Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
His square jaw works from side to side and his eyes light up with anger. What’d he think I was going to do today—pet his pink hair and tell him he’s pretty?
He attacks, coming straight at me, throwing a combination of jabs with full force. I slip and weave away, managing to avoid most of the barrage while landing a few shots of my own.
Damn, I’ve been dogging Naptime the whole time I’ve been here. His annoying personality and willingness to ham it up for the cameras hides the fact that he’s skilled and fearless.
He comes at me fast, throwing more jabs, testing my response. Running on all the rage I’ve stored up over the last twelve weeks, I lash out with a quick one-two-three combination, ending with a right hook into his cheek.
His head whips around. Sweat or spit sprinkles my forearm.
“Yes! Get him!” Venom shouts.
Naptime throws his left fist. I weave to the side, missing it, but he’s quick to catch me with his right, snapping my head to the side.
Fuck, that stung.
Pissed, I charge, throwing several punches to his solar plexus. Relief courses through me as I finally have a way to set free all the fury I’ve been storing. In the ring, my anger has purpose—to win big—and I don’t hold back.
Naptime backs up quickly, his feet squeaking against the canvas. He throws a tentative test punch. I respond with an open-faced slap to his cheek, whipping his head sideways.
“Yeah! Stonewall Slap!” Venom cheers.
Naptime growls with frustration.
“Like that?” I taunt, holding out my hand like I’m gonna slap him again.
In a blur, he whips his body in a circle. His foot flies forward and collides with my temple.
The kick rocks me backward.
My vision blurs and for a second, I’m thrown back to the night Molly saw me fight and I absorbed a similar blow.
All this time I’ve been training, I should’ve worked harder on blocking kicks.
Coach warned me not to get distracted.
The seconds of hesitation cost me. Naptime advances, pushing me into the cage wall.
Nope. Not getting clinched yet.
I raise my knee, but he blocks with an elbow. Fucker. I hammer my elbow into his gut. He doubles over and I throw a punch at his cheek but end up hitting his shoulder.
He grunts and tries to punch but can’t get the angle he needs. I risk a quick kick to the side of his leg. It works and I break free, dancing to the center of the ring.
Naptime hops on one foot and dives at my midsection.
Oh, you wanna wrestle? Let’s do it.
Forget a KO, I’m dying to choke this motherfucker unconscious, make him feel every ounce of humiliation right until the moment he blacks out.
My back hits the canvas with a hard thud. Naptime lands on top of me, heavy and sweaty, struggling to pin my legs. I throw a few punches to his sides, but from this angle, there isn’t enough power behind them to do real damage.
Fuck this. I seize the moment. Hugging his arms to his sides, I roll us and flip him. Straddling his legs and keeping him pinned, I lean in and pummel his face. He balls up like a turtle, then bucks and wiggles, freeing his legs. With a bit of distance between us now, he kicks out, his foot catching me in the ribs. I roll backward, ignoring a slight pop in my knee.
I manage to keep my butt from hitting the floor by sheer force of will, and power to my feet. Fists up, I circle Naptime. Kick him? Tackle? I’m not ready to go to the ground again.
Naptime staggers to his feet. Warily, we circle each other.
He throws a jab.
Whoosh—over my head. The missed punch gives me an opening to close in and hammer his sides. I put everything into each blow.
His fist slams into my temple and I stagger back.
Stayed inside too long. Should’ve moved away faster.
Damn. I shake off the sting. His fists have more bite than I expected.
“Ninety seconds!” Underhill shouts.
Naptime throws a punch that sails by my ear. I pop him on the chin.
“Don’t over-extend!” his coach shouts.
Naptime’s going all out in this first round. I tuck my chin and lift my fists, slowly circling him, searching for an opening.
“Time!” the ref calls, sending us back to our corners.
I back away and drop onto the stool. Underhill gets in my face, checking my cheek and chin. He applies an icy eye-iron to my cheekbone where I caught one of Naptime’s fists. “He’s coming at you full power. Missing most of his shots,” Underhill says in a low voice. “Let him tire himself out. Keep your guard up. Turn your shoulder and extend those punches.”
I nod through the tips, not sure how much of it is sinking into my racing brain.
“You look good. He’s already out of breath,” Venom says. “Keep picking him apart with those strikes.”