Chapter 11

Six weeks later…

And then there were two fighters in the house.

One by one, the other guys were eliminated.

Naptime and I are the only ones left.

No matter what, I’ll be going home with a hefty chunk of change.

But I want the big prize. What the hell was the point of this torture if I don’t come home the champion? The weight of that possibility presses in on me from all sides, keeping me awake at night, and fueling me throughout the day.

Nervous energy pulses through my veins. I’m charged and ready. Almost frenzied with the need to pound my fists into Naptime’s annoying face and go home.

Now that it’s just the two of us, the show’s officially keeping us separated. The early alarms have stopped too. Underhill collects me every morning and makes me run laps outside, then we train in the gym. There he has two instructors—one black belt in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu and one boxing coach—work me to exhaustion. They push me to my limits, leaving me exhausted but ready to do it all over again the next day.

This morning, someone knocks on my door earlier than expected. I crack open the door. Bright lights sear my eyes. I blink and squint. Through the glare Venom and Bear Trap come into view.

“Holy shit.” I stagger backward and pull the door wider. “What are you two doing here?”

“Here to train you for the big fight.” Venom steps over the threshold.

After I won our match, by using a submission technique he helped me perfect, I didn’t think Venom would return, let alone return to help me.

Is it a trap? Part of a larger plot to sabotage me? To get even for losing?

Nah, Venom hates Naptime as much as I do. Even helped me shave Naptime’s head one night after the jackass got wasted and passed out on the patio.

And even though I won our match, Venom had still hugged me goodbye and wished me luck.

This fucking show has made me question everything.

I can’t afford to get lost down a rabbit hole of doubt and mistrust.

Bear Trap follows Venom inside and pulls me in for—what else—a big bear hug. His ring name makes so much more sense. I’m almost sorry we never had a chance to face off in the cage.

“You’re back too?” I slap his back and motion him farther inside, to make room for the two cameramen.

He leans down and in a low voice says, “Hell yeah, I’m back. As long as they don’t stash me in that fuckin’ hotel again when we’re done, I’ll stick around.”

I rear back and stare at him, a frown creasing my forehead. “What?”

“Yeah, you didn’t know that?” Bear Trap says. “Total media blackout until after my episode aired.” He shoots a death glare at Camera Guy Mike. “Fucking bullshit.”

“Hey, I just capture the footage,” Mike protests.

“I didn’t get to go home yet, so I’m guessing my dismissal hasn’t aired.” A sly smile curves Venom’s lips. “But at least they let Kelly come stay with me.”

Bear Trap grunts and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, and based on what came through the hotel’s thin walls last night, he’s desperately trying to impregnate her.”

Venom slowly swivels his head Bear Trap’s way. “The fuck you listening for, perv?”

My remaining doubts ease into gratitude for their presence. I burst out laughing and step between them. “I’m so glad you guys are back.” I lean sideways and stare into the hallway. “Woolly didn’t come with you?”

“Nah, man. He had enough,” Venom says. “Soon as they said he could bounce, he was gone like Tigger the Tiger.”

“Thanks for coming back.” I pat Bear Trap’s shoulder. “You’ve been gone for a while. I thought you would’ve forgotten all about me.”

“How could I forget you?” His voice and posture vibrate with enthusiasm.

We spend a few minutes catching up but it’s awkward with the cameras guys circling us like hungry turkey vultures hoping to pick our carcasses clean.

Underhill’s been a good coach but having my fellow fighters back to support me means a lot more.

“Let’s get this done, Stonewall!” Venom pulls Bear Trap and me in for a bowed-head huddle. Something I’m sure the cameras are enjoying since they zoom in close.

“Something, something profound, something meaningful something encouragement,” Venom mutters.

I snort-laugh at his nonsensical mumbling for the camera. The corner of his mouth quirks but he doesn’t open his eyes.

Venom lifts his arm from my back, ending our huddle.

“You’ve got this, Stonewall!” Bear Trap knocks his fist against my shoulder.

Venom pats the top of my head. “I can’t wait to see you twist that pink-mohawked motherfucker like a pretzel.”

