Battered Not Broken

by Rose, Ranae

  Cameron was already there for Ryan, acting as his cornerman for the night, a bottle of water in one hand and a towel in the other.

  Ally hung back, still gripping the bottle she held – maybe Ryan would need it later. The break between rounds was only one minute long and she didn’t want to interfere or distract. The stakes were too high – it was scary to think about what might happen if Ryan glanced her way or thought about her when Ivanov should be the only person on his mind.

  Ryan looked her way before the second round anyway, capturing her gaze for a single second that left her feeling alternately warm and cold inside. Whenever he looked at her – whatever the circumstances – instant heat beset her. But it couldn’t eliminate the chill of worry. The relief that had come with his first victory had been short-lived.

  Another quick appearance by the ring girl, and then the second match started. If either Ryan or Ivanov succeeded in tapping or knocking the other out, it would be the last. If not, a third round would decide.

  Ivanov was more aggressive than before. He lunged in with a kick that was brutally graceful, fully extending his leg in Ryan’s direction.

  Ryan parried, a hand meeting Ivanov’s shin as he moved, dodging what would’ve been a hard blow.

  Ryan landed the first strike, his gloved knuckles colliding with Ivanov’s jaw. More punches and kicks were exchanged, elbows thrown, and eventually Ryan backed Ivanov against one of the cage’s eight chain-link sides.

  He had the upper hand, but it was hard to be glad, even as he rained blows on Ivanov. Because they were close and Ryan’s head was within easy striking range of his opponent, Ivanov was struggling to escape the unfavorable position by backing Ryan off with brutal retaliation.

  Ivanov fit strikes in here and there – to Ryan’s torso and jaw, clipping his chin with a hook.

  Ryan was relentless, the muscles in his back rolling beneath a sheen of ink and sweat. The short fringe of hair that hung over his brow was damp. He wouldn’t let up.

  When Ivanov threw a knee upward, trying to manage a close-range blow to Ryan’s torso, Ryan blocked it. When Ivanov reached out and tried to establish a hold so he could throw Ryan to the mat, Ryan nailed him in the face with a straight punch. And so it went, until Ivanov landed one lucky elbow – one that arced across the front of Ryan’s face in a semi-horizontal line of force.

  Blood sprayed, an explosion of red that stained both men and splattered across the mat.

  The crowd roared, obviously loving the display.

  Ally’s fingers tightened convulsively, without her permission, aching as their tips dented the plastic sides of the water bottle she was wringing. The contents of her stomach went sour, and the fight continued anyway.

  Ivanov finally got the throw he’d been looking for, sending Ryan to the mat and following him down.

  As their bodies tangled, Ryan didn’t stop fighting. He didn’t stop bleeding, either. He was a mess and the cage would be too, by the time the match was over. His nose had clearly been hit, and noses could bleed a lot. Hopefully the blood wasn’t coming from anywhere else, but it was impossible to be sure as he rolled across the mat with Ivanov.

  Ivanov wrapped his arms around Ryan’s lower leg, capturing it in a hold that looked painful even before he cranked it, executing an ankle lock. Maybe he’d wanted to be as far away from the source of Ryan’s bleeding as possible. Whatever his motivation, the joint lock looked agonizing.

  Ryan rolled, attempting to slip out of Ivanov’s hold. He’d halfway succeeded when Ivanov redoubled his efforts, struggling to keep Ryan in the lock.

  Ivanov began to crank the lock again, and Ryan almost managed to slip away. Back and forth, they struggled.

  Ryan’s face shone with sweat as he continued to fight, a tendon standing out at the side of his neck, obviously strained. Sweat trickled into his eyes as blood ran down his chin.

  Ivanov’s face was contorted in an expression of pure determination. He continued to fight for control over Ryan’s ankle, the muscles in his thick arms bulging.

  The timer sounded before Ryan could tap. Unlike the last time, it was a welcome sound.

  The fighters separated, destined for a third and final round.

  Ally rushed forward, her eyes glued to Ryan as she hooked her fingers through the side of the cage.

