Chapter 10

TEN

COLE

T he stench of sweat and anticipation was overwhelming as I sat in the old locker room. I wrapped my hands in cloth, layering the fabric over my knuckles with precision born of years of experience.

The thrill of the upcoming combat blazed inside me like wildfire. Fighting had always been more than just a means to an end. It had started as a way to release the pent-up rage and frustration that had festered within me because of the abuse from my father. It was a way to reclaim some semblance of control over my own life.

But as the years passed and the scars of my past began to fade, fighting had evolved into something more—it had become a part of who I was, a primal instinct that drove me forward with a ferocity that bordered on obsession. In the ring, surrounded by the roar of the crowd and the clash of bodies, I felt alive in a way that I never did anywhere else. It was a place where I could let go of the burdens of the past and simply be myself—a place where I was truly free.

I continued wrapping my hands in preparation. Each loop, each tug, a ritual.

As I worked, my mind turned to thoughts of the fight ahead, adrenaline coursing through my veins. My opponent was a wildcard, a relative unknown in the underground circuit, but that only fueled the fire burning within me. I craved the challenge. The rush. The sweet taste of victory.

I'd been training tirelessly for this fight, pushing myself to the limit. But as the moment of reckoning loomed closer, a different kind of strength took hold of me. Once this fight was over, once I emerged victorious from the ring, it was time to make things right with Salem. She deserved better, and I was determined to prove that I was worthy of her love. With that thought at the forefront of my mind, I steeled myself for the challenge ahead, ready to fight not just for victory, but for a chance at redemption.

Just as I finished wrapping my hands, the door to the locker room swung open, and Lennox strode in, his presence like a thunderclap in the suffocating stillness of the space. His eyes met mine as he took in the sight of me gearing up for the fight.

"You ready for this, Brother?" he asked, his voice low and gruff.

I nodded, a smile teasing my lips. "Always," I replied. "You know me, Lennox. I live for this shit."

Lennox chuckled as he moved to sit beside me. His presence was a comforting anchor in the midst of the chaos swirling around us. "That's what I'm afraid of," he joked, his tone light but tinged with a hint of concern. "Just make sure you don't get yourself killed out there, alright?"

I scoffed with mock indignation, rolling my eyes at his words. "Who do you think you're talking to? I'm not some rookie who's gonna go down without a fight."

Lennox grinned, his teeth a flash of white in the dim light of the locker room. "That's the spirit." He clapped me on the shoulder with a force that nearly knocked the wind out of me. "But seriously, Cole, be careful out there. This guy might be a wildcard, but that just means he's unpredictable. Keep your guard up and watch your back."

I nodded. Lennox was right—I couldn't afford to underestimate my opponent, not in a place like this where the line between victory and defeat was razor-thin.

"Thanks, bro," I said, my voice quiet but filled with gratitude. "I'll keep that in mind."

With a final nod, Lennox stood, his solid form towering over me like a mountain of granite. "Kick some ass out there, Cole," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I've got good money on this one."

I watched him go, a surge of appreciation for my brother streaming through me. Lennox had never missed a single one of my fights. He was always there in my corner, unwavering in his support.

With a deep breath, I rose to my feet, exited the locker room, and made my way toward the ring.

As I entered the ring, there was no fanfare, no grandiose introduction—just the sound of tonight's crowd. I squared off against my opponent, my muscles tensing as we circled each other in a dance of deadly intent.

The first blow came swiftly in a blur of motion as my opponent lunged forward with a ferocity that mirrored mine. I dodged and weaved, my reflexes honed by years of training as I countered with a strike of my own. The impact reverberated through my bones like a jolt of electricity, sending a thrill coursing through my veins.

We traded blows, and the roar of the crowd soon faded into the background, drowned out by the thunderous rhythm of our bodies colliding in a symphony of violence.

With each punch, each kick, I felt a burst of exhilaration—a primal high that left me feeling more alive than I ever had . The pain was a distant echo, smothered by unrelenting adrenaline.

And then, in a moment of perfect clarity, I saw my opening—a split-second window of opportunity that promised victory or defeat. With a roar of triumph, I seized the moment, delivering a final blow that sent my opponent crashing to the ground in a heap.

The crowd erupted into a frenzy of cheers and applause, but I barely registered their elation. All that mattered was the sweet taste of success on my lips as I stood victorious in the center of the ring.

As the adrenaline began to fade, I glanced toward the sidelines, where Lennox stood watching with a proud smile on his face. In that moment, I again felt overwhelming gratitude for my brother—for his unwavering support, and for his steadfast presence in my corner through every win and loss.

With a nod of thanks, I exited the ring, the echoes of victory ringing in my ears as I made my way back to the locker room. But even as I basked in the glow of my supremacy, I knew that the fight was far from over. The fight for my girl was only just beginning.