* * *

Three days.I’m given three days to train with my former housemates. That’s it.

Technically, I’ve been training since I got here.

I’m beyond ready.

The show delivers several pairs of purple-and-gold fitted compression shorts a few days before the final fight.

On fight day, though, Venom shows up in the gym where I’m trying to work on some breathing exercises with a purple satin robe.

I squint at it. “The fuck is that?”

“For you. Paul says you get to make a big entrance, with pyro and everything.”

“For fuck’s sake.” I roll my eyes and take the robe from his hands. “I’m gonna look like a freaky-ass cult leader wearing this.”

He presses his palms together and bows. “Ah, mighty Stonewall. We pray for you to kick Naptime into the next universe.”

“Shut up.” I whap him with the robe. “Where’s Bear Trap at?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Coach comes in and gives me a few last-minute pointers. Then the cameras arrive. Like a good little fighter, I put on a show of sparring with Venom.

“Still quick on your feet,” he praises. I swear, Venom’s been a better coach than the actual coach. “Your grappling is even better than when you kicked my ass.”

A shade of guilt falls over me, but he doesn’t say it with any animosity. He almost seems proud. “Thanks.”

“You’ve got this.”

“No, I mean it.” I motion him closer. “Thank you.”

He rests his hands on my shoulders and squeezes. “Clear your mind. Don’t be afraid to adapt or change your strategy, okay? Be fluid.”

“Like water,” I agree.

“That’s it.”

“Let’s roll.” Venom holds out the shiny purple robe to me.

Fuck it. I slip it on and pull it around myself.

Bear Trap meets us in the hallway. I stop and take in his purple sweatshirt embroidered with a big, gold crown on the front. Same shade of purple as my shiny robe.

He grins at me. “Wanted to make it clear who I was rooting for.”

“Thanks.” I reach out and hug him quickly. “Any advice?”

Everyone else seems to have wisdom to share.

“Well, he knows you’re a good grappler. He’ll probably try to land some punishing body shots as early as possible. So be nimble.”

“Nah, Stonewall’s a damn good striker too,” Venom says.

“Aw, guys, you’re making me blush.” I duck my head and laugh.

“All right, enough jerking each other off.” Underhill claps his hands. “Let’s move.”

“Yes, sir.” Bear Trap raises his hand in a salute that ends with his middle finger in the air.

Underhill shakes his head and mutters to himself.

I walk behind the others, trying to center myself and clear my head. In the van, I take the seat all the way in the back and close my eyes. The others seem to respect my need for distance. Their combined chatter fades into the rest of the noise—the grind of the van’s engine, the rumble from the road.

Deep breaths. In and out.

This will be unlike any other fight. Low-quality, bootleg clips of my fights at The Castle or other places back home have been posted online for years—that’s how Diane found me for the show. But this time, the whole event will be aired. Every drop of sweat and splatter of blood. Every punch, kick, and move I make will be dissected and analyzed by people I don’t even know and will probably never meet. Every moment—including me sitting here with my eyes closed—will be aired for the world to mock, judge, or admire.

I doubt Molly’s still watching the show, but if she is, I want to make her proud. I don’t want her to think I did all of this for nothing.

If Remy’s watching, I don’t want him to be embarrassed that he knows me. Fuck it, probably too late for that.

As the van eases to a stop, I open my eyes. The darkness of an underground parking lot surrounds us with only a few pools of light to lead us inside.

The more I try to calm myself, the faster time seems to move. I’m hustled inside to a locker room where cameras keep filming everything. People give me pep talks, but all the noise fades to a low hum—like I’m drowning.

I’d like music and headphones to block out the commotion but even today, I can’t have any electronics.

I’ve never dealt with this kind of build-up and anticipation before a fight. Or had so many people around to bother me. Usually, it’s Remy and me in our locker room at The Castle, trading insults or giving each other pointers. Sometimes Eraser joins us to share things he learned about an opponent. Jake and Murphy would hang with us when they used to fight there. We have Lost Kings providing security in case things got out of control. On my home turf, I’m surrounded by people I’ve known for years. People I trust to watch my back no matter what.

