motherfucker!” Clay mumbled through his mouth guard as he tightened his hold, cutting off Wyatt’s air supply.
Wyatt tapped.
Clay let him go and fell onto his back, his chest rising and falling from the exertion. He could feel his heartbeat throbbing at his temples, setting off pain sensors in every sensitive place his best friend had hit. His side hurt; his balls hurt; his head was pulsating in pain.
“That was amazing.” Wyatt panted next to him, his bloody, spit-filled mouth guard in his gloved hand because he could never wait more than two seconds to pull the thing out. “A fucking thing of beauty.”
Clay grunted his agreement. He loved this sport. He loved the Cuthouse Cellar Training Center that had grown into a dream facility for Mixed Martial Arts fighters. Most of all, he loved Wyatt, who was the best training partner in the whole goddamn world.
“Man, Wellings doesn’t stand a chance,” Wyatt said, wheezing, struggling to get his breath back but still yammering because that’s what he was best at. “I tried fighting dirty like him, and you still got me. I’m betting big money on this fight ’cause ain’t nothing stopping you, Clay. Ya got it, buddy. The title’s yours.”
Yeah, Clay knew he had it. If he could get Wyatt when he was fighting dirty, he could certainly take down Romeo “The Gladiator” Wellings . The media played it up like Clay was finally going to fall from glory with this fight. Wellings was a little too mean, a little too hungry. It currently had everyone believing Clay was on his way out, because he wasn’t as flashy. He didn’t run his mouth to the cameras and ham it up for the fans. The betting odds were against him, but he didn’t really give a shit. He knew what he was capable of.
“Damn, it’s a good thing we’re keeping the cameras out of the Cellar,” Tony Hartings , one of Clay’s coaches, announced as he walked into the eight-sided cage they’d installed in the Cuthouse Cellar to match the conditions of a real fight. “’Cause that was three rounds of nasty to watch. Wellings’s camp might change their tune if they saw that.”
“Don’t count on it. Wellings is one cocky New York bastard. I can’t wait to watch Clay lay into him.” Wyatt rolled onto his side with a groan and reached up to wipe at the corner of his eye. His fingers came away bloody, and he lifted his head to Tony. “Christ, I gotta work in a few hours.”
“You need some stitches,” Tony said with a wince. “I dunno why you two insist on this level of training. I think you’re both certifiable. You kick the bloody shit out of each other for the fun of it.”
Wyatt grinned despite his split lip, showing off bloodstained teeth. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. In this sport, ya gotta have a little crazy.”
“They been like this since they were kids,” Jasper Curtis said, coming into the ring behind Tony. “They’ve been beating each other bloody, black, and blue since middle school. It’s amazing both of them don’t have permanent brain damage.”
Clay pulled out his mouth guard, holding it in his fingerless glove. He blinked up at the lights on the ceiling, finding them haloed and hazed in a way that was familiar. “I think I got a concussion.”
“I’m awesome,” Wyatt announced, sounding pleased to hear it. He fell onto his back once more, bleeding onto the mat and contemplating the ceiling for one long moment. “Think I got one too. I’m seeing angels round those lights.”
Clay smirked. “I guess that means I’m awesome.”
“Sure enough,” Wyatt agreed. “No driving today. Looks like Harvey’s off desk duty. I’ll have my own personal chauffeur courtesy of the fine taxpayers of Garnet. I love being the boss.”
“I know you do.” Clay grunted because talking was hurting him. He might have a few bruised ribs. “But Jules is gonna tear into you for putting her on the