Unleashed (A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance) (113 page)

Time slows.

I watch them fight in the cage in slow motion.

Chance ducks, dodges, dances, then throws counters.

Kaminski is on the attack, playing Chance’s left hand, but his weight is still off, he’s still favoring the wrong leg.

They twist and turn in the cage, and I see each foot come up and down, see each bead of sweat drop off their body, fall slowly to the mat.

I see Kaminski’s weight shift. The weight transfers to his left heel. Instinctively, I know he’s going to push off it, use his right foot as a pivot, and swing his left leg at Chance.

“Left kick!” I scream at him.

The kick sails through the air in half-speed.

Chance is already moving in position to block it, like he was one step ahead in the future.

He slaps away the kick, spins on his own heel, and I see an elbow swing out.

Kaminski’s eyes read the movement, and he leans back, and Chance’s elbow narrowly misses his chin, impacts empty air.

But Kaminski’s weight is still not balanced. I see his right arm raise, but his left arm winds.

“Left punch!” I bellow.

Chance reads it like I do, slaps away the left punch with his right, then throws a thunderous left cross of his own right into Kaminski’s temple.

Kaminski stumbles backward, shaking his head, rubbing his face with his hand.

Chance’s eyes dart to mine, and he gives me a quick nod.

I don’t know how, but after hours and hours of watching Kaminski’s fights, it’s like I know him inside-out. It’s like I know what to do.

And Chance knew that I did. I’ve called out two moves as I’ve seen them, and I was correct on both counts.

Dad sidles up to me. “What are you doing?”

“Shut up,” I tell him, not even looking at him.

Kaminski stutter-steps, tries to fake, but I pay attention to his feet, free Chance up to look at his eyes.

When he pushes off his right foot, I shout, “Right!”, and Chance knows exactly what I mean. He swerves left, dodges the takedown attempt, then throws a spinning, left-foot body kick right into Kaminski’s thigh.

Kaminski backs up again, look with wild eyes between Chance and me, rubbing his thigh. Already a deep bruise is forming.

That’s right, fucker,
I think to myself, glaring at Kaminski.
You’re fighting both of us.

Kaminski makes another move, but I don’t recognize it. He’s trying to throw me and Chance off.

But Chance reads it right, a right jab feint followed by a right head-kick.

He ducks the kick, lands a gut-punch, and then hops backward, narrowly dodging Kaminski’s wild right follow-up hook.

Chance has got a bounce in his step now. He’s feeling it.

He darts forward, tests a jab with his right, again and again.

Just like he did with Coach Daniels in the practice cage.

Kaminski slaps away the testing jabs, then Chance throws one deliberately wide right. Kaminski dodges left, right into the path of Chance’s crashing left fist.

Kaminski goes down, and Chance is instantly on top of him. They scramble together on the mat, and I can’t make out whose leg belongs to whose body.

But that’s when I see Kaminski’s fist wind up, but I’m too late. He cracks Chance in the rib cage, and Chance spits out a grunt of pain, followed by a stream of saliva.

He rolls away, uses his momentum to carry him into a backward-somersault to his feet, and then rubs his rib cage rapidly.