Tap Out (24 page)

He hands it over and I shoulder it. Rob stays quiet, mumbling to himself a couple of times, but I don't ask for clarification. Whatever he's saying is for him alone. Whatever gets him through. That's just how it is sometimes. One step, one word, and then another.

I grab the door handle at the center and steal a look at him before opening it. His eyes are fixed and hard, his jaw's set, and he's breathing from his nose. Fuck yeah. Let's do this.

The ticket window blocks us. Fuck, we have to pay.

“Ten bucks each.” The woman behind the counter doesn't even look up.

I turn toward Rob but then back, because I don't know what to say to him. There's a small sign taped to the window:
Fighters, lockers in the basement.
“He's on the card.”

The woman looks at us now, just glancing at me, but her eyes linger on Rob. She returns to me. “And you?”

“I'm his trainer.” I lift Rob's bag off my shoulder.

She looks at it and then back to Rob, who hasn't said shit. I so want to turn around and see what bad-ass motherfucking glare he's throwing this bitch, but I won't risk it, she's on the verge. I can tell. Sure enough, she sighs. “Go on in.”

We pass through, and I feel like I've just won a round. I turn back to Rob to pound fists, but he just points straight ahead.

Amir, Phil, Mike, Coach, and a handful of the guys from the gym crowd around the seats at the corner of the ring. Even the Blob's here. “All right, you made it.” Coach steps forward and claps Rob's shoulder twice, really fucking hard. But Rob doesn't wince. His face is stone, and I completely understand why the counter woman didn't give me any shit. Rob looks like he could eat someone's heart. “Fighters, to the locker room.”

Rob turns and I hand him his bag. I feel like saying “Good luck” but know how pussy that would sound, so I keep it to myself and watch Amir, Mike, and Rob follow Coach down a set of stairs, into the basement.

“There's the prodigy.” Phil steps forward and clasps hands with me. “He ready?” He cocks his head toward where the group just disappeared.

“Yeah. I think.”

Phil laughs. “Sounds about right. Amir had the shits all day. He's good now, though. Let's go grab those seats.”

We all move to the far end, where the corner's labeled for our gym, and sit on the cold folding chairs. Diagonal from us is the other gym, a crew from thirty miles away. They leer while the crowd filters in and begins to fill the space.

“What's the card?” Phil asks our crew.

The Blob answers. “Mike's first, then Amir, then Rob, then the other gyms.”

“All right.” Phil throws jabs into the air and looks over at the other gym. “I'm on next time. Can't fucking wait.” He looks at me. “When you eighteen?”

“June.”

“Shit, we need to forge you some documents, get that
karate kick on the mat sooner.” He laughs and nudges me with his elbow and I laugh along, in spite of how my stomach's churning.

It's fucked up, because Rob and I have fought more times than I can remember. We've been throwing down since kids at school realized what Pleasant Meadows was all about. But I haven't ever been as nervous over a fight as I am now. It's worse than the time we fought a bunch of freshman when we were in seventh grade. And then I almost shit myself. Should have. It might have helped. But maybe it's because I'm not in there with him? Or maybe it's something else altogether? Whatever it is I don't like it, and I can't wait for the fucking show to start.

Two girls in boy shorts and bikini tops step out of the announcer's booth and make their way toward the ring. Phil nudges me. “See what I mean? Get you on the card and you'll be up close and personal with them titties.” He claps my shoulder and laughs in my ear. “Not that you'd know what the fuck to do, but you'll learn.”

I smile and take in the girls. They are hot as hell, dirty hot. I look past them and to the back of the center, and see Dave buying a ticket. My breath catches but seeing him makes complete fucking sense. It's as if my nerves have been signaling to me that something else is up besides the fight, but I've been too fucking stupid to get it. Well, here it is.

Dave steps inside and then stands at the back wall, his shoulders pinned. Marcus stands next to him. Dave sees us and stares.

“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight's first lineup is about to begin. Please take your seats and get ready for Friday Night Fights!” The crowd cheers and Phil pops out his phone. “Gonna get this shit for YouTube.”

I'm lightheaded and disoriented. I close my eyes and breathe and focus on getting straight.

