Lib Novel Page 2
Who said match fixing was easy?
Today’s opponent, a hulking beast whose nickname is Mountain Man, is not an easy opponent, mostly because he likes to bite. It’s a signature move of his. He packs a punch, but he has a tendency to bite his opponents. “Claim them,” as he so eloquently puts it.
It’s like fighting with an oversized toddler. I’m half tempted to break his teeth in.
While I pretend to use the cage to get to my feet, he turns to look at me, baring those brutish, yellow teeth. My resolve hardens.
I’ll shatter them to bits.
He runs toward me with a howl, like an oversized toddler.
Another glance at the timer tells me I’ve got one minute left. It’s my turn now.
I see him gnash his teeth, probably planning to bite me while I, the helpless female, struggle to stand. I wait until he gets close to me and can’t stop his own momentum. I spin away, and the crowd jeers and boos as he crashes into the steel cage. Unlike his mask, mine covers my entire face, so nobody sees the grin I’m wearing as I turn around.
I look out over the crowd as I normally do to gauge their reaction. This time, though, a pair of cerulean blue eyes stand out to me. For a heartbeat, I find myself meeting the gaze of a tall man with his hair tied at the base of his neck. He’s all the way at the other end of the arena, but even with the distance between us, I can sense that there is something incredibly dangerous about him. My wolf prowls within the cage of my mind, anxious, intrigued.
For a few seconds, I forget how to breathe.
He’s staring straight at me. It feels like he’s not watching the fight; he’s watching me.
Why is my heart beating so fast?
Why can’t I tear my gaze away from him?
I don’t detect the movement on my right till it’s too late. Mountain Man’s punch hits me in the stomach, making me groan as I stumble back. I can see him gearing up for a second punch, but I don’t give him time. I’ve been fighting in these cages for five years now; I may have gotten distracted, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let this bully of a man land another blow.
Ten seconds left. One of us must go down.
I move quickly, darting aside and sweeping my leg with such force that my opponent falls flat on his face. As he tries to get up, I jump on his back and slam my foot on the back of his head, pinning it against the concrete. Years of practice have taught me just how much pressure I can apply to make sure he’s knocked out and not dead.
He goes limp.
A hush falls over the crowd at this sudden turn of events. Mathew, a round man with a long mustache that can only be described as villainous, enters the cage, grabs my hand, and holds it up in the air. “The Wily Vixen has done it again!”
The underground arena bursts into loud cheers while those who bet against me make frustrated sounds. Mathew meets my gaze, greed and pride glittering in his expression. I look away from him to the spot where the man with the blue eyes was standing. He’s gone.
I don’t know why I feel so disappointed. Maybe it’s just the adrenaline pumping through my blood. Of course that man was staring at me. I was in the middle of a fight. Where else was he supposed to look? The ceiling?
Shaking my head at my temporary lack of functioning brain cells, I say to Mathew, my voice low, “No second round then?”
He’s smiling, but his voice is hard. “I told you not to knock him out. We could have gone three more rounds.”
“He would have bitten me, and I would’ve gotten exposed,” I mutter. “You know shifters aren’t allowed to take part in these things.”
He does not reply to that, and as I exit the cage, he begins introducing the next two fighters. The cage has multiple exits: one for each opponent, and one that leads into the back of the massive basement. There are two corridors, both of which are restricted to everyone but employees. The only other way into the back is through the door that opens directly from the audience area; the only ones with the key to it are Mathew and me.
I make my way to my dressing room and lock the door behind me. Leaning against it, I rip off the red fox mask.
I bought it five years ago right before I first took part in a cage fight. I needed to make some money, and cage fighting sounded like an easy way to do that. The fox mask was the first one I saw in the costume shop, and I grabbed it. I never thought it would end up becoming my identity for five whole years.
Tossing the mask on the dressing table, I walk over to the small, attached bathroom and wash up. My face is flushed red from the heat under that stifling mask. The cold water feels good on my skin. I crank up the air conditioning and strip off my tank top to take a survey of my injuries. It’s not that I’m immune to pain or wounds; it’s just that I can take kicks and punches and not go down as a result of them.
Mountain Man has certainly done a number on my ribs. My skin is all black and blue, and I wince as I gently poke the area.
“This is going to take a day or two at the very least,” I mutter.
I put on a loose-fitting, white shirt and a pair of black jeans before sitting on the small stool in front of the dressing table and starting the long process of undoing my hair. The intricate braids along my scalp are always concealed under my mask. My ash-colored hair is long and sleek, which makes it easy to braid. But it is also a key identifying feature of mine. And in a place as small as Oakrest Town, I would surely be recognized, considering I work at the local bar.