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ONE
My opponent’s heel lands on my ribs as he completes a spinning back kick, and I curse to myself. Not only from the pain shooting through my side, but because I should have seen that coming. I know exactly who I’m fighting, and I know his strength is in Muay Thai. Which means I need to get this fucker to the ground. While he would rather keep this fight standing, I know that when I get him to the octagon floor, I have the advantage. And he knows this too.
I step sideways as he brings his knee up to the same spot on my ribs, but he misses. Before he can reposition himself, I duck to bring my head under his arm. And as I wrap my arm around his leg, I can feel him stiffen to fight off the takedown. But I pull his leg up, and he goes right down to the ground. The sound of his back hitting the padded canvas of the octagon floor is almost drowned out by the cheer from the crowd, and a thrill shoots through me. I straddle his hips and attempt a hit to the side of his head, but he blocks my fist with his arm.
Perfect.
My hand immediately finds the back of his arm, pulling it across his chest as I press my upper body against him to keep him here. And if I can finish this move, I’ll have him. But I also know this guy beneath me. And in every fight against him, he escapes at least one of my holds. Luca Mitchell is a nimble motherfucker. And that’s one of the many things I hate about him.
Just as I expected, he raises his hips in an attempt to unbalance me and turn out of my hold on him. But I’m one step ahead.
I blink away the sweat dripping into my eye and feel the swelling from his hit on my face earlier. But I don’t care, because I’m so close. This will be over in one more move.
Or maybe I do care a bit, because I elbow the side of his head for good measure as I tuck my arm under his neck. The grunt that escapes him is music to my ears.
I move quickly, shifting to the side and wrapping my legs around his upper torso, pulling his arm back. Luca grunts again, and I zero in on the feel of his outstretched arm in my grasp as I have him in an armbar. The cheers from the crowd fade away as my entire focus shifts to finishing this. Because I have to win. This fight is my ticket out of here.
My breath is loud in my ears and my muscles strain as I hold his outstretched arm tight to my chest. Then I pull his arm harder, and I wait. He’ll tap out soon. He has to. Because this has got to fucking hurt.
He tries to turn his body to move out of my hold, but he can’t.
I got him.
And he taps.
As I release him and jump to my feet, a deep breath fills my lungs. My eyes close, my head tilts back, and I bring my hands to my swelling face.
Fuck. Yes.
The cheers from the crowd rush in as my focus returns to the arena, and I scan the rows of people through the cage walls. Most of them are out of their seats as they jump and cheer, while others are still sitting and murmuring their displeasure. But fuck those people, they came to my town. And I beat their golden boy.
My eyes finally find who I’m looking for as they land on Max Fairburn. A retired UFC fighter, who is opening a brand-new training gym in his hometown of St. Louis. Which is just a few hours from this shitty town that I am so desperate to get out of. He is building a team of fighters from all over the world, and I’ve been tracking what he’s built so far. I’ve heard he only has one spot left to fill, and he’s here tonight to find a local fighter to bring to his gym. And I know he wants a welterweight.
I’m a welterweight.
And I just won.
Max is standing, arms crossed over his chest with an approving and thoughtful nod towards the octagon. I take another deep breath and tear my gaze away from him. I just beat my only real competition here, so I know I have a chance.
As I look towards my battered opponent in his corner, I let the relief take over for a moment. Luca Mitchell is the only person who stood in my way of this opportunity. As we are both welterweights and live in neighbouring counties, we fight often. And we’re constantly battling for the top spot in regional rankings, as we’ve evenly held the first and second spots for years. But tonight, I move into first, while he drops to second.
Luca grabs a towel from one of the guys in his corner and wipes his face, but I stay right where I am. Sweat drips down my forehead and stings a cut over my eyebrow, but it can wait. This moment is too important. Energy buzzes inside me at the thought of making Max’s team, and taking the next step on my path to the Ultimate Fighting Championship.
The referee grabs my wrist, and calls Luca to the middle of the octagon. As he walks over to us, he keeps his head down and his jaw tight. A satisfied smirk graces my lips as I take in the swelling and bruising beginning over his eye. His messy, dirty blonde curls are drenched in sweat, and he looks exhausted.
Good.
“And the winner, by submission, is Tyler Roscoe!” the ref announces as he lifts my arm in the air.
My hometown crowd erupts in cheers, and I once again slide my gaze to Max Fairburn. He’s still watching with that same approving look. That’s got to be a good sign.
And because I need one more look at how badly I’ve put Luca Mitchell in his place, I bring my eyes back to him. He is still seething as he keeps his eyes cast down, and now I feel fucking fantastic.
But then he looks up at me, and smirks.
The ref lowers my arm and lets go of us, but Luca keeps that smug looking smirk in place as his eyes roam over my face. Like he’s proud of what he did to me.
I swallow tightly and keep staring back at him, tightening my fists at my sides. I’m about to step into him and put him back in his fucking place when a hand lands on my shoulder. I turn my head to see Evan from my corner.