“Our first fight of the night is one of three between crosstown rivals East Coast Boxing and MMA and City Grapplers.” The crew screams and tries to drown out the guys from the other gym, but I'm silent because Dave's here. I remember what he last said, about the “busy season.” Shit's going to go bad for someone. Probably me.

Off to the side, Coach Dan and Mike emerge.

“For East Coast we have Mike Drumore and for City, Jesse McTigue.” Mike looks possessed, eyes wide and jumpy. He keeps his focused on McTigue and adjusts his mouth guard nonstop.

“All right, Mike!”

“Fuck 'im up, son!”

“Show that bitch how East Coast rolls!”

Our crew pumps up Mike, while Coach Dan speaks close to Mike's ear, but I don't think Mike's listening. The card girl walks around with her sign.

I look up to check, even though I know what I'll see, and sure enough, Dave's still planted with his bodyguard. I look down to the entrance from the lockers, hoping to see Rob, but there's just an empty doorway.

McTigue comes to the center of the ring, and the ref says some shit I can't hear because the crowd's starting to buzz now. Both fighters nod and then touch hands and separate. The ref raises his hand and when he brings it back down, the fight is on.

Mike slips a few jabs, as does McTigue, but none amount to anything. McTigue kicks and Mike catches it, but McTigue's either fast or Mike is slow, because he pulls out of Mike's grasp. Mike staggers and McTigue closes the distance
between them, gets Mike around the neck and takes him to the mat.

“Come on, Mike!”

“Ground game now, muthafucka!”

Mike locks his ankles around McTigue's waist and keeps his hands up, deflecting each shot. Then he manages to get a hand around McTigue's wrist, and with that gets out and around McTigue's neck. Our corner loses its shit and I inch forward in my seat, but the round is over. The fighters separate and move to their corners.

“He's yours, Mike.”

“Get that son of a bitch!”

Dave's still at the back, motionless.

The bell rings and round two begins. McTigue gets in a few kicks while Mike only lands one solid throw. It cuts McTigue's eye, though, and he rushes Mike with a flurry, fists and knees flying. Mike takes the attack and somehow gets McTigue in a clinch.

“That's right, Mike! Feel 'im out.”

Mike snaps a leg into him, and McTigue loses his balance and is on the ground. They scramble but McTigue bends and twists like his bones aren't solid. The bell rings.

“Fucking wrestlers. They're like rolling with spaghetti.” Phil holds up his phone and snaps a picture.

The card girl goes round, and it doesn't look like Dave is watching her, only us.

The third round begins, and Mike drops a spin kick into McTigue's side. He winces and puts a hand to his ribs and steps back. Mike sets himself and then charges. McTigue draws up his knee just as Mike is closing in and they strike at the same moment. He reels back and McTigue advances, whips his leg, and catches Mike behind the knee. Mike crumples
to the mat, and McTigue cracks a jab into his face. Mike's blood sprays over the canvas as the bell for the match rings.

The opposing corner goes fucking nuts, jumping up and down and high-fiving. We're all quiet until Mike emerges after the ref declares McTigue the winner.

“'S all right, Mike.”

“Keep your head up.”

“Get his punk ass next time.”

Coach claps Mike's shoulders, says a few words, and then Mike disappears, back to the locker room, while the staff cleans up his blood, preparing for the next fight.

Phil leans back and sighs. “Fuck. Least Amir's next. He should take this fucker out in the first round.”

“Why's that?” I ask and check on Dave, who hasn't changed position.

“Can't remember who told me, but the dude he's fighting is barely trained. He's just some cocky street fighter. Think I even tangled with him once.”

I've seen Phil's work at the gym, and I can't imagine how scary he'd look fucking up some shit in an alley. “So he's a pussy?”

Phil's face straightens. “Nah, man. Ain't like that. The punk's for real. Can fight with those hands, but this ain't no street. Say you fight a dude, how often you grapple once you hit the ground?”

“Never.”

“Exactly. Here,” he points to the ring, “you go to the ground and that's where the fight
begins
. And no picking up bricks and shit. Just flat out man-to-man combat. And based on how well you've trained, may the best man win. Get it?”

