“Makes sense. You close to your folks?”
“Oh, yeah. They’re fantastic—totally loving life as empty nesters these days, too. I’ve got two younger brothers and the last of them moved out about a year ago, so Mom and Dad are always on the go.”
Katie nodded as the crowd around the triangular Kachuro ring began to grow.
“How about you?” Wyatt asked. “From what Lee says, you guys are all pretty close in your family, too.”
“Definitely. My dad’s an ex-state worker, and my mom spent thirty years in dentistry. They’re both retired now, too, and all about the grandkid.”
“Oh, that’s right!” Wyatt perked up. “Hamish told me you had a son.”
“Yeah.” Katie felt her entire countenance brighten. “His name’s Oliver.”
“How old?”
“He’s three. Right now, he’s back home in Florida with my parents, who thought I needed a break.” Katie couldn’t help but smile. “You know, it’s funny. Amazing as all of this is—spaceships, other galaxies, and the like—you’d think that’d be enough to keep my mind pretty well occupied. Nope. It’s been five days since we left Earth, and crazy as this sounds, I still can’t wait to get home to that little munchkin.”
Wyatt tilted his head. “I don’t think that’s crazy at all. Not even a bit. As a matter of fact, I’d say that’s probably just the mark of a good mom.”
Katie blushed. “Thanks, I appreciate that. How about you? You got kids?”
Wyatt’s eyes plummeted, and Katie knew right away she should’ve never asked that question. She just didn’t know why.
“Ah…no,” Wyatt managed through a cracked voice. “No kids.”
“Hey, Kris, I didn’t know you were out tonight.” Madisyn emerged from the crowd, clasping two Zamanio glasses by their zigzag stems.
Katie kept her eyes on Wyatt, who cleared his throat.
“Hey, Madisyn. Yeah,” he said. “Word spread pretty quick that Danny was making his big comeback tonight, so I thought I’d come down and check it out.”
Madisyn responded with what had now officially become her “I hate this idea” look and added, “Yep. Good times. Good times.”
* * * * *
Chapter 18: Fight Night
Clenching and releasing his fingers in the tape beneath his gloves, Danny—dressed once more in his signature orange and teal trunks—rolled his neck and shoulders to loosen up as the volume beyond the tunnel-exit ahead rose to near critical.
“Man, it’s good to be back,” he murmured, basking in the raucous ebb and flow of the crowd outside, some of whom would spend the next hour in beer-soaked adulation chanting for his triumph…others, for his fall. Still, both would do so with passion and total honesty, which was all any fighter could really ask for, when it came down to it.
It was funny the places one could feel at ease. For some guys, it was in a cockpit. For others, an engine room or a research lab. For Danny, however, that place of refuge had always been a ring, triangular or otherwise. There was a simplicity to it he couldn’t escape—a purity. No weapons. No ships. No outside interference save that of a referee—or a medic, when needed. Just two men trapped in a single, confined space with nothing but their skills as fighters and an impartial set of rules to discern the better man. It was clean, lucid, and—at certain points in his life when times had been anything but—for him, the ring was home.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer boomed in an exaggerated, scooping voice. “Welcome to tonight’s main event. Introducing…the challenger.”
With a final punch of his gloves to stoke himself up, Danny let out a hard breath and trotted up the ramp toward the light.
“Standing at six feet one inch tall and weighing in at a rock-solid one hundred ninety-five pounds, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome back to the Shell for his first Kachuro bout in more than six months, the 102nd’s own, and your former middle-weight champion, Danny ‘the Hurricane’ Tuckerrr!”
The crowd of some three hundred spectators ignited as Danny climbed into the triangle—house speakers blaring U2’s “Bullet the Blue Sky”—and raised a glove while the monitors over the bar played a highlight reel of Danny’s run as champion.
Moments later, Bono subsided, and the announcer returned the mic to his lips. “And his opponent. Standing tall at six feet, four inches, with an impressive weight of two hundred twenty-nine pounds, he hails from the 17th Cavalry by way of Fort Darington. Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for the Monster of Manosis! The King of Chaos! The undisputed Terror of the Triangle…your reigning middle-weight champion: James ‘the Mauler’ Masonnn!”
