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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.
