The Gentlemen's Hour Page 0,39

now he gets the diff between MMA and all the rest—in MMA, the whole point is to hit the dude when he’s down.

Boyd gets up, shakes his head to clear it, and comes toward Boone.

“Three minutes!” Dan yells.

Three minutes?! Boone thinks. Three minutes left? He would have thought it was maybe twenty seconds. Anyone who doesn’t believe Einstein’s take on relativity has never gone a round in the ring. Time doesn’t slow down or even stop, it slams it into reverse and goes backward.

Now Boone totally gets it—he should have jumped on Boyd and pounded him into total unconsciousness. Boyd is coming toward him, the lights are back on in his eyes, and now—as the joke goes about Jesus’s return—he’s pissed.

But definitely more cautious, almost respectful. He’s seen Boone survive the slam, the ground and pound, escape, and rock him with a single punch. The surfer has heavy hands—one-punch hands—and he doesn’t look tired or even winded.

He isn’t—you want a cardio workout, paddle a surfboard. Boone launches two more low kicks, aiming one at the inside of Boyd’s thigh to smack the femoral artery. Boyd winces at each one but keeps coming forward. Boone moves backward, circling so as not to get trapped against the ropes. Shooting jabs to keep Boyd at a distance, he keeps moving, trying to gain space, trying to waste time.

“He’s a pussy!” someone yells. “He don’t want any part of you, Mike!”

True on both counts, Boone thinks. He goes in for another kick, but Boyd is ready and grabs Boone’s leg, lifts it, and throws him to the mat. Boone covers up to ward off the ground and pound, but it doesn’t come. Boyd drops on to him, but rolls over so that Boone’s on top, his back against Boyd’s chest.

Boone feels Boyd’s thick right forearm slide under his chin and tighten on his throat, then Boyd’s left hand press against the back of his head. Boyd arches his back, stretching Boone out and tightening the grip like a noose.

“Tap out! Tap out!” Dan yells.

Boone twists to loosen the grip but it’s in too tight. Boyd’s forearm is locked onto his throat. Boone can see the thick muscles knotted and, just above the wrist, a small tattoo.

The number “5.”

Boyd hisses, “Tap, Daniels.”

Fuck that, Boone thinks.

Then he’s out.

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He’s on the mat when he comes to.

Dan looks down at him with concern.

“What happened?” Boone asks.

“Rear-naked choke,” Dan says.

Sounds ugly, Boone thinks, especially the “rear” and “naked” parts.

“Why didn’t you tap out?” asks Dan.

After a little bit of thought, Boone remembers what “tap out” means and what happened to put him in the position to do it. Or not, as the case may be. Dan and another student help him to his feet. His legs feel shaky. He looks across the ring and sees Boyd looking at him. Boone takes some small satisfaction that Boyd has an ice pack pressed against his jaw.

“Why didn’t you tap?” Boyd asks.

It seems to be the question of the day.

“Didn’t feel like it.”

Boyd laughs. “You’re no bitch, Daniels. Only a real freak would rather black out than tap out.”

“Real freak” apparently being high praise.

“Thanks.”

Boone walks toward the door on legs that are still objecting to being given so much responsibility. Then he stops, turns around, and says, “There is something you can teach me.”

“Shoot.”

The Superman Punch.

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You have to have your legs under you to do it, which Boone doesn’t, but Boyd demonstrates on a heavy hanging bag.

It’s basically simple, but it’s harder to do than it looks. You jump off one foot, toward your opponent, then while in midair, execute a downward chopping punch with the opposite hand. The impact is incredible because of the momentum of the whole body being thrown into the punch.

Boyd does it and the heavy bag hops on its chain, comes back down, and shakes.

“It’s not a move you want to try a lot,” Boyd explains after he does it, “because both feet are off the ground and that leaves you vulnerable to any kind of counter. If you miss with it, you’re truly fucked. But if you connect—”

“So you teach this,” Boone says.

“Sure.”

“Did you teach it to Corey Blasingame?”

“Maybe,” Boyd says. “I don’t know.”

Yeah, maybe, Boone thinks. He takes two steps toward the bag, then launches himself. Twisting his hip in midair, he throws everything into the punch and can feel the energy surge all the way up his arm as his fist makes contact.

A wild adrenaline surge.

Superman.

The heavy bag sags in the middle and pops