Here, in this alien environment, who can I trust?Underhill? He’s not a coach I chose to work with. His loyalty is to the show. Venom? He’s here as my friend but up until a week ago, he was my competition.

I’ve already made so many mistakes and miscalculations about this show. Underestimated how devious these people are.

The boxing coach joins us to tape and wrap my hands, momentarily giving me something else to think about.

Underhill supervises. The worried frown creasing his forehead doesn’t do anything to ease my pre-fight nerves. “Naptime’s biggest asset in the ring is his attitude,” he says.

I raise both eyebrows. “You mean his annoyingness is a strength?”

Underhill points his finger in my face. “That. Right there. Let that shit go, Stonewall. Clear your mind of all thoughts and emotions. When you’re in the ring, you’re above that. You’re a better fighter than him every day of the week. Don’t let his cockiness distract you.”

That’s the most words I’ve ever heard come out of Underhill’s mouth at one time. “I won’t. Thanks, Coach.”

“Done.” The boxing coach taps my knuckles. “Go for the KO early. Land a bomb and finish him.”

“I’ll do my best,” I promise. “Thank you.”

Underhill checks my hands. “Don’t let his antics get to you,” he warns me again. He must really hate Naptime.

“I got it.” I’ve fought people who were more annoying.

Time keeps ticking down.

Breathe. You’re fine.

I inhale, long and deep, hold for a count of five, then let it out slowly.

Think of a word. That’s the kind of new age bullshit Eraser would tell me when we were locked up as kids. Fuck, I miss him. I’ve never been more thankful for all the visualization exercises he’s had us do over the years.

Thunderstorm.That word fits what I need to be tonight. Intense, powerful, unpredictable. Move fast. Unleash raw power.

Thunderstorm, huh. Isn’t that full circle. Molly and I got caught in one the night before I was whisked away to the house. My heart pounds faster. I wish she was here. But I’m also not sure she could handle seeing me fight. Not like this.

Eyes closed, I stand and throw a quick sequence of jabs, concentrating on each movement.

A surge of determination grips me.

Slowly, I open my eyes.

Everyone’s staring at me.

Feeling more confident by the second, my mouth tilts into a cocky line. “I’m ready.”

A guy from the show knocks on the door. “Time to go.”

Underhill grips my shoulder. “They’re gonna want you to do a stare down for the cameras. Just look that soulless punk dead in his squinty little spider eyes. Don’t flinch.”

Oddly specific description. “Uh, dead-eyed stare. Got it.”

“Make me proud.” He leans in so we’re almost nose-to-nose and pats my cheek. Christ, I hope he’s not planning to kiss me next.

We’re led down a long, brightly lit corridor. Underhill stops at a corner and holds out his arm. “We wait here,” he says.

To our left, there’s another long hallway, leading into the opening to the arena. I stand in the shadows, studying what I can see of the seats and cage. It’s not completely full but people have been crowded into the seats in the immediate area around the cage. With some clever camera work—which I know these guys are more than capable of—they’ll make it look like a packed house.

If the show brought Molly down here to see my final fight, or Remy or Vapor, they would’ve let them come see me backstage, right? Not blindside me when I’m about to go in the cage.

“Where’d they find all these people to come see this?” I ask Venom.

He stares at me for a few beats. “Probably people who work for the company or friends of the execs? Or paid actors. Who knows. It fucking sucks, though. They wouldn’t let me bring Kelly, but they let in all these strangers.”

Whatever hope that Molly, Remy, or any of my friends from home might be in the crowd as some sort of last minute “surprise” by the show dies a quick, painful death.

My disappointment seems to be misinterpreted by Venom. He grabs my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. “Hey, you’ve got this. Seriously. You were already good when you came to the house. But you trained like a beast. You were more focused. More driven. And improved the most out of anyone else there.”

My throat’s too tight to respond but I nod vigorously.

All this waiting is fucking with my head.

The opening tones of DMX’s Ruff Ryders’ Anthem pound through the building. What sounds like a cannon explodes. Sparks shoot straight up to the ceiling. Venom squints toward the hallway.

