For the past few months, hell, maybe even years, my brother has been drinking and smoking more and more. Whenever I call him out on it, he always tells me that he has it under control.
And I believed him, because there’s no way he could lie to me about anything. We’ve always been close. How could we not when we’re identical? But lately, I’m starting to think he’s growing more and more out of control, to the point that he could end up crashing his car or land himself in the hospital with alcohol poisoning from going too far.
“We’ll worry about your brother later,” Dad says when he grabs my shoulders to make me look at him. Somehow Tal and I ended up two inches taller than our father, so I sort of have to look down at him. “Right now, you need to focus on what you’ve been working on for the past few months – getting ready for the biggest fight of your life against the most explosive opponent you’ve ever had to face. Cyrus fights dirty. Everyone knows it, but it’s never enough to get him disqualified. We have to be prepared for whatever he throws at you. Don’t lose your cool. No matter what, you try and keep him on his feet. He’s going to try and take the fight to the mat to avoid your fists. Make him pay on the ground, okay?”
“Yeah, okay,” I reply, having heard this same speech from my dad a million times.
Cyrus is different from the other fighters I’ve fought in the cage. He has less training but more drive. He never loses under any circumstances. He once lost a massive amount of blood from a head wound and broken nose and still knocked his opponent out with only ten seconds left in the fifth round to win the belt.
I’m hoping his luck changes tonight. My record is almost as good as Cyrus’s. I had two losses in my early years before I came into the IFC where I’m undefeated. Those first losses were from veteran fighters who were more prepared than I was in grappling. Needless to say, that’s what I’ve been spending more time training on than anything ever since.
I inherited my dad’s strength, determination, and heavy fists. Now it’s up to me to use all three.
Chapter Three
Eden
The arena is rowdy with anxious spectators. The event sold out in person and is estimated to make millions on pay-per-view. Thanks to our families’ connections to Havoc, the training facility where all the guys have trained for two generations now, we’re close to the front of the arena. My father, Senn, and Miriah’s dad, Mace, were both fighters back in their youth, so the two of us have great seats just a few rows behind Sage’s corner.
There are three preliminary fights up first before the main event, with two of them ending in a split decision after three rounds and the other a tap out in between.
Finally, after what feels like forever, the lights dim and the colorful strobes come on, dancing from one side of the arena to the other as “Centuries” by Fall Out Boy blasts over the sound system. It’s an older song but serves as a tribute to Sage’s father Linc. Everyone looks back at the tunnel, waiting for him to walk out. An announcer’s voice comes over the music first, giving Sage’s height and weight and reminding the crowd that he’s undefeated in the IFC.
I’m on my feet with the rest of the group from Havoc, cheering and yelling for Sage before we can even see him make his way down to the cage. His father and Tal are right behind him, along with some of the coaches from the gym.
“Guess he finally showed up after all,” Miriah says to me over the ruckus, referring to Tal, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from Sage. He removes his shirt for the final referee checkpoint, leaving him in nothing but his tight, black spandex shorts. His flawless ivory skin is slick, his body so lean and muscular he looks like he was carved from stone.
Once Sage is inside the cage, he doesn’t pace around or showboat like his opponent, Cyrus. Sage simply stares down his opponent as Cyrus circles his side of the octagon, waving his arms in the air, trying to elicit cheers from the crowd. When the referee steps to the middle of the ring to begin the fight, Sage advances calmly to the center, while Cyrus rushes forward like a rabid dog.
I can’t help but let out a gasp as the two men come together, Sage easily checking a kick from Cyrus before wading in with his fists swinging, driving the larger man back. Cyrus made weight somehow, but he looks twenty pounds heavier than Sage after rehydrating. It quickly becomes apparent that Cyrus’s plan must be to use his extra bulk to take Sage to the ground, as he repeatedly shoots for his legs, only to be denied again and again as Sage shoves him to the mat, then backs away so Cyrus can get back to his feet. Sage is a natural striker, so while he has a wrestling background, he still prefers to fight standing up like his father Linc.
The second round is almost exactly like the first, Sage scoring points easily as Cyrus continues trying to drag him to the ground. It’s a championship fight with five rounds, each five minutes long. By the end of the second, Sage has worked up a decent sheen of sweat and has a slight trickle of blood coming from his nose, while Cyrus looks like he’s spent the entire fight headbutting a cactus. His face is so ripped and bloody that all you can easily see is the whites of his eyes, which look wild and terrifying through his bloody mask.
I’m on my feet cheering as