  Cameron held a clean towel that Ryan took, pressing it to his face, hiding everything but the fringe of his short bangs from sight. He’d removed the butterfly bandage that had formerly covered the head wound he’d suffered a week ago. A red line marked the freshly healed-over wound. When he lowered the towel, it was stained red.

  He looked up, focusing on her through the links that separated them. His eyes were clear beneath a sweaty brow. She had to tear her gaze away from them to see that blood was still trickling from his nose and that below that, his lips were swelling. They’d been cracked open, bottom and top alike. His face would be throbbing soon, if it wasn’t already.

  He removed a blood-smeared mouth guard and accepted the bottle of water Cameron offered him, lifting it to his split lips and taking a couple swallows. His throat muscles worked beneath a layer of sweat and a few thin rivulets of blood that had managed to make it over the strong curve of his jaw.

  It was time for the third round before Ally realized that her fingers were hurting from gripping the chain-link so tightly. Reluctantly, she stepped away from the cage, slipping back into the area where she belonged, in a folding seat that was near the ringside, closer than the rows of bleachers where most of the spectators were seated.

  A bloody nose and busted lips. Those were the minimum extent of his injuries – it was possible they were worse. She’d only been able to glimpse where he was bleeding from and where he was beginning to bruise. Even if his injuries were relatively superficial, what about the impact that had gone beyond his opened flesh?

  And there was still the third round – a last act that was unfolding in the cage as she sat powerless on the outside, listening to Cameron cheer, his ignorance enabling him to enjoy the competition as Ryan landed a punch.

  It was difficult to watch Ryan trade blows with his competitor, punishing himself and enjoying it. Each blow Ivanov threw represented a greater risk than the ones Ryan fired back, though they were just as powerful. No one knew what Ryan was gambling with except for him and Ally, and her conscience threatened to burst at the seams with guilt she had no way of focusing to produce a solution.

  Still, it would have been impossible to look away. She even begrudged the time it took to blink, afraid she’d miss some crucial second that would change Ryan’s life all over again.

  When Ryan backed Ivanov against the cage again, raining punches, her veins thrummed with nervous energy. Then Ivanov crumpled against the wall, sliding down the chain-link to collapse at Ryan’s feet.

  Knockout.

  Relief coursed through Ally’s bones like lightning through a metal rod. She leapt from her seat as Ryan raised a fist in victory.

  The crowd loved the sight of a winner masked in sweat and blood. The sound of their cheers swept over Ally like a sonic blast as she made her way toward the octagonal cage, her heart beating twice as quickly as normal.

  Ryan descended from the cage, his gait steady and muscles shifting beneath the mess that had dripped and trickled down onto his chest, forming a streaked stain like an abstract red ink tattoo across his collarbones and pecs.

  Cameron was in Ryan’s personal space immediately, crowing over the victory and offering towels and water.

  Ryan took the towel and mopped his face as he moved toward the locker area, his strides long. He slowed when he neared Ally, lowering the towel to meet her eyes.

  “You did great,” she said, because it was true and because it was done, no matter what the outcome. “How does your face feel?”

  “Wet. I’m going to shower. Then we can get out of here.” His lips had swollen further during the third round and were more purple and red than their former shade of pink. />
  “Okay. I’ll be waiting.”

  He disappeared into the changing room to wash the blood and sweat from his skin, leaving Ally to face Cameron.

  “He kicked ass, huh?” Cameron was obviously thrilled with the success of his event.

  Ally nodded stiffly.

  “I’ve already got another guy interested in comin’ out to fight Moore next week. I figure I’ll rent this same place out again. After this, maybe I’ll be able to fill all the seats next week.”

  His words brought her down as she leaned against the cinderblock wall.

  “Hey.” Cameron seemed to come down from the high of his own enthusiasm long enough to pick up on her lack of it. “Maybe we’ll start holding some women’s nights here, too. When they get a little bigger. Or maybe we could combine some matches with the Friday night events. That’d be cool, huh?”