An announcer says a bunch of stuff that just sounds like gibberish from all the way back here.

“Naaaaaptiiiimee!”

“Christ, is that what he picked?” Venom shakes his head. “How does a guy with the ring name Naptime not go with Enter Sandman for his walkout song?”

I chuckle and throw my hood over my head. It has to be close to go time.

“Ruff Ryders always makes me think of the brand of condoms,” Bear Trap shouts. “Which is appropriate since Naptime’s dad definitely shoulda worn a rubber.”

I burst out laughing. “Fuck. Stop making me laugh. I’m trying to focus,” I scold.

Bear Trap grins at me.

Shaking my head, I roll my shoulders and bounce on my feet. My stomach twists with the need to purge my last ten meals.

Christ, I’ve never been this nervous before a fight. Is this what turning pro would be like? Or is it the pressure of all the people watching?

The usual detachment I find in the minutes leading up to stepping into the cage keeps escaping my grasp.

You’ve done this hundreds of times. This is just a bigger audience. That’s it.

The opening riff of the song I chose for tonightpierces the air.

“That’s my cue.” I point to the ceiling and start moving along the path, following Coach Underhill and the camera guys in front of me.

“Excellent choice.” Venom nods in time to Rage Against the Machine’s Fistful of Steel.

“I would’ve pegged you as a Calm Like a Bomb kinda dude, but this works,” Bear Trap adds.

I tap my fists together, then pop them against my cheeks a few times.

Why do I do this again?

I duck my head to avoid the glare of the lights and stare at the black slides on my feet.

One foot after the other.

Music continues to blare from the speakers. It’s not doing anything to pump me up for the fight, though.

“Stare the camera down,” Venom says against my ear.

I lift my gaze and stare into the black lens a few feet ahead of us.

Sparklers go off at the end of the hall. Heat from the arena prickles my exposed skin. We enter the main floor and the stands explode into a frenzy of movement. People lean forward waving their arms and shouting my name. I reach out and brush my fingers against a few outstretched hands.

What are the chances Naptime forfeits the fight and we can all go home?

Probably slim.

I briefly sweep my gaze over the crowd. A sea of unfamiliar faces. Mostly men. A few women. A few kids. Who the hell brings little kids to a cage match?

I flex my fingers testing the limits of the wrap job.

Block. Defend. Block. Strike, strike, strike.

“You know they green-screened a crowd behind us in the matches all season long?” Venom shouts in my ear. “This match won’t be weird and silent like the others were.”

“That’s okay.” It’s nothing but noise I can easily block out. Better than the eerie silence of the earlier matches.

All the ring girls from the house are prowling around the outside of the cage in tiny gold shorts and barely-there tops.

None of them better come over here and bother me.

I’m stopped by an official-looking guy in a black suit who points to a black rubber mat for me to stand on. I shake off the robe and hand it to Venom, then kick off the slides. Woolly picks them up and backs away.

The ref joins us and nods at me. “Mouth guard?”

I hold it out for him to check, then pop it in.

“Arms up.” He lifts his hand in case I’m confused about what he means by up.

I hold my arms out at my sides and stare straight ahead, not really taking anything in. He runs his hands under my arms and down my sides, pats my legs and checks my feet for hidden paper clips or razor blades, I guess. Then he skims his hands over my shoulders, arms, and elbows to make sure I’m not greased. He checks my gloves, then someone hands him a tube of Vaseline and he smooths a bit over my cheekbones, forehead, and nose. At The Castle we let someone else do this for the fighters.

You’re in the big leagues now.

“You may enter the cage.” The suit guy sweeps his hand dramatically through the air toward the open cage door.

“Thanks.” I nod at him.

Venom slaps my shoulders. “Get him.”

“Keep your fingers out of his butt hole,” Bear Trap warns.

The unexpected advice jars me to a stop. “What?” I laugh.

“Stuff happens.” Bear Trap shrugs.

Venom hooks his arm around Bear Trap’s neck and yanks him backward, then nods to me.

Shaking my head, I step toward the cage. One of the ring girls wearing what amounts to three glitter-coated napkins jiggles close to me, blocking my way.