Hearing the grungy crunch of Mason’s entrance music, Danny watched from his corner as the massive, tattooed goliath—dressed fittingly in all black—emerged from his tunnel. He was flanked by two other men who, judging by their flamboyance toward the crowd, were apparently there as cheerleaders.
That’s right, boys, stoke it up, Danny thought, seeing all three men strut and flail about the floor like peacocks in some sort of weird, alien mating ritual. Rally all the troops you can behind your boy. So long as they all place bets on him by bell-close, it’s all good.
Mason was impressive, of that there was little doubt. Physically, he fell just below the cutoff for the heavyweight division, and that alone gave him a clear power advantage. But added to that was the extended reach of his long, sculpted arms and a multi-faceted, aggressive fighting style. The twenty-four-year-old monster could inflict some serious damage, and fast. The broad, cocky expression on his stubbly, youthful face said he knew it, too.
Close and tight, Danny thought, bouncing from left to right on the balls of his feet to stretch out his legs. Gotta stay in close and tight, or he’ll kill me.
Once Mason had settled into his corner, the salt-and-pepper-haired announcer called both combatants to the center. “All right, guys. Both of you know the rules. First man to KO, TKO, or force a submission takes the bout; all pins, falls, and kick-outs will be counted and confirmed by me and me alone. I want a good, clean fight here, gentlemen. Now touch gloves and back to your corners till I give the word.”
“Good to see you back up and on your feet,” Mason taunted. “Honestly, I was a little surprised to hear you’d filed for a rematch, what with the beating I gave you last time and all.”
“Seriously, Mason?” Danny said. “You didn’t really expect me to stay home and lick my wounds forever, did you? You had to know I’d be back at some point, after the only loss of my career.”
“That was an impressive run you had last year. Sixteen and zero, right? Shame it had to end. But, all good things…blah, blah, blah.”
Danny flashed a slick smile in response. As was typically the case with best friends, it went without saying that he and Lee had always had a lot in common. However, if there was one area where their personalities differed, it was in how they handled competition—that was, smack talk. Whereas Lee had always been Mr. Conservative, choosing to hold his tongue in favor of an action-led response, Danny had been bred, born, and raised in Miami, Florida—a place known for three things: South Beach, world-class Cuban food, and sports fans who specialized in smack talk.
“I give you all the credit in the world, Mason,” Danny said. “You really brought your A-game that day, straight up, and I didn’t. The win was yours, fair and square. Injury or no.”
“Yeah, I heard about your little shoulder excuse after the fact. Tough being an old-timer.”
“Oh, I’d dare say that injury had less to do with age and more to do with the wear and tear of field service.” Danny tilted his head at the daytime logistics clerk. “But you wouldn’t know about that, now, would you?”
Mason flared his nostrils. “Whatever, old man. Just get to your corner already so I can kick your slaring Mim-ass back to retirement.”
“Bring the noise, chico,” Danny simpered back. “Bring the noise.” They touched gloves, and Danny headed for his corner, where Reegan stood at th
e ready with a towel, water, and a mouth guard.
“Don’t get too far away from this guy, Top,” Reegan said. “Those arms will—”
“I know, Reeg, I’m on it.” Danny scooped his mouth guard into his glove. “Just keep a lookout on his feet for me, will ya? Mason tends to get sloppy with his stance when he’s overconfident or flustered, and I want a second pair of eyes there to catch it if he does.”
“Copy that,” Reegan said with a final spritz of water into Danny’s mouth. “You own this guy tonight, Top. No doubt about it. Now go bring it on home.”
Danny nodded then crammed the rubber guard into his mouth and waited. Soon after, the first bell rang, and the bout was officially underway.
As expected, Mason started out hard on the offensive, firing in with a quick series of jab-cross-hook combinations before lunging in at Danny’s mid-section for an early takedown.
