Page 92 of Main Event

The locker room before a title fight is different from everything that came before it.

Not louder—quieter, actually. It says everything without a word. Everything unnecessary has been stripped away, leaving only what matters. No jokes, no music, no performance. Reyes taping my hands in the corner, Mack standing near the door with his arms crossed, the two corner men moving around us with the efficiency of people who have done this before and know that efficiency is the only thing that matters now.

I close my eyes, and I breathe.

Twelve weeks of work behind me. Four days since the licensing complaints landed, and I decided they could wait until Monday. Three hours since Andi kissed me in the hotel room, said she’d be in the second row, aisle, and walked out like she wasn’t terrified, because she knows that my seeing she’s terrified doesn’t help either of us.

She’s in the second row on the aisle right now. Brandon is beside her.

I breathe.

Reyes finishes my hands. He stands in front of me, looking at me for a long moment without a word. He does this before every fight—the final read, the last assessment. I let him look.

“Sharp,” he says.

Same word as five weeks ago. But different now—earned differently, carrying more weight.

“Yes,” I say.

“He’s good,” Reyes says, meaning my opponent. Carlos Vega, twenty-eight, twelve and one, the number two-ranked contender to my number three. “He’s patient. He’ll wait for you to come to him.”

“I know.”

“So don’t come to him.”

“I know.”

Reyes nods once. “Make him take the fight he doesn’t want to have.”

Mack, from the door, says, “Time.”

I stand up.

It’s time.

The walk to the ring is an experience in itself.

The arena is full—seventeen thousand people, the distinct roar of a crowd that’s been waiting and is finally getting what it came for. I walk behind Mack, not looking at the crowd, not looking at the ring, not thinking about Andi in the second row, the licensing complaints, or the story that’s supposed to break Monday morning.

I think about Vega’s jab. The way he sets up the right hand behind it. The tell in his shoulder drop before he throws it.

I get in the ring.

The announcer takes the center. The arena goes up in anticipation and then pulls back to something close to quiet for the introductions—seventeen thousand people going quiet the way crowds do when they want to hear what’s being said.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the main event of the evening—twelve rounds of boxing for the WBC heavyweight title eliminator. The winner will become the mandatory number one contender for the heavyweight championship of the world. The opponent first. Vega, in red and gold, twelve and one, fighting out of Miami.”

The crowd gives him his due.

Then me.

“And his opponent—fighting out of Atlanta, Georgia, wearing black and silver, with a professional record of sixteen wins, one loss, fourteen wins by knockout—ladies and gentlemen, Luke—Woods!”

The arena goes up again. Louder this time, or maybe it just feels that way because it’s my name in it.

I look at Mack in the corner.

He nods once.