Page 186 of The Clinch
I slip left. His right hand cuts air.
He oversteps.
I split his guard with a straight right.
His head snaps back. He stumbles a step, shocked more than hurt.
Then the blood comes.
A split opens at his lip, bright red against his teeth.
He touches his mouth with the back of his glove, looks at the blood, and something in him changes.
Not smarter.
Meaner.
He comes back wild. A jab he doesn’t set up. A looping left hook. I slip outside and bury one in his ribs hard enough to fold him. Left upstairs. Right through the middle.
I line up the next shot?—
And he dives forward, arms wrapping too low, trying to tie me up and drag the fight off its feet. When the boxing stops working, he reaches for something dirtier.
I turn inside it, break his grip, and shove him off before the referee gets there.
The ref steps between us. “Break.”
Drake backs off, chest heaving, expression tight with something uglier than anger.
Calculation.
He’s running the math, and he doesn’t like the answer.
He comes forward again, slower now, and I catch the tell immediately—the level drop, the weight shifting back, his eyes on my hips instead of my hands.
He goes for my legs, trying to take me down.
Illegal.
Instinct fires before thought does. I sprawl hard, hips dropping back and down, stuffing him before he gets under me. His shoulder slams into my thigh instead of my waist. I shove off and step clear.
The referee is there before either of us can move again.
“Warning. No takedowns. This is boxing. One more, and you’re out.”
Drake straightens, blood on his lip, breath coming wrong.
He knows he’s losing.
He swings anyway.
A wild, desperate hook.
I slip outside it and drive a short right hand into his body. The air leaves him. His balance goes with it. One compact left hook lands flush on the jaw.
That finishes it.
His legs give. He crashes sideways into the ropes and sags there, gloves coming up late, blood on his mouth.