“Good luck, Stonewall!” she squeals in my ear. She leans in, her heavy perfume choking off my air for a second as she reaches up and plants a sloppy kiss on my cheek, stopping to rub her barely covered breasts all over my chest and arm.

Fucking great. Sure the cameras caught all that.

I practice my dead-eyed glare on her, and she backs away quickly, almost tripping in her glittering heels. Someone grabs her by the elbow and yanks her farther away from the cage.

Shaking my head, I step up and into the cage. Naptime skips to his corner and paces back and forth, pretending not to notice me. Stupid fucking hot-pink mohawk makes him look like a rooster who’d been raised next to a nuclear waste dump. Can’t wait to get him in a headlock.

I study his movements as he paces his section of the cage. Chicken legs. I should target there first. With a good sweep I can probably crack those little toothpicks.

Still studying Naptime, I retreat to my corner.

Underhill’s on the ledge, and he reaches through, patting my shoulder. “Tire him out with those snappy punches. Watch his feet.”

I nod and accept the bottle of water Vapor passes me over the cage. I take a bit, wet my mouth, and hand him the bottle back.

“Go.” Underhill presses his hand to my chest and shoves.

A horn blares and the ref calls us to the middle of the ring.

The announcer does his long-winded, annoying spiel. He’s so loud and there’s so much blood rushing through my ears I barely hear the words. But when he looks my way and what sounds like my name comes out of his mouth, I raise my fists in the air and turn for everyone to take a good look.

People scream, shout, and wave stuff in the air.

The calm I’ve been seeking all day descends slowly. Only three people matter right now. The three in the ring—me, the ref, and Naptime—the guy who wants to punch me unconscious.

“Mr. Royal, right here.” The ref points to a spot on the floor. He places Naptime across from me and asks us to lift our fists. I stare Naptime down. His dark eyes are flat and lifeless, but he doesn’t flinch.

“All right,” the ref says. “Clean fight. Listen to my instructions. Defend yourself at all times.”

I nod to let him know I got it. We’d had the rules drilled into us all week. They weren’t that complicated.

“Tap gloves now if you want.” The ref presses his fingers to our fists. It’s basic respect for fighters to touch gloves before a fight.

Naptime glares at me, curls his lip, and shakes his head. “Nah.”

Well, fuck you, too.

“Fight!” The ref quickly backs away.

The room erupts in shouts.

I put my fists up and circle to Naptime’s right, my bare feet sliding smoothly over the padded canvas. He lashes out with a fist that whizzes by my cheek. The missed blow rocks him off-balance.

“Over-extend much?” I taunt, pivoting out of range.

He threw everything into that first punch.

Cheered by his mistake I throw a quick double jab. My fist glances off his chin. He grunts and absorbs the blow. I cross and jab again, then shuffle to the side, light on my toes.

His square jaw works from side to side and his eyes light up with anger. What’d he think I was going to do today—pet his pink hair and tell him he’s pretty?

He attacks, coming straight at me, throwing a combination of jabs with full force. I slip and weave away, managing to avoid most of the barrage while landing a few shots of my own.

Damn, I’ve been dogging Naptime the whole time I’ve been here. His annoying personality and willingness to ham it up for the cameras hides the fact that he’s skilled and fearless.

He comes at me fast, throwing more jabs, testing my response. Running on all the rage I’ve stored up over the last twelve weeks, I lash out with a quick one-two-three combination, ending with a right hook into his cheek.

His head whips around. Sweat or spit sprinkles my forearm.

“Yes! Get him!” Venom shouts.

Naptime throws his left fist. I weave to the side, missing it, but he’s quick to catch me with his right, snapping my head to the side.

Fuck, that stung.

Pissed, I charge, throwing several punches to his solar plexus. Relief courses through me as I finally have a way to set free all the fury I’ve been storing. In the ring, my anger has purpose—to win big—and I don’t hold back.

Naptime backs up quickly, his feet squeaking against the canvas. He throws a tentative test punch. I respond with an open-faced slap to his cheek, whipping his head sideways.

