Page 32 of Stone’s Cage

Coach doesn't say much. It's almost as if he doesn't hear me.

Then he turns to me. "I scraped you up off the streets," he says, though he won’t look at me. "I dusted your white fanny off and trained you and I've been putting up with your shitty fights all with the idea that one day, maybe one day, you'd go legit." He takes the water bottle from my hand. "Good luck."

"Coach, I—"

"That's all I've got to say. And for a girl you went and got yourself retrieved. I worked so hard to get your ass out."

"I know, and I am grateful and—"

"Shut up and fight, you fucker." But there is something in his face that tells me he's worried, but not about the fight.

The crowd is seedy, turning the gym a nasty shade of pathetic. Coach wouldn't let me help him lock up all the equipment that's moveable and, therefore, steal-able: weights gloves, ropes, clamps—all that shit had to go in the back office. Then he uncoiled the cage, the chain ink fencing and tied it into position around the circular pad. This unauthorized gym league was below the Underground. It’s not even an official fight—it’s street fighting and the rules of no groin, no eye gouging, no punching to the back of the neck or head and all those other measures of sportsmanship are off the table.

But bets are on.

I banned Lily. Told her not to come. I don’t ever want her to see me like this. To throw a fight and make it believable means you get the shit kicked out of you. There's a lot of money riding on this, tens of thousands of dollars, and if I do it right, I'll walk away with at least ten, maybe twelve K. But is has to look real. Like I really lost, otherwise the bets are all off, and I'm probably dead.

Glancing out the office door, I see the ref checking the cage. I don’t know the guy, dressed in black, a big white guy with a long red beard, thick, freckly arms and neck, and a scar down the middle of his head. Probably weighs two seventy-five. A whistle dangles around his neck, mocking the noise level in the place. There's no way we'll ever hear him blow it unless it's right in our ears.

Coach sits off to the side across from the other coach, two middle aged points marking a diameter. I slip in my mouthguard, throw up my hood and listen to the crowd roar when we each step out.

Fly looks good. He's been training up and he won’t look me in the eye. That's typical. You want to win, not make friends. I spot Shreves in the crowd with Juice and a few more of the Hooks. It feels surreal. And then, from the corner of my eye, I see a ghost in the office window.

It's Lily. What the fuck. Stepping to the cage, I yell at Coach just to be heard, but I'm careful not to point in her direction.

He shakes his head, leans toward me and yells, "She's very persuasive." He starts dabbing petroleum jelly on my face. It helps make the punches slide off. That's the theory anyway.

I glance at her. Her eyes are wide behind the glass. I can tell she's terrified. This girl has never seen a fight.

"She bet on you to win," he says in my ear, flips me around and slaps my on the back. But there's little real encouragement. There's no handshake. I know he's pissed.

I size up the crowd and realize I don’t recognize any of the three judges either. There's no National Anthem.

The bell rings. Usually, I breathe out Cassie's name to focus. This time, I'm nearly done when I realize it's Lily's name that's grounding me.

We start.

Fly kicks hard and high, and I dodge, making sure his feet don’t land near my head or neck. Then there's an opening, and I land a blow to his left arm and he knocks me up against the cage. Blow after blow comes as he tries to get me off balance, and I strike hard at his face and back. Then comes a knee, but I catch it, slam it down and throw him off me.

I'm not awash in an adrenaline rush yet. I can still feel pain.

In a second, I'm back, slamming him up against the fence, my head down, then Fly twists and lands a hard punch to my side, hoists me up and I wrap my legs around him, tight, hard. He's breathing in my ear and then slams me to the ground on the back of my neck.

I don't let go.

Using my hips, I fling him off me and stagger up just as he kicks hard by my head again. The trick is to get hit below the eye. If you get hit above the eye, the swelling and blood blocks your vision. His foot lands above my ear. Warm blood trickles.

But the rush has kicked in and I can’t feel anything. All I know is I've got to make losing look authentic. He kicks again at my head and I go down, but as he comes in again, I twist up and knock his leg out and fall on top of him. He's got a forearm up against my windpipe. The ref can’t see it, or if he can, he's not calling it. I start to choke, spit flies from my mouth. I twist and push away. The crowd doesn't buy it.

Bell rings. Round 1 is over.

I go to stand at my station. Blood is pouring from the gash above my ear and Coach rips open a pencil to stop it. He's all my cornermen as usual: trainer and cut man. He pours water on a towel and rubs my back.

"Are you still doing this?"

There's thirty seconds left on the clock.

I squint at him.