost.
Seven Mississippi.
Then his body goes lax, and he taps my arm with a feverish energy.
That’s it. I won.
The ref grabs me. I let go of Anderson and hear his raspy cough as I’m dragged to my feet.
Corbin Friel
I SHAKE my sister’s shoulder. “That’s a rear naked choke! He used a rear naked choke.”
Lala cocks an eyebrow. “Yeah, I know. Everyone knows. Yeesh.”
“But I know what that is now!”
“Just shut up and cheer, Bin-Bin. This is the time for celebrating.”
She returns to jumping and cheering with the rest of the crowd shouting Keon’s name.
Anxiety drains from my system now that the fight’s over. I hated watching. It was worse than before. The thought of Keon losing caused my stomach to screw up into knots. And then imagining him in the hospital almost made the fight unbearable, especially if it was the result of a bunch of gym bullies. Thankfully Keon was in control the entire time. Well, except when he ran from Anderson. I saw Keon’s expression change—from vicious confidence to pensive confusion. I know something went wrong. I’m not sure what, but for a fraction of a second, I honestly thought he might lose, just from shaken nerves.
Maybe I imagined things. Keon looks fine now.
The announcer grabs Keon’s arm and thrusts it over his head, getting another round of cheers from the crowd. The only people who aren’t celebrating are the thugs from Anderson’s fighting academy. They remain seated, not a smile among the group.
I guess I wouldn’t be smiling either. Anderson needs help cleaning his face—the blood won’t stop pouring from his busted eyebrow. Head wounds are notorious for bleeding copious amounts, but it seems worse when his nose is swollen and his eyes refuse to open.
Maybe now they’ve learned to leave Keon alone.
LALA AND I wait outside of the arena. While most audience members funnel their way to the parking lot, we stand with the coaches and dojo members by the back door. The fighters and their corner men exit out the back once they’re done collecting their things, but Derek and Keon have yet to emerge. It’s already 11:30 p.m.
Anderson and the rest of the Alpha MMA Academy people shuffle out a good hour after the end of the fights.
“You put up a good fight,” Lala says as Anderson passes by.
“Thanks,” he says, his spittle pink with blood.
I grab my sister and move her away from the crowd of muscle-bound meatheads. “Why are you talking to him?” I whisper. “That guy threatened Keon before the fight.”
Lala waves away the comment. “They didn’t mean it. All guys talk smack to each other. It’s part of the game. They’re all good friends. Look at Derek. They fought, but tonight Derek was Keon’s corner man.”
“This was different. You weren’t there.”
“I think you’re overreacting, like you always do. We have to be cordial to all the fighters once the matches are over, okay? Try to smile.”
I grumble under my breath, but I don’t bother arguing anymore. Lala won’t change her mind until she sees their aggression for herself. Hopefully it never happens, but Anderson and his crew glance over their shoulders a few times, giving me quick glowers. They must’ve realized by now that I’m no safety inspector.
Lala pulls out her phone and checks the time. “Where are they?”
“Did you try calling Derek?”
“Yeah. He’s not answering.”
“I don’t know what to do, then.”
“Let’s go inside,” she says as she marches toward the back door.
“No, no, no,” I stammer as I rush to get in front of her. “Remember all those bouncers and security guards? We should wait here. Or maybe in the car.”
“Stop being such a wimp. Look. Most of them went home.”
She motions to our surroundings. Sure enough, most of the doors have been deserted, and the security guards have dwindled down to a single patrol car circling the front parking lot.
“Following the rules isn’t tantamount to being a wimp,” I say matter-of-factly. “I don’t want to get us, or Keon and Derek, in trouble.”
“It’ll be fine. C’mon. Follow me.”
Before I can get another word in edgewise, Lala walks up to the back door and pulls on the handle. Locked. She taps her foot and waits until someone on the other side exits. She smiles at the fighter and his buddies—some lightweight guy I don’t know the name of—and holds the door open until they’ve all gone. Then she slips inside, almost leaving me behind.
“Hey,” I bark.
I grab the door at the last possible second and scurry in.
“Try to keep up,” Lala says.
What’s wrong with people these days? When did it become uncool to follow the rules? Well, I guess it’s always been uncool to be a rule follower, but still. We have rules for a reason. If people listened to safety regulations and general ordinances, I’m sure there would be a lot less 911 calls. Is it really that unreasonable to ask?
The back area has half the lights and less than ten people milling about, picking up the trash. It takes me a moment to spot Derek and Keon, all the way in the far corner of the room. They’re sitting on their gym bags, Keon’s gaze drilling a hole in the floor.
Lala bounds straight up to them. “What’s going on?”
“Uh, hey, babe,” Derek says as he stands. He rubs the back of his neck. “Give us a minute? Keon needs to rest.”
“He does? But he wasn’t hurt at all during his fight.”
“His shin has been hurting on and off for a few days. He wants to take it easy for a bit before we go get something to eat.”
“It’s been hurting for a few days?” I ask, interjecting myself into the conversation.
Derek nods. “Yeah. That’s what he said.”
“Do you mind if I look at it?”
I know I’m not a doctor yet, but I have a deep desire to examine everyone’s ailment, no matter what they’re complaining of, even a toothache. I walk over to Keon and kneel in front of him. He motions to his right shin. I straighten my glasses, squinting at the skin, but there’s no discoloration or marks. I place my hands on his ankle.
“Tell me when it hurts,” I say. “And give it a number. One for not very painful and ten for the most painful thing you’ve ever felt.”
I run both my hands up his rock-solid shin, impressed with his calves, squeezing the entire way. Halfway up and Keon flinches. Before I can open my mouth to ask, he grabs the collar of my shirt and jerks me close, his fingers twisting into the fabric and half choking me.
“It fucking hurt,” he says through clenched teeth, his tone so cold I shiver.
“O-okay. How much?”
“An eight. Maybe a nine.”
“And what kind of pain do you feel when I’m not touching the shin?”
“Nothing.”
“What about when you walk?”
“No pain.”
Wow. It must be deep. And odd he wouldn’t notice it unless I’m squeezing. That eliminates my first few thoughts, but the remaining options are terrible. “You might have an injury on your tibia or fibula.”
“What?” Keon asks, lifting an eyebrow.
“Those are the bones in your shin. One might be cracked. Or you could have an infection.”
The information gets Keon pensive. He releases his grip on my collar and returns his gaze to the floor. My chest tightens when I get a good look at his face. But this can be fixed.
Lala has had more bone-related injuries than I can count. Broken bones, infections, bruising, shrinking—every possible mishap. I’m confident Keon has something wrong with either his tibia or fibula, but only X-rays would reveal the real cause of his pain.
“You need to see the doctor,” I say.
Keon glares. “No.”
“What? Why not?”
“He’ll miss his next fight,” Derek says. “Dude, doctors don’t allow you to fight if you have bone injuries. They’ll say he’s unfit, and he’ll miss his chance for the qualifiers.”
“Who cares? That’s a terrible reason to avoid the doctor. If he really does have a crack or a break or an infection, he should get it treated immediately. There could be permanent repercussions for not tending to injuries in the quickest manner possible.”