“Yeah! Stonewall Slap!” Venom cheers.

Naptime growls with frustration.

“Like that?” I taunt, holding out my hand like I’m gonna slap him again.

In a blur, he whips his body in a circle. His foot flies forward and collides with my temple.

The kick rocks me backward.

My vision blurs and for a second, I’m thrown back to the night Molly saw me fight and I absorbed a similar blow.

All this time I’ve been training, I should’ve worked harder on blocking kicks.

Coach warned me not to get distracted.

The seconds of hesitation cost me. Naptime advances, pushing me into the cage wall.

Nope.Not getting clinched yet.

I raise my knee, but he blocks with an elbow. Fucker. I hammer my elbow into his gut. He doubles over and I throw a punch at his cheek but end up hitting his shoulder.

He grunts and tries to punch but can’t get the angle he needs. I risk a quick kick to the side of his leg. It works and I break free, dancing to the center of the ring.

Naptime hops on one foot and dives at my midsection.

Oh, you wanna wrestle? Let’s do it.

Forget a KO, I’m dying to choke this motherfucker unconscious, make him feel every ounce of humiliation right until the moment he blacks out.

My back hits the canvas with a hard thud. Naptime lands on top of me, heavy and sweaty, struggling to pin my legs. I throw a few punches to his sides, but from this angle, there isn’t enough power behind them to do real damage.

Fuck this.I seize the moment. Hugging his arms to his sides, I roll us and flip him. Straddling his legs and keeping him pinned, I lean in and pummel his face. He balls up like a turtle, then bucks and wiggles, freeing his legs. With a bit of distance between us now, he kicks out, his foot catching me in the ribs. I roll backward, ignoring a slight pop in my knee.

I manage to keep my butt from hitting the floor by sheer force of will, and power to my feet. Fists up, I circle Naptime. Kick him? Tackle? I’m not ready to go to the ground again.

Naptime staggers to his feet. Warily, we circle each other.

He throws a jab.

Whoosh—over my head. The missed punch gives me an opening to close in and hammer his sides. I put everything into each blow.

His fist slams into my temple and I stagger back.

Stayed inside too long.Should’ve moved away faster.

Damn. I shake off the sting. His fists have more bite than I expected.

“Ninety seconds!” Underhill shouts.

Naptime throws a punch that sails by my ear. I pop him on the chin.

“Don’t over-extend!” his coach shouts.

Naptime’s going all out in this first round. I tuck my chin and lift my fists, slowly circling him, searching for an opening.

“Time!” the ref calls, sending us back to our corners.

I back away and drop onto the stool. Underhill gets in my face, checking my cheek and chin. He applies an icy eye-iron to my cheekbone where I caught one of Naptime’s fists. “He’s coming at you full power. Missing most of his shots,” Underhill says in a low voice. “Let him tire himself out. Keep your guard up. Turn your shoulder and extend those punches.”

I nod through the tips, not sure how much of it is sinking into my racing brain.

“You look good. He’s already out of breath,” Venom says. “Keep picking him apart with those strikes.”

I tip my head back so I can see him better and nod.

The ref calls us to the center again. I launch myself off the stool and get back to work.

Round two is a grind. For every two hits I land, I take one. My left side stings. I struggle not to favor it in any way that will give Naptime incentive to keep hitting me there.

“Shoulder!” Underhill keeps shouting.

No shit. I’m tryin’.

The ref calls time and I limp my way to my corner.

“You all right?” Underhill crouches in front of me and dabs at my eyebrow.

I must look as bad as I feel. “Ribs,” I mutter.

He of course probes me there.

I suck in sharp, painful breath and glare at him.

A frown creases his forehead. “Can you continue?”

“I’m fine.”

I hiss as he rubs the cold eye-iron to my face again. Another guy joins us and presses something into my eyebrow. A sharp sting pinches the spot he’s fussing with. He pulls away a small white stick covered in red.

“Just a small cut,” he assures me.

“I like to draw first blood,” I joke.

“You did.” Underhill grins. “Got him right under his eye.”

“Take him down,” Venom says. “You can easily dominate him, tire him out, and score more points.”

