21. Chapter 21

The lights were bright, hot, unrelenting. The crowd deafening. But none of that mattered. I stood in one corner, waiting. The show was over, in my eyes. The pageantry, the glamour, the showmanship and silliness. I was just ready to fight. And win. I wasn't going to make it pretty, or have it last as long the audience and promoters wanted to. The second I had my chance, I would knock Oleksandr Bartosh to the ground and I would not be letting him get back up.

I caught his eye, and he grinned. But I knew better. He was scared, scared of me and my legacy, and all that I had. He was an empty man whose heart was filled with venom and malice, and I was happy. And I was about to take away his one chance at the one thing he wanted more than anything in the world, just so I could walk away with my head held high.

I risked a glance through the darkness, toward my family. Toward Arthur's empty seat. Perhaps he had been too afraid to watch. I didn't blame him. But I needed him there as my talisman. All I was doing was for him. Though I knew I could win, I knew in my heart that Arthur would love me the same either way.

Jason dabbed at my forehead with a cloth, and I smiled at him. I popped my gum shield in as the referee climbed under the ropes. He shook my hand, and then crossed the greet my opponent. "Ready?" he looked to both teams. Jason nodded for me.

We both got our gloves on and greeted each other in the middle of the ring. Oleksandr's gum-shield was red. Good. It would help to cover the blood when I knocked his teeth out of his skull.

"Let's have a clean fight," said the referee. He gave Oleksandr a pointed look. "Touch gloves."

We did, a gentle tap of fists, and then stood back in our corners for the referee to start the fight. He counted down out loud and with his fingers, and then stepped back.

There was no crowd. No Referee. Nothing in this world but Oleksandr Bartosh and I. We stalked toward each other like alpha lions on the hunt. Each of us ready to deliver the killing blow, but unwilling to step close enough to get one.

Oleksandr moved first. He stepped in, threw a punch that I skittered backward to avoid. Easy. He was too telegraphed, too obvious in his movement. Avoiding him was simple. Another swipe, and I leaned backward as his fist whistled past my face. I brought my gloves up closer, let him think I was on the defence, and as soon as he made to punch me with a wide arcing blow, my fist was coming out for a quick and dirty hit to his solar plexus that made the air whistle out from his lips and interrupted the flow of his punch. The hit to my face was so gentle that I wanted to laugh. If that was what he was capable of, then this fight was going to be even easier than I thought.

I took a step forward, boxing him in to a corner as I threw a series of punches. He avoided them, but that was the point. I wanted to push him backward until he couldn't avoid it any more. And then, with his back against the ropes, I threw a series of punches toward his body. Never below the belt, but I wanted him to feel the pain he had given me months ago.

Slap. Slap. Slap. Every punch was accentuated by the noise of my gloves hitting flesh, and the whoosh of air as I winded him with punches. Oleksandr looked panicked as I got in hit after hit and he struggled to defend himself. I was going to win. It was going to hurt. I was…

Oleksandr's arm swung from nowhere, completely surprising me as he connected above my eye socket. The sting was bad, but what was worse was the immediate warmth in my eyebrow. I knew what that meant. I dropped back into a defensive stance as the blood from the split trickled downward. In seconds it was obscuring my vision and causing an awful sting. I did my best not to drop back to the ropes like I'd done to Bartosh, but he was able to get a few swings in that connected with my chest and neck before the bell rung to signal the end of the round.

I swiped one glove across my forehead, smearing it with sweat and blood. For a second, I felt disoriented by it all – the sudden realisation of all the noise, people cheering and screaming my name. And then Jason was in front of me, pushing me back to the stool in the corner of the ring. I pulled the gumshield out of my mouth to talk to Jason but he spoke first.

"Come on, Bradley. You can do this," he said.

I nodded. Of course I could do it…right? A couple of the physios attended to the cut above my eyebrow, adding butterfly dressings, dabbing at my eye until the world seemed less red and blurry. The hit to my head had knocked my confidence, and it felt like all my senses were running at once. I could smell my own sweat, the newness of the canvas, whatever salve they were applying to my head. I could see the restless crowd outside of the canvas, and I could feel the roughness of the ropes at my back.

"Hey…come back to me," said Jason. "I need your head in the game. You had him until you missed that punch. Don't underestimate the stupid plays he'll make when you have him backed into a corner."

I nodded, taking in everything he was saying and filing it away in the bit of my brain that worked hardest in the ring. "Where's Arthur?" I asked. Jason didn't need to answer though, because when I looked over I could see him. He was in his seat, leaning forward and looking right at me. It was dark, so maybe I imagined the worry in his eyes. I didn't think that I did, though. He was holding onto my mother's hand like it was tethering him to this plane.

The ref was gearing up to start the second round. "Are you OK?"" asked Jason.

"I'm going to marry him," I said.

"You're meant to hit him, not marry him. Is your head really OK?"

"Piss off. I'm gonna beat that arsehole over there, and I'm gonna marry Arthur."

"Does he have a choice in the matter?" Jason smiled knowingly.

"If I'm lucky, he's already booked the venue. He's just that organised." I put the gumshield into my mouth to signal I was done talking, and the physios retreated. I hoped the sticking plaster would hold the cut closed well enough.

The bell rang, and I advanced on Bartosh. Arthur was watching, and he was worried. I didn't like my Arthur being worried.

I went in on the attack instantly, with a flurry of punches that sent Bartosh reeling backwards. He was almost as quick though, and used his hands to protect his face, intermittently throwing a punch to try to get me to back off. He kept his eyes on the cut above my eye, knowing that was a weak spot now. But every now and then they'd flick downward, and I knew. He was thinking about making the same dirty play again. The bastard.

Don't underestimate the stupid plays he'll make when you have him backed into a corner.

Jason's words had been wise. Now I just needed Bartosh to make a desperate play again.

Three quick hits sent him back towards the ropes, and then I aimed a round of punches toward his stomach. He brought his hands down to protect himself, and then I saw the fear in his eyes turn to malice. There was a moment of hesitation, and I saw him gear up to punch low, to take my breath out. Maybe even to go below the belt again.

I took my chance, and aimed upward. My glove hit his chin with a satisfying crack as the uppercut connected. For a second, Bartosh had the decency to look shocked. And then all expression leeched from his face as he fell to the floor, out cold.

The ref counted him down, but it was pointless. We could all see that Oleksandr Bartosh was going nowhere soon. Once the ten count was over, medics rushed the canvas to try and revive him.

Part of me was proud, of course I was. But a big part of me was just relieved. Relieved that I could move on with my life, move on to…

The referee held up my arm and declared my win, and the crowd went wild. But I didn't care about them. The photographers took pictures and shouted questions. But I didn't care about them either. I cared about Arthur.

I looked wildly around for him, but he wasn't in his seat. My heart skipped a beat, but then he was scrambling through the mass of photographers, between the ropes. He was on the canvas with me. I took hold of his face in between my two stupidly-gloved hands, and kissed him. It was the first moment of the rest of my life.