The Grind

Chapter 10

                                                                                         Round Two

Mendez wasted no valuable time in attacking Colton when the bell for the second round rang out. Three left jabs connected to Colt's rock-hard jawbone, and he rattled his head as if to shake off the confused stuper clouding him.

"Don't let him back you into the cage, Colton!! Get off the cage!!" Mac coned his mouth to project the cries of instruction.

The newly named "punisher" masked his stubbled cheeks and doubled over, flexing his abs to lessen the blow of the jabs he was suffering at the hands of The "Matador" Mendez. Colt was able to duck beneath the repetitive one-one-two-one-two pattern and escape. Danny turned swiftly on his right foot to directly meet a lightening surged, spinning back fist produced by Colton that couldn't have been more perfectly executed had it been wrapped in a floppy red bow. The fastens of the championship belt were metaphorically loosening from the waist of the current title holder. Mendez collapsed wobbly to land at the feet of his assassin, while the rest of the room, myself included, rose in entirety for confirmation that Mendez was rendered unconscious.

A mumbled "shit" rolled over my bitten tongue when he scraped his busted body off the mat and I realized there was still some fight left in him. Too much for my liking, as a matter of fact. Colt detected Danny was standing on loose bearings, fully primed to finish him off so that referee could lift his likely shattered hand in victory.

"Brett, I've taken many a hit like the one Ritter just slung, and I can promise you that Dan doesn't even know where the hell he is right now." The retired fighter turned announcer crumpled his nose as The Matador staggered clumsily about the confines of the cage.

Beads of sweat waterfalled from Colton, while it appeared he had turned Mendez's sweat to blood now. Crimson mist from the brutal blow veiled my Colt's face in sprayed decoration, leaving him to resemble the battling Spartacus himself. He was hunting the afflicted animal of his adversary, who was obviously giving his best efforts to remain untouched the dwindling minutes of the round. Effort that sadly for Danny was in vain as his Punisher cornered him with panther like reflexes, unleashing combative hammer fists to his crouched torso. A strident roar more chilling than that of any jungle predator crawled from Colton's straining, veined throat as he was peeled away from Danny, who was now quaking in the momentary safety of his corner until the next bell rang out beginning the third round.

Colton's posse catered to his unsteady breathing chest by smashing ice packs to his pecks, and blotching back muscles, leaving Mac to pour water into his gapping mouth. My eyes nearly drooped in mesmerizing ignorance upon the realization of what the world of competitive fighting really entailed. Men who chose this career path were born with the hearts of gladiators, and unfaltering dedication that I deeply admired. When I wisped back to the present moment, my dilated eyes were matched with the two belonging to Colton. His mouth drawn into an expressionless line, jawline flexing in tension, he held onto my gazes for only a moment, however long enough to feel as if I would suffocate from the intensity. It was like he just wanted to assure me that he knew I was there, and where exactly. And that he was okay.

One Sunday over brunch at his favorite greasy diner he shut up my harassment of questions with "You're gonna have to cool it with the worryin', woman. Have some faith in me, ight! When you tell me about a story you been workin' on you don't hear me sayin', 'You sure you wanna do that?' or 'that's a lotta pressure, baby.' Because I know how amazing you are at what you do, and I got total confidence you're gonna make that story your bitch. I appreciate the concern, honestly love, I do. But it's gonna be fine, I promise ya'." And in his eyes, tonight in that ring, he reiterated that very same Sunday brunch pep talk.