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)
I tip my head back so I can see him better and nod.
The ref calls us to the center again. I launch myself off the stool and get back to work.
Round two is a grind. For every two hits I land, I take one. My left side stings. I struggle not to favor it in any way that will give Naptime incentive to keep hitting me there.
“Shoulder!” Underhill keeps shouting.
No shit. I’m tryin’.
The ref calls time and I limp my way to my corner.
“You all right?” Underhill crouches in front of me and dabs at my eyebrow.
I must look as bad as I feel. “Ribs,” I mutter.
He of course probes me there.
I suck in sharp, painful breath and glare at him.
A frown creases his forehead. “Can you continue?”
“I’m fine.”
I hiss as he rubs the cold eye-iron to my face again. Another guy joins us and presses something into my eyebrow. A sharp sting pinches the spot he’s fussing with. He pulls away a small white stick covered in red.
“Just a small cut,” he assures me.
“I like to draw first blood,” I joke.
“You did.” Underhill grins. “Got him right under his eye.”
“Take him down,” Venom says. “You can easily dominate him, tire him out, and score more points.”
I turn to look at him. “Nah, I thought we’d try breakdancing next.”
He snorts. “Finish this asshole.”
The ref calls us back.
“Watch his feet,” Underhill warns me as I stand.
I jump up and down a few times and shake my head from side to side. My second wind billows through me and I tap my fists together. Ready for war.
The crowd screams as I approach Naptime.
I size him up. How am I going to disguise my takedown? He’s too good to fall for a double leg shot. Let him come at me with some punches, then duck, catch his leg and drag him to the canvas?
I’d like to punch him a few more times. Wear him down before I take him to the floor.
My fist connects with his chest, then his chin. He staggers backward and I keep the pressure on, landing blow after blow.
The roar of the crowd intensifies.
Naptime bobs, weaves, and tries to block my strikes.
Damn, he’s fast with his feet. I lean in for another combination. He dodges and kicks out. Pain slams into the side of my knee. My ass hits the canvas hard, jarring my spine. I pull my legs in and kick, catching Naptime’s thigh.
He slams onto the floor next to me.
Party time.
He rolls and scrambles away.
Oh no you don’t. “Get back here.” I dive for him, sweeping and rolling him to his back. His eyes widen and he kicks and flops away like a fish trying to get back to the river.
The fuck?
Is his ground game that bad?
I trap and isolate his legs and pound him with my fists. Anywhere and everywhere. He defends and blocks, not letting me get close enough to apply arm pressure. I just need an opening to secure a choke and force him to submit.
He squirms and flips.
Perfect. I cover his back and slip my arm right under his chin, tightening and cranking his head to an awkward angle.
The crowd loses it—screaming, stomping feet. I block out the noise and keep applying pressure.
Naptime chokes and burbles but doesn’t give up. He grabs at my arm and pulls. I tighten the choke.
His body stills.
Where’s the fucking ref?
Naptime taps my arm. Once. Twice.
Finally.
Panting hard, I loosen my grip but don’t totally release him. The ref saw Naptime tap out, right? Why isn’t he coming over here? He should’ve pulled us apart by now.
Naptime wriggles out from under me. Pain explodes along my jaw. I raise my arm to block. He elbows me again, this time catching my wrist.
Dirty fucking cheater with the fake tap out.
He never made the third tap. I can’t believe I fell for that.
Furious, I charge him, throwing punch after punch. Fuck a submission. I’m aiming for his chin and a knockout.
Hot pain sprays over my temple. My vision blurs red. Blood drips down my cheek, splattering on the canvas. Fuck.
Now that I’m freely bleeding, he aims for the spot again and again. I get my knee up, hitting him in the gut and throw more punches to his ribs and temple. Fury obliterates my last bit of restraint. I go after him with everything. Strike after strike.
He turns his back and I tackle him in another chokehold, wrenching his arm until something pops.
He struggles and kicks back, striking my knee. I grunt and force the pain away.
A bell screams.
“Time!” the ref shouts, grabbing my arm and pulling me away.
Naptime falls to the ground.
The ref helps him up and we both stagger into the middle. I spit my mouth guard into my hand and run my tongue around my mouth. The tang of blood coats my tongue but none of my teeth seem to be loose or missing.