Instinctively, Danny dropped into a sprawl to counter then leapt back to his feet, mindful at all times of both his stance—wide but comfortable; weight fifty-fifty on the balls of his feet—and his hands—up for facial protection; thumbs tucked fist-side for support and power. Leading with his usual left shoulder and hip, chest turned inward, Danny responded to Mason’s early advance with one of his own. Unlike that of his opponent, however, Danny’s first volley of offense was less about points and more about probing Mason’s mindset and tenacity level.
Jab…jab, jab…jab, jab, cross…jab, jab, cross, hook.
Opting to play things close to the vest for now, Danny slipped a wayward Mason knee strike then slid inside for a quick Sumner combination—two jabs followed by a cross then a faux hook to mask an uppercut—all of which the younger man parried with a frantic defense before hurling another cross and retreating to the B-ropes with a lead-leg push-off kick to Danny’s thigh.
“Very nice,” Mason said, mouth guard dangling from his teeth as he skipped along his side of the triangle. “I’ll admit I expected you to have a bit more rust than this.”
“You’re not nervous are you, Specialist?” Danny asked. “We can take a break, if you need. That way you can go stamp something and think it over.”
This drew a snort from Mason. “Talk it up, old-timer. Maybe this time I’ll put your mouthy ass down for a year instead of six months.”
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you to respect your elders?” Danny asked then raised his lead glove. “No? That’s okay. We can work on that.”
Stepping inside Mason’s lightning-quick assault, he battled off a sudden onslaught of hooks, crosses, and clinch-hold attempts. But with all his focus concentrated on Mason’s upper body, Danny missed the incoming knee strike to his torso by a fraction of second. Feeling the sudden sting of contact, he pushed off of Mason’s forward leg and backpedaled to the ropes.
“Still waiting for that lesson on respect,” the younger man said. “Anytime you’re ready.”
Stupid, Danny scolded himself, ribs throbbing. He knew better than to leave his mid-section that exposed. Maybe I should’ve taken Reeg’s advice on that tune-up bout after all. Regaining his composure, Danny raised his fists and danced back to the center of the triangle.
The next round and a half brought much of the same: each man charging in with a well-balanced attack before falling back under protective hands while the other returned his half of the exchange. As the match wore on, though, Danny still managed to stick with his plan of staying close to Mason’s body while keeping his most creative offense in reserve for the fight’s end. A probing jab here, a connecting cross there. Then back into a Hurney shin-block, followed by a tri-cross sweep into a Minter knuckle-strike, then back to sprawl as Mason shot in for another takedown…and on and on it went.
“Dude, do you even know what originality means?” Danny taunted at the close of round two, himself a bit winded now at the match’s quarter point.
Mason, on the other hand, was apparently done talking because as soon as the next bell rang, he bounded across the ring and straight at Danny who gave him a wink. Another shoot followed by another counter, both men leapt back to their feet. Mason went full-bore at Danny’s face, unleashing a thunderous volley of Hatchet, Arlay, and Spyker punch-combinations, culminating with a ferocious uppercut that would’ve probably ended the match right then and there had Danny not spotted the telegraph from Mason’s shoulder and shifted accordingly. Still, Danny held his ground, save for the occasional “keep him honest” counter-shot and a healthy dose of trash talk.
Round three…round four…
“Come on, you obnoxious old bastard!” Mason roared.
…Round five…round six…
“Come on!”
The penultimate bell of round seven rang out like a shot and both men—sweat-soaked and battle-worn—staggered to their corners for the final two minute respite preceding the bout’s eighth and final round.
“How’s the chin?” Reegan asked once Danny had collapsed onto his stool and spit out his mouth guard. “It looked like he almost connected something fierce with that last one.”
“Ya think?” Danny panted. “His form’s slipping, though. He telegraphed it all the way, just like before. He’s primed for the fall, bro. I’ve just gotta hang with him.”
Reegan wiped Danny’s face with a towel. “Yeah well, you’ve definitely gotten in his head, for sure. I don’t mind saying though, Top, that’s a dangerous game you’re playing. He almost caught you in a headlock with that last shoot, and prior to that you let him bait you with a hook into a turn kick. Keep this up and you can forget Finley Springs because you, my man, will be stuck in an infirmary. Somehow I don’t think Doc Reynolds will be too hot on that, either.”
