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I clutched my phone in one hand and my fizzy mocktail in the other, heart pounding as I watched the ring and the crowd from my front row seat. I wanted something stronger to drink, but I was working tonight. My note app was open, ready to capture the highlights of the main fight.
My smartwatch vibrated on my wrist, informing me of my elevated heart rate. The energy of the evening was getting to me. The air vibrated with excitement as fans chanted Ryder's name.
The crowd went wild as his entrance music blared through the speakers and flooded the room. My eyes locked on Ryder as he emerged from the entrance, all muscle and lethal grace. He raised his gloved fists in the air to the crowd as he passed. My pulse continued to pound, racing while I stood still, waiting for him to make it to the front row. He scanned the row until he found me, and the intensity of his gaze once we made eye contact sent a shiver careening down my neck and back.
My smartwatch vibrated again, and I caught a brief flash across the screen. Without taking my eyes off Ryder, I already knew what the little device wanted. It recorded my elevated pulse and thought I was about to work out.
The kind of physical activity I was thinking about doing with Ryder wasn’t on the watch’s workout menu.
I took a breath as Ryder tore his gaze away and climbed into the ring. Back to reality. I needed to get my head into this fight, too.
Ryder told me days ago how much it would mean to him if I watched his fight. I wondered since then if he said it because he wanted me to write a good story or that he actually wanted me here.
There I went again, overthinking. I sat down and took a sip of my drink and let the fizz play on my tongue. Regardless of what he meant, this was working out well for both of us. Here was his chance to retain the title and win the prize money, and I got a chance to cover the biggest MMA fight of the season.
The ref stood in the middle of the ring between the two opponents. He rattled off the rules to them, then signaled for the fight to begin. I leaned forward in my seat.
The crowd roared as Ryder and Liam circled each other, fists raised. Liam struck first, lightning quick, but Ryder dodged and landed a punch of his own.
I winced at the sound of leather gloves pounding on flesh. My heart pommeled as the fighters exchanged blows, a brutal dance of dodging and attacking.
Ryder's charisma shone through with every move. He moved in the ring with the lethal grace of a predatory cat, his skilled footwork a strategic dance. He played to the crowd, inciting them to cheer louder, all while keeping his focus on Liam. His left fist shot out in a swift southpaw. Then he followed with a right hook before Liam could block. Each punch he landed drew a roar of approval. He was in his element, fueled by the adrenaline and the love of the fight.
My thumbs flew across my phone screen, typing words to capture what I witnessed. In less than two minutes, Ryder won the first round, landing a jab to Liam’s chest. I cheered. The guy next to me got a little too excited and kicked over my drink, but I was too focused on the match to mind.
The fight between Ryder and Liam heated up in the second and third rounds. Ryder won the second, while Liam collected more points in the third with a series of fast strikes and fierce kicks. He repeated his success in the fourth round.
Now the two men were matched. The fight could go either way in the fifth and final round. I gripped the railing in front of the first row, torn between anxiety and awe at Ryder's skill.
This final round came down to endurance. Liam fought back hard. Ryder dug deep, standing strong against his assault. He waited for an opening and landed another punch that sent his opponent sprawling.
He closed in as Liam staggered to get on shaky feet. Liam launched a crooked left jab, only for Ryder to dodge and get his right arm into a fierce submission hold. He used a foot sweep to take out his legs. Liam fell to the ground, twisting in vain to get out.
The ref called the match. Ryder won.
I sprung to my feet along with the crowd. Ryder searched the sea of faces, sweat dripping down his brow and his expression alight with triumph. Then his eyes fell on me again. I paused, my stomach tightening as I picked up on his raw energy. His eyes darkened with a simmering emotion that made me think of power, sex, and possession. Right there in the Warriors Den, my clit throbbed amid the drone of applause and the steady bass of Ryder’s theme music pumping through the speakers.
Media swarmed towards him as he moved through the aisle, eager to capture these celebratory moments. More spilled food and drinks littered the aisles. I had to keep a tight grip on my phone, as well as make sure my heels didn’t land in sticky soda. No sense in ending up KO’ed before I had my chance to ask Ryder questions.
I fought my way through the crowd to get out of the arena. Veering left, I strode down a less crowded but still noisy portion of the facility. My feet hurt as I speed-walked on the concrete floor to get to the press room. Other reporters, mostly guys in polos and designer sneakers, raced past me, some colliding against my side without a second thought. I understood how sports coverage, especially MMA, could get aggressive, but the least they could do was watch where they were going or say excuse me.
I showed my media pass to security at the door of the press room. They nodded and let me in to stand among my colleagues. The guys were jockeying for the best spot closest to the table where Ryder would soon be seated.
Ryder did it. His win meant the dog shelter would be getting the upgrade after all. Warmth filled my chest as I thought about the service dogs getting adopted and both them and their new owners getting the companionship they needed. This world of Ryder’s, with its blood, sweat, and rough edges, was also capable of producing good to the world.
My mind centered on those thoughts while I waited for the man of the hour to show his handsome face.
All of us stood in the room for another twenty minutes. Then the rear door opened, and a freshly showered and athleisure-clothed Ryder crossed the threshold. The line of journalists and camera crew in front of me surged forward. He took a seat at the table while, as usual, the journalists hurled their questions and shouted over each other for his attention. I was hardly any better as I moved along the side, stepping over cords and raising my phone over people’s heads to record his words.
As I got closer to the table, I felt a familiar flutter in my stomach. It wasn't just the excitement of the fight; it was him.
Someone asked him a question about how Liam was doing. “He’s good. I think he did well for his first main event here.”
“Is he licking his wounds?” Another journalist cut in.
Ryder remained diplomatic; his expression unchanged. “His team is taking care of him. I’m certain this isn’t the last time we’ll see him in the main event.” He broke into a smile. “Now can somebody ask me a question that won’t get me into another fight tonight?”
Amid the lull of chuckles, I called out his name. “Ryder.”