  “Yeah, it would.”

  “Maybe I could try it one night – plan it in advance, advertise a little and ask Mel if she could get off work that Friday.”

  “I’m sure she’d try.”

  “Cool.” Cameron stood a little taller, seemingly buoyed by the idea. “Hey, you goin’ out with Moore again tonight?”

  She nodded.

  “You think it’s gonna turn into anything serious?”

  “We’ve only been dating for a week. It’s kind of hard to tell this soon, isn’t it?” Of course, it had been anything but a typical first week of dating. But it wasn’t like she could tell Cameron about their first night together, or how it felt like someone was squeezing her heart every time she looked at Ryan. “Who are you anyway, Dr. Phil?”

  Cameron shrugged and grinned. “Not trying to pry. But Stacey’s got this thing about us goin’ out with other couples. It fuckin’ sucks, but I can’t say that because she loves it. Maybe you and Moore could go out with us sometime. You two would be a hell of a lot better than the weirdoes from her work she sets this stuff up with.”

  “Gee, thanks Cameron.”

  “Aw, come on. We could talk MMA. Fighting. Training. Business. Whatever. Last week Stacey set us up with a couple of pencil-pushers from her building and all they wanted to talk about was global fuckin’ warming.”

  Ally might have laughed if Ryan’s fight hadn’t left her so tense. Anyone who knew Cameron would understand that discussing global warming over dinner with strangers would basically be the equivalent of waterboarding, as far as he was concerned. If it didn’t have to do with MMA, he didn’t care. He spent almost all of his time at Knockout and was constantly scheming to advance Harbor City MMA Events.

  “It’s fine with me if it’s okay with Ryan,” she said. “You’ll have to ask him.”

  Cameron waved a hand dismissively. “You mention it to him. Get him in a good mood and use your feminine wiles or something. Just let me know when you two wanna go out. If it just so happens to be next Thursday, that’d be great because Stacey mentioned something about getting together with that other couple again that day.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Cameron, if I ever muster up some untapped feminine wiles, I’m not going to waste them on convincing Ryan to go on a double-date with you and Stacey.”

  As if on cue, Ryan emerged from the locker room, his hair damp and his skin clean. A duffel bag hung from one of his shoulders, presumably containing his fighting gear and shorts. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved black t-shirt that hugged his upper body in a way that almost made Ally forget her worry in a moment of sheer appreciation.

  “Here you go.” Talk of double-dating was forgotten as Cameron reached into one pocket and pulled out a folded check. “Made it out to you before the match – knew you’d kick Ivanov’s ass. You in for next week?”

  Ryan pulled the check from between Cameron’s fingers, tucking it deep into one of his own pockets. “Yeah.”

  Ally felt sick as Ryan wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

  “See you at the gym.” Cameron’s dopey grin didn’t fade.

  “Ready to get out of here, baby?” There was a rumble of satisfaction to Ryan’s voice. He seemed to walk in a post-fight glow, standing tall even after the beatings he’d given and taken, not acknowledging the pain his busted lips and nose had to be causing him.

  “Definitely.”

  Chapter 13

  Outside, the parking lot was full of spectators heading home after the fight. Some lingered by their cars, talking.

  “Where’d I park the mustang again?” Ryan rubbed his eyes with his free hand, frowning briefly.

  “Right over there.” Ally pointed toward the left corner of the lot. “Hey, are you all right?”

  “Seeing silver lights.” The satisfaction she’d heard in his voice while inside was still there, tempered by his confession.

  “I’ll drive.” She pressed her lips into a thin line, resisting any temptation to say more. Sometimes her Aunt Elsa saw silver lights before she got a migraine – a precursor to the impending pain.

  “You don’t have to do that. I’m not in pain, and you don’t have a license.”

  “Not a license,” she said as they approached the mustang. “A permit.”

  “Like a learner’s permit?”

  She nodded. “I went to the MVA this week and got one. Now I can drive legally with you in the car with me.” She’d had one years ago, when her father had started to teach her how to drive. It had expired later, after her mother had had to sell the car, and she’d never bothered to get another one – until now.