I do, completely. A fair fucking fight. What I wouldn't give for that.

“Here with our second fight, from East Coast, Amir Ricci and City Grapplers' Tom Fragale.” Fragale is a big fucking dude. I don't know how he and Amir are in the same weight class. He's flabby around the middle where Amir's every muscle casts a shadow. Amir rushes over to us. “I'm gonna fuck this fat fuck up!” He pounds fists with us and then enters the ring, bouncing on his toes and holding up his arms to the crowd. I look up and Dave plants a foot against the wall.

The ring girl goes round and it's on. Fragale moves in a slow arc while Amir glides around the ring, tall and taunting. He pops Fragale in the face twice before the fighter has a chance to put his hands up. Fragale charges forward, like a football player, low and leading with the head, and Amir just sidesteps and cracks him with a punch to the back of his head. Fragale stumbles but doesn't go down. Amir waits for him to advance, and he does, but with his fists just under his nipples. Even I know that's fucking suicide. Amir throws a combo, catching him with each blow, and the guy goes to a knee. Amir strikes twice. Fragale blocks one, and when he does, Amir slides beneath the arm and coils around him like a snake. He pulls him to the mat, and within seconds Fragale's tapping out.

Now our corner loses its shit, while Amir waves to the crowd. He's declared the winner and then joins us. We huddle around and congratulate him. He's barely sweating and all smiles. “Coach, I need a real fighter next time.”

Coach claps his back and smiles. “If I can't find someone better, I'll step in the ring myself.”

Phil scrolls through the footage he's just captured. “I'm telling you, Tone, get on the next card. This shit's too fun to just watch.”

I agree. I expected tonight to feel like this, and I'm glad Rob dragged me in. I could hop in that ring right now I'm so
pumped. Give me some chump like Fragale and even I'd fuck'im up. But most likely I'd get someone like McTigue, and it'd be like tangling with Cameron. Fuck, I wonder if he'll show up tomorrow with Mom coming home and all? I may have my own ring inside the trailer. But that shit don't matter now. Here comes Rob.

“And the last fight of our first series is Rob O'Connell from East Coast and Todd Stetson from City Grapplers.”

Rob rolls out, looking total bad-ass, shoulders pinned, swagger cocked. He nods his head like he's got a song trapped inside and then pounds fists with us before entering the ring. I look past Rob for Dave. Shit, he isn't at the back. I look around and can't find him or Marcus. Fuck, I hope he left, but that doesn't make any sense.

“Who you looking for?”

I don't want to tell Phil because it's not his problem, but I have to. “Dave's here.”

“Muthafucka, where?” He spins around, looking.

I keep scanning. “Don't know. He moved.”

“Sure it was him?”

“No doubt.”

Phil sits back. “Tell me when you spot him, cuz that bitch is up to no good, and if he thinks he's gonna fuck some shit up, he's got another thing coming. My fucking fist.”

The ring girl circles, and I still can't find Dave. The bell sounds and I give up.

Rob dances to the middle, and even though they're both 145 pounds, Stetson has him by an inch in height. Rob kicks first, glancing Stetson's knee, but he doesn't seem affected. He moves in with his long-ass reach, catches Rob with a shot to the head and then one to the kidney. Fuck, Rob's got to take him down.

“Clinch, Rob!”

“Wrap his ass up!”

“Ref, them monkey arms can't be legal.”

Stetson swings again, but Rob dodges it and steps in, delivers a nasty shot to Stetson's side and then hooks his bicep. Rob plants his feet and tries to get him on his hip, but Stetson's free arm is like a hammer, dropping on Rob from every angle.

Rob gives up and slides out of the clinch. Stetson pursues and lands a right, but Rob uses McTigue's move and crushes Stetson with a knee. Stetson swings again, but it's wild, and Rob pivots off his leg and kicks Stetson in the waist. Rob's too slow in drawing his leg back, and Stetson grabs a hold and down they go.

Rob jerks but can't get his leg back, and Stetson's got his legs around it now. Rob bends the knee and sits on his opponent. He throws down punch after punch, but Stetson won't let go, he just keeps working the angle. The bell rings, and the round is over.