I turn to look at him. “Nah, I thought we’d try breakdancing next.”

He snorts. “Finish this asshole.”

The ref calls us back.

“Watch his feet,” Underhill warns me as I stand.

I jump up and down a few times and shake my head from side to side. My second wind billows through me and I tap my fists together. Ready for war.

The crowd screams as I approach Naptime.

I size him up. How am I going to disguise my takedown? He’s too good to fall for a double leg shot. Let him come at me with some punches, then duck, catch his leg and drag him to the canvas?

I’d like to punch him a few more times. Wear him down before I take him to the floor.

My fist connects with his chest, then his chin. He staggers backward and I keep the pressure on, landing blow after blow.

The roar of the crowd intensifies.

Naptime bobs, weaves, and tries to block my strikes.

Damn, he’s fast with his feet. I lean in for another combination. He dodges and kicks out. Pain slams into the side of my knee. My ass hits the canvas hard, jarring my spine. I pull my legs in and kick, catching Naptime’s thigh.

He slams onto the floor next to me.

Party time.

He rolls and scrambles away.

Oh no you don’t.“Get back here.” I dive for him, sweeping and rolling him to his back. His eyes widen and he kicks and flops away like a fish trying to get back to the river.

The fuck?

Is his ground game that bad?

I trap and isolate his legs and pound him with my fists. Anywhere and everywhere. He defends and blocks, not letting me get close enough to apply arm pressure. I just need an opening to secure a choke and force him to submit.

He squirms and flips.

Perfect. I cover his back and slip my arm right under his chin, tightening and cranking his head to an awkward angle.

The crowd loses it—screaming, stomping feet. I block out the noise and keep applying pressure.

Naptime chokes and burbles but doesn’t give up. He grabs at my arm and pulls. I tighten the choke.

His body stills.

Where’s the fucking ref?

Naptime taps my arm. Once. Twice.

Finally.

Panting hard, I loosen my grip but don’t totally release him. The ref saw Naptime tap out, right? Why isn’t he coming over here? He should’ve pulled us apart by now.

Naptime wriggles out from under me. Pain explodes along my jaw. I raise my arm to block. He elbows me again, this time catching my wrist.

Dirty fucking cheater with the fake tap out.

He never made the third tap. I can’t believe I fell for that.

Furious, I charge him, throwing punch after punch. Fuck a submission. I’m aiming for his chin and a knockout.

Hot pain sprays over my temple. My vision blurs red. Blood drips down my cheek, splattering on the canvas. Fuck.

Now that I’m freely bleeding, he aims for the spot again and again. I get my knee up, hitting him in the gut and throw more punches to his ribs and temple. Fury obliterates my last bit of restraint. I go after him with everything. Strike after strike.

He turns his back and I tackle him in another chokehold, wrenching his arm until something pops.

He struggles and kicks back, striking my knee. I grunt and force the pain away.

A bell screams.

“Time!” the ref shouts, grabbing my arm and pulling me away.

Naptime falls to the ground.

The ref helps him up and we both stagger into the middle. I spit my mouth guard into my hand and run my tongue around my mouth. The tang of blood coats my tongue but none of my teeth seem to be loose or missing.

Underhill runs over and cleans my face, wiping the blood out of my eye. “Good job,” he says.

I nod, waiting for the decision.

Breathing hard, I stare at my feet. Bright red drip, drip, drips onto the floor. Huh. Is that coming from me? Am I still bleeding?

I had to have won, right? Especially the last round. I landed more strikes and I dominated the ground. If Naptime hadn’t suckered me with his fake-ass tap out, I definitely would’ve won. The judges saw that, right?

“We have a winner by split decision!” the announcer shouts.

“What?” I look up and frown, pain slashing through my forehead.

Underhill’s scowling at the ref. “That’s not possible. Royal won. It’s so fucking obvious.”

A sick feeling rolls through my stomach that has nothing to do with the blood loss.

The announcer reads the results. The first one awards Naptime the win by a razor thin margin. The second one is for me by a much larger spread. The third goes to Naptime.

