on this opening day,” the guy shouts amidst a chorus of screams. “Uppercut Princess versus Brawler!” He draws Brawler’s name out and goosebumps skitter over my expectant skin.
He nods at both of us and backs away.
Right. So, this is it. This is one moment that will define my life. It’s odd to know it before it even happens, and not just look back at it years later and pinpoint the very second things changed. I already know the first blow will change things. It’s just up to Brawler and me to fix it later.
I treat the fight like training at first. I creep in, just as I would do if we were in Jax and Finn’s boxing ring. I look for his tells. I plan my attack. When the first opportunity comes, I don’t take it.
Fuck.
I shake it off, circle around him and start again. Brawler looks just as content to do this with me, play with each other, but it won’t work. My gaze darts up. Like with the warehouse, a special boxed area for the Crew sits atop everything else. It’s fancier, but what fills it is the same. Big Daddy K is front and center in the window. Johnny is next to him, fists clenched at his side, but it’s K who grabs all of my attention. He’s leering, a half-smile on his face is more predatory than anything. He’s the perfect representation of an enemy in beautiful clothing.
I lick my lips and focus back on Brawler. I send a silent thought up, hoping he’ll forgive me for this, and then I head in. I attack first because I know he won’t. If any one of the guys is too good for me, it’s him. Hell, it’s not just me. He’s too good for the Heights. He’s too good for most things. He’s been through the shit that has taught him who he wants to be.
He’s just...fuck. He’s good. Not halo worthy, obviously. None of us are, but he’s just…good. There’s no other word for it.
He blocks my punches and attacks with some teasing ones of his own. Just like he would in training, telling me he could’ve got me if he wanted.
I smile at him, and he smiles back.
Fighting someone you train with is difficult. They know you. They know your style, and I’m not even counting the fact that neither one of us actually wants to hurt the other. It means I have to do something unconventional.
I run at him. He’s stunned, pausing briefly. I plant my foot on his thigh, grab his shoulder, and glance an elbow off his head. I didn’t throw it as hard as I could have, but the audience loves it.
Brawler throws me off. His gaze narrows now, and I wonder if I’ve poked the beast.
We circle again. Oscar yells his name, followed by, “Do it!”
He comes in, catching me in the chin. His hands are heavy, powerful, like fucking sledgehammers. I’m impressed and pissed at the same time.
Listen, taking the fight out of a fighter is a hard feat. Brawler’s standing in front of me, and I know that, but that doesn’t mean I want to get punched in the face.
I give him a few body shots to his perfect abs, and he retaliates with a backfist to my cheek.
I have to bite my lip, a mixture of emotions swimming through me. Most of them contradict each other. I’m mad. I’m embarrassed. I’m…proud of him.
I grin, loosening my fists to go in for another attack. I give him a couple of jabs to the mouth. He captures my arm, kicks my feet out from underneath me and slams me to the floor. I grunt on impact. It really sucks to go down hard on a cement floor like this.
Brawler doesn’t immediately pounce on me, which tells me he’s doing this with love. God, I love the big guy. I blink at the ceiling a few times to get my bearings back and then kick to my feet in one movement. The spectators in the front row stand, appreciating that little maneuver. Actually, after that, everyone in the room stands in a ripple effect. It’s that part of the fight where you know you’re about to get your money’s worth.
Brawler throws a roundhouse to my legs. It hits me in the calf and stings. Adrenaline lessens some of the pain during the fights, but for some reason, kicks can be different. Especially well-placed kicks like the one he just threw.