  He just stood there for a moment. It was impossible to tell whether he was blinking in an attempt to chase away silver lights, or because he was surprised.

  “So what do you say?” She extended her hand. “Now you’re helping me too. Maybe you can sign the driving log they gave me and I can get an actual license sometime.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys.

  They were warm from his body heat when they met her palm. “Thanks.”

  “Have you been wanting to get a license?” he asked as they settled into the car.

  “Until recently, I hadn’t thought about it in a while. I wanted one when I was a teenager, but my father was the only one of my parents who drove, so when he…” A ripple of uncertainty struck her as she gripped the car key and inserted it into the ignition.

  She turned it, bringing the car to life. The engine rumbled with latent power, sending faint vibrations through the leather seats. “My father is in prison. When he was sent there I was a teenager and my mother had to sell his car not long afterward. That was the end of me pursuing a driver’s license.”

  “So what you’re saying,” Ryan said, “is that I should be afraid for my car right now. The other night – that was the first time you’d driven in how long?”

  She glanced toward him, still gripping the key instead of the wheel. “Almost six years.”

  He wore a teasing grin as he made a remark about having just got his car out of the repair shop, and in that moment, she loved him for not asking her why her father was in prison. That was something she wouldn’t have been able to handle the stress of explaining while driving.

  “I know this is an expensive car and that it means a lot to you.” A little thread of guilt wriggled through her thoughts. “If you really don’t feel comfortable with me driving your car, let me call a cab. I just don’t want you to have to drive with a migraine coming on.” Silver lights, city lights – it might be hard to tell a difference. Combine that with the risk of symptoms like blurred vision or the vertigo he’d suffered from last time and the ride home had the potential to be just as dangerous as the time he’d recently spent in the cage.

  “It’s fine. If you want to practice driving so you can get your license, you can use my car. How else are you going to do it?”

  Resisting the urge to breathe a sigh of relief, she fastened her seatbelt and lowered a hand to the gear shift. “Thanks. I’ll be careful. Help me with directions just to be safe – I’m not sure I know exactly how to get to your pla
ce from here.”

  “Take a left out of the parking lot.”

  He directed her as she guided the mustang down streets and around corners, her teeth set slightly on edge as she focused on shifting gears smoothly while also maintaining a sane speed and not rear-ending any other vehicles. “I’m not going to have a clue how to drive a normal car after this,” she said. “This thing is so much more powerful than anything else I’ve ever driven – you touch the pedal and it leaps forward.”

  Ryan had slumped back in his seat. He smiled faintly as he let the headrest cradle his skull. “Yeah, it’s nice, huh? I’ve hardly driven anything else in ages, either.”

  “How long have you had this car?”

  “Over four years now.”

  “It looks like new.”

  “Yeah, well, I sure as hell won’t be able to afford a new one if anything happens to this, so I try to take good care of it.”

  Although she kept her eyes trained on the road, she couldn’t help noticing every time he rubbed his eyes or tipped his head to the side, pressing his fingertips to his temple. “Are you in pain?”

  “I took some pills as soon as I finished the fight, before I showered. I started seeing silver lights during the third round, so I knew this was coming.”

  “Does that usually work?”

  “Not really.”

  Silence stretched between them for the rest of the drive, punctuated by his directions. When they finally reached his apartment, it was a relief.

  He wasn’t unsteady on his feet like he had been that first night, but a line had formed between his eyebrows, deep and vertical.

  They left the car parked and locked and climbed the four flights of stairs that led to his unit. The inside was unchanged since her last visit of a couple days ago, and she remembered it vividly – the amazingly good and the not so good. As he locked the door behind them, she craved what they’d shared during the first half of the visit, before her questioning of his choice to fight had put a discernible distance between them.

  “Why don’t you lie down?” she suggested. “Maybe we can head the worst of this thing off.” If anything they did would lessen or shorten his suffering even a little, it would be worth it. “And I could get some ice out of the freezer for your lips.”