Shock rolls through my body in waves. But I smooth my face into a mask of indifference. I turn, arm outstretched, even though I’d rather chew rocks than shake Naptime’s filthy, dirty, cheating hand. But it’s the honorable thing to do. Win or lose.

Naptime’s dazed eyes drop to my hand.

His body sways.

He clutches his shoulder and keels over, hitting the mat with a thud that reverberates up my legs.

Did he have a heart attack?

I look past him to the three judges sitting at a table right outside the ring. Their jaws drop and their eyes widen. None of them will meet my stare.

Kiki rushes into the cage, her entrance so dramatic, it deserves its own theme song. She falls to her knees and starts wailing, her tear-streaked cheeks aimed at the cameras.

Guess now I know who she hooked up with.

Matt actually steps over Naptime’s prone body and shoves a microphone in my face. “Lost the fight and the girl. How do you feel, Stonewall?”

I glare at him and bite back the fuck you I’m dying to spit out.

How do I feel?

Like this was rigged all along.

No. Don’t say that. It’ll sound like the whining of a bitter loser.

Chin up.

“I feel good.” I force a pained smile. Blood and sweat sting my eyes and blur my vision. “I fought hard. Naptime was a strong opponent.” And also a dirty fucking cheater. I glance over my shoulder. “I guess when he wakes up from his nap you can ask him what he thinks.”

Matt’s jaw drops and I take that moment to walk away. If he’d put the mic in my hand, I’d throw it at his feet. I’m out and don’t give a fuck if he’s done with his asinine questions or not.

Venom meets me at the cage door. My body sways to the side as I step down. Huh. Those steps didn’t seem so wobbly when I went into the cage.

I plant my feet on the concrete floor of the arena, but the wobbliness doesn’t go away. Is this place built above a train station or something?

“You all right, bud?” Venom frowns and peers into my eyes.

“Fine.”

His frown deepens.

“Split decision. Utter bullshit,” Venom mutters. “You clearly had the better moves. You landed double the hits. You dominated him on the ground. He tried to flop away like an eel.” He shakes his head. “This is how they wanted it to go.”

That’s my gut feeling too, but I’m a little too close to the matter to be objective.

“What the fuck?” Bear Trap yells, running up to us but staring at the commotion still going on inside the cage. “There’s no way he won. Zero. None. The fuck is wrong with those judges?”

“Let it go,” I mumble. There’s nothing I hate more than a sore loser. The judges gave the fight to Naptime. I refuse to argue or complain. It won’t change the outcome. It’ll only make me look like a whiner.

Underhill’s voice booms through the crowd. We turn in time to catch him shoving the ref against the cage wall.

Apparently other people have no problem arguing about the result. Heh. Who knew Underhill cared about me that much?

As the adrenaline slowly leaks from my body, pain races in to replace it. Confusion scatters my thoughts. Blood drips from my chin, rolling down my chest.

“Stonewall?” Venom shouts. “You okay?”

“I’m good.”

Underhill’s somehow next to me again. He wraps a thick arm around my waist, holding me up. “Let’s get him checked out. He needs stitches.”

“On my face?” I mutter.

“Yeah, you’ll still be pretty. Don’t worry.” Harsh laughter brushes close to my ear. “You fucked Naptime up good. He’s still out cold.”

“Then how is he the winner?” Venom shouts.

“Don’t get me started,” Underhill seethes.

I dig deep but can’t find any compassion for Naptime’s condition. “He fought dirty,” I mumble.

“Yeah. I saw the fake tap out,” Underhill says.

At least I’m not crazy.

Anger roughens the coach’s voice. “Ref blew that one.”

Two paramedics with a stretcher rush into the cage. My gaze follows them for a few seconds. Maybe a ride on one of those things wouldn’t be so bad.

“He’s gonna need some painkillers tomorrow,” Bear Trap mutters.

Huh. When’d he get here?

“No painkillers,” I murmur.

I close my eyes and rest my head on Venom’s shoulder. Just for a second.

“Shit. He needs to go to a hospital.” Venom’s worried voice sounds so far away.

Hospital sounds good.