Taking Him Down

“Anything?” Jenna asked from behind her pillow.

“Nothing deciding.” But Moreau was probably winning now, if this fight came down to points.

“If Moreau can manage that again, early in the third,” noted the announcer, “we might just have a match on our hands.”

“He better not!”

“Linds.” Brett zapped her a look, the kind you’d send your kid when they lost track of their indoor voice. She shot one back, feeling no need to be ladylike, given the occasion. Especially considering how noisy Brett got whenever the Pats played the Giants.

The third round started. Moreau had gotten a taste for dominating and wanted more. He was going for Rich’s legs, looking to get them back to the mat. Before he could, Rich seized an opening, landing a half dozen serious head shots and taking only a single nasty hook to the cheek. There was blood beside Moreau’s mouth, more of the same slicking Rich’s curled fingers.

“Jesus,” Brett muttered, clearly missing the civility of football.

Then, disaster.

Moreau bent low and caught Rich behind his knee. Rich retaliated with an elbow between Moreau’s shoulder blades and wormed his way out of the clinch. They traded jabs, then Rich nearly snagged an opening, missing Moreau’s ribs with a roundhouse kick but still banging his arm, and hard. Something had happened—the crowd’s collective voice flared in a passionate ruckus, but Lindsey didn’t know why. Had that kick been illegal?

“That’s not good,” the announcer said.

She straightened. “What’s not good? For who?”

Then something strange happened. After a moment of staggered circling and punching, Moreau lunged, looking to take Rich down. And Rich seemed to let him.

She shot to her feet, popcorn jumping from the bowl. “No!”

The men tumbled to the ground, scrambling for position before they even hit the mat. Moreau came out on top and landed three brutal punches to Rich’s face, and panic rose in Lindsey like bile. “No, no, no!”

“Linds, chill.”

She shushed Brett.

The advantage was gone as quickly as it had come. Rich clamped his legs to Moreau’s waist and turned them onto their sides, getting his arm locked around Moreau’s neck. Moreau’s limbs were wild, lashing and kicking, fighting for purchase. They rolled and thrashed, arms and legs a gleaming blur.

“A reckless strategy. Can’t see this ending well for Estrada,” commented the first announcer.

“What? What?”

“Don’t be too sure,” the other announcer said. “He’s not letting up.”

The grappling raged on, and Lindsey couldn’t tell who was in control. Rich, she thought. He had a leg clamped over Moreau’s and an arm pinned, but Moreau had the other flailing, knocking Rich with an odd, awkward thump to the jaw.

The screen shifted to a different angle, mat-level, and Lindsey winced at the agony contorting Rich’s face—agony and unmistakable desperation. For ages it felt as though nothing was happening, the two men locked in a slick knot of jerking muscle. Then at long last, Moreau reached his hand out and smacked the mat. the horn blast was swallowed in the crowd’s roar and the announcer shouting, “And there you have it! Rich Estrada is the winner by submission.”

“If that doesn’t get Fight of the Night, I don’t know what will,” claimed his colleague.

Jenna dropped her pillow in time to scream with Lindsey.

“Quite the match,” quipped the first announcer. “Though you can bet Estrada was hoping for a knockout.”

“A bittersweet victory,” said the other announcer.

“What?” Lindsey froze, not seeing any bitter side to this. “Why?”

Unlike his bested opponent, Rich hadn’t stood. His trainer and some other staff member rushed into the ring and crouched over him.

“What’s going on?” Jenna asked.

“I don’t know. Something happened just before they went down, but…” She fell silent and sat. With help, Rich had gotten to his feet. His foot, rather. He held the other one a couple inches above the mat.

“We’re waiting for confirmation,” the announcer revealed, “but it’s looking like…yes—”

“Looks like what?” Lindsey demanded, throwing popcorn at the screen. A medical official knelt by Rich, messing with his foot.

“Yes, looks like Estrada’s right foot is probably broken.”

“Oh, no,” Jenna said, while Lindsey opted for a fouler expression.

They showed a close-up replay of the moment Rich’s kick slammed the top of his foot square into Moreau’s elbow, the impact looking a hundred times worse in slow motion. She swore again, earning a glare from Brett.

“Calm down, Linds. He won.”

“Do you have any idea how long it takes a foot to heal? It could take a guy out of commission for months—”

“This time last year you didn’t even know what MMA was—now you’re a groupie. Give it a rest.”

A guy with a mike made his way to Rich. “Your second consecutive win since you signed, and your first title. How do you feel?”

“I feel like I just broke my frigging foot.”

“Unusual to see you dominate on the mat.”

“Desperate times,” Rich said, annoyance seeming to give way to exhaustion. One thing was certain—he was not happy. Someone presented him with a flashy gold belt, but he did little more than clutch it to his ribs.

“Anything else before we let you get that foot taken care of?”

Rich said what he did at the end of every match. “Thank you, Mamá. Thank you, Diana.” Then he added something he never had before. “See you soon.”

Lindsey shivered.

The guy with the mike moved on to Moreau as Rich hopped down from the cage with the help of his corner, belt slung over his shoulder.

Jenna shook off her alarm. “Rich is healthy. He’ll be back in no time, I bet.” She stood and replaced the throw pillow.

“You heading out? The main event’s next.” Don’t leave me with Brett.

“I think I’ve hit my threshold for stress. Plus I’ve got a client first thing, and who knows how late Mercer will keep me up rehashing this.”

There was more to Jenna’s hurried exit, though, and Lindsey couldn’t blame her. She and Brett weren’t exactly bringing out the best in each other lately. She went to fetch Jenna’s purse.