Danny stared flatly at his comm-spec-turned-manager.
“Hey man, don’t get pissed with me,” Reegan said. “Listen, I’m all about a payday, to say nothing of the small fortune I just saw on tonight’s ledger. But more than that, I’m about keeping you out of traction to enjoy it!”
“Gimme some credit here, Reeg.” Danny dabbed his right eye with a glove. “Minus a shiner and a few cuts and bruises, I think everything’s gone pretty well so far, don’t you? Just hang with me. We’re in the last round, and this guy’s spent, which means he’s vulnerable.” Danny ran a towel over his face and rose from his stool. “I know what I’m doing, Reeg. Now are you with me or not?”
Reegan gave him a resigned look. “It’s your show, Top. Do what you came here to do, and know I’m here regardless of how it turns out.”
Danny frowned at his manager. “Wow, bro. Herb Brooks has nothing on you for pep talks.”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our final round!” the announcer boomed past the wall of sound from the Shell’s packed-house crowd.
Danny paid them no attention. He was too busy plotting his approach for the final three minutes of his night. The time for conservatism was at an end, and while he’d been extremely methodical thus far in attacking specific portions of Mason’s body, he knew the big man would be aware of that, and he’d defend accordingly. Misdirection, Danny told himself while shaking his limbs loose. All about the misdirection, here.
Still, given Mason’s highly agitated state—manifest in his increasingly uneven stance and sloppy technique—it was all doable.
“Hey Mason!” Danny shouted, stepping up toward the crowd and raising his arms high into the air, goading them into a frenzy. “You hear that? Back where I come from, we’ve got a name for that sound: it’s called Last Call. You ready?”
Mason shot him a venomous scowl then squared his shoulders and raised his hands.
“That’s right, big boy, it’s closing time,” Danny muttered, cramming his mouth guard back against his teeth. “Come get some.”
Ding ding.
Mason roared out of his corner in a blur, closing the gap between them in a breath then launching into full-on attack mode.
Unlike before, however, when Danny had covered his head
, content to ride things out, this time he sidestepped the assault and unloaded a vicious right cross to the side of the big man’s face. Visibly dazed, Mason staggered back, but there was no way Danny was letting up. Rushing head-on into Mason’s exposed right flank, Danny went to work on the ribs he’d softened up in round four, then to the abdomen he’d struck in round five, then back to the face, which even through a gloved defense was beginning to discolor.
Now under siege, Mason threw a wild hook in Danny’s direction. Then, like an idiot, he stepped forward into a push-off kick to halt the advance, rather than stepping back out of reach.
Danny didn’t miss a beat. He shot in beneath the big man’s foot, driving him hard into the mat with a violent mount, then ripped into Mason’s head, neck, and trap muscles with a series of brutal combinations.
Fighting and squirming beneath the smaller man’s advance, Mason resorted to the only advantage left to him—his strength—and, managing to get a hand under Danny’s left leg, he tried to roll his opponent over to get clear of the attack and set up a mount of his own.
Mason could’ve never known just how stupid that was, and in some ways Danny found that disappointing. He’d always loved a big finish, in part because it drove the crowd nuts, though mostly because nothing demoralized an opponent like a high-flying roundhouse to the jaw amid a sea of camera flashes. Alas, SportsCenter-worthy or not, an opening was an opening, and Danny wasn’t about to turn it down.
Sensing the momentum beneath him and instantly recognizing the threat, Danny threw his entire body backward in concert with Mason’s push, creating a full rotation of movement that resulted in Danny landing back atop his opponent’s sternum and just to the side. Then, shoving a leg under Mason’s shoulder and ripping back his right wrist—thumb to the sky—Danny buried the big man’s arm into his chest, thrust up with his hips, then tore back hard against Mason’s clavicle, which let loose the signature snap, crackle, pop of a textbook Silverback arm-bar.
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