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“Who’s he got?” I asked.
Maurice’s smile thinned. “Local boy,” he said. “Been doing some desert work overseas. Good matchup. You’ll see.”
He checked his watch, then jerked his chin toward the main hall. “Show’s starting. Sit tight, Post. You’re on deck after the kid and one more.”
He disappeared, sliding back into the crowd as if he’d never been with us at all.
Tyler exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding that breath since he got here.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he lied. “My wife texted before I came in.” He fumbled with his phone, then shoved it into his gym bag. “She’s got an ultrasound in the morning. I told her I’d make it. Just… gotta get through this first.”
Something twisted low in my gut.
“What’s her name?” I asked.
He blinked. “Em,” he said. “Emily. She hates it when I call her that, but I do it anyway.”
“Then you make sure you get there,” I said. “Don’t give her a reason to be pissed.”
He huffed a little laugh. “Yes, sir.”
I didn’t correct him.
A few minutes later, one of the door guys bellowed down the hall. “Tyler! You’re up.”
Tyler blew out another breath, and stood up. I had a real bad feeling about this.
“Guard up,” I said. “Breathe. Don’t let adrenaline make you stupid. You’re not here to prove you’re the toughest guy in the room. You’re here to get paid and walk out.”
He nodded jerkily, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Walk out,” he repeated.
“For your wife. For your baby.”
I watched him disappear toward the cage without looking back.
From my spot in the shadow of the bottling corridor, I could see the whole floor.
Maurice climbed a set of metal stairs bolted to the outside of the cage and stepped inside with the kind of swagger you only got from believing your own bullshit. Someone handed him a microphone. The feedback whined once, then cut.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he boomed, voice echoing off crumbling brick and decaying rafters. “Welcome.”
The crowd roared back—cheers, whistles, the slap of hands on railings.
“Tonight,” Maurice continued, “we’ve got three contests for your entertainment. Three tests of heart, skill, and will. We’ll build it up slow… and then end with something truly special.”
His eyes cut my way briefly. He winked.
Great. Just fucking great.
“For our first bout,” he said, “we have a soldier who served in Europe, a man who’s come here from Alabama to show you what he’s made of. Give it up for Tyler.”
The crowd’s response was polite but not ecstatic. Tyler ducked through the cage door, shoulders tight, doing his best to look bigger than he was. More confident. It wasn’t working.
“And his opponent,” Maurice went on, “from right here in our own backyard. Two desert tours. A man who eats pain for breakfast. Make some noise for Kobi.”
The man who stepped in opposite Tyler was about the same height, same weight class. That’s where the